I have never been a fan of poetry.
In fact, my senior year of high school when given the freedom to write a poem
on any topic, I wrote about how I didn’t like poetry. To me, it just always
makes more sense to be straightforward rather than to use flowery language to
get a point across. However, Fatou Diome’s writing style in The Belly of the Atlantic is very poetic
but this time I actually do like it. She uses many literary devices, which make
what she writes very vivid to the imagination.
In chapter 7 she describes the
birth of Sankèle’s illegitimate child. While reading, I am often
confused as to what she is referring to but by the end of a chapter or section
of a chapter it all comes together and it makes sense. When she was talking
about someone knocking at the door, I thought there was actually someone at the
door. As she kept going, however, I realized that this “someone” was Sankèle’s
unborn child and this “door” was her birth canal. Diome creates a lively
atmosphere by intertwining Sankèle and her mother’s emotions and physical
states with the progression of the child into the world. This intertwining
makes for a very vivid picture and a fun reading experience. The progression
takes the following order:
“Someone was knocking at the door of
the world.”[1]
“Someone was growing impatient and
knocking at the door of the world.”
“Someone was forcing the door to the
world.”
“Someone pushed the door to the world.”
This is an effective way to get the
point across in an interesting manner. The repetition of the words “someone,” “door,”
and “world” allows for continuation but the variation allows for a story to
take place within the larger story.
A thoughtful reflection on poetry--a view I have often shared. Sometimes, though, if one is in the right mood, or seeking some solace, poetry can be helpful like an old friend or a memory of love. It may remind us of lullabies that someone once sang to us, or stories that our mothers once told us, quietly at night, as we were drifting off to sleep. At times like those, the repetition of words feels comforting, because we are open to the experience and can relax into their embrace. The same things that make prose satisfying when we are in a rush to explain, suddenly fall by the wayside, and poetry feels stronger and more universally true and rich. It's all in the reader's perception, isn't it?
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