Dearest Poet of the North

Dearest Poet of the North,

There have been several occasions whereby you have single-paragraphedly saved my life.  In order for you to be properly acquainted with myself, you ought to be aware of the circumstances leading up to where your words found me.

My humble upbringing and lack of any real culture or exposure, never seemed just.  How was I born into such conditions, with uncivilized creatures that know no taste beyond that of fried animals and music fit for the back of a mud-laden pickup up truck?

Fleeing the shambles of the unfortunate existence I was forced to endure, in a life of full of strangers, I made my way to California by way of an Amtrak train. Exhausted from a lifetime of trivial conversation, commands from large sweaty men claiming to know best, and completely emaciated and malnourished due to the aforementioned culinary fare which you could hardly expect me to consume – I arrived in the Golden State as a dark shadow – a mere speck of the light you know we are to emanate.

My sore eyes could hardly keep lift.  Should there have been toothpicks in my purse, I quite literally would have shoved them in my eyelids to prop them open.  But with lack of toothpicks or a phone to dial, I sat down in the bustling train depot, shoved my worn leather bag with a poorly sewn, mismatched patch, against the wall, and rested my weary legs not-so-gracefully on the floor.

Hours later, I awoke to a pair of workman boots with faded yellow laces, standing harshly next to my drool soaked cheek, pressed sadly against the cold tile floor. The boots shuffled away, and as they did, a piece of paper drifted my way, with your words written on it.  They found me.  I read them, relished them, folded them neatly in my wallet and propelled myself into the night, fueled by the sentiment.

One month later, faring no better, I kept your words with me where I went.  I took shade under the elm trees, and drifted off with your syllables dancing around my head, like sugar plum fairies coming to grant me a wish.  This time when I awoke, it was to the loud voice of a man, growling in his throat, asking if I was okay.  Sensing I was in need, he opened his home to me, bathed me in a porcelain tub with clawed feet and handed me a robe. Wanting more than anything to believe this was an act of concern, I smiled – but his dark eyes and musky scent suggested otherwise. But, from your words, I drew my strength.

In exchange for his “kindness”, I gave him my body.  When he finished, I clamored off his hairy chest, his lungs full of lies, of desire to help, so that I may write to you, my Poet of the North.  Your words brought me here, to this fortress of marble and gold coated artwork.  And by your words, I know it’s not long before we meet. Each word in your poem speaks to me and nourishes me like light for the blind. I know now, by the words you shared and the way they found me, that you meant them for me – and that I am being led to you.  A leaf on the wind and shining fallen star, heading your way.

Until we meet,

Yours

*note from Miss Erin Terese*

P.S.  The letter above is the first piece I have written for a 10 week Writers Workshop I am participating in.  The exercise was to create a first person persona narrator in an addled and/or altered psychological state who is writing a letter to someone he or she admires – using a formal tone.

In the interest of growing in my writing technique, style and tone, I will be sharing my pieces here.  They will all be fictional, so don’t be too worried thinking the scenes are true to my life (for those that know me personally).

I hope you enjoy!  xo