In today's post which by now I'm sure you all know is the third in the series; I'll be dwelling on how to determine the dominant and varying emotions of the author just as highlighted above.
OK. So, let's go straight into the nitty-gritty.
Authors, writers and poets like every one of us have emotions or attitudes or feelings which as a necessity they manifest especially in their work as much as in their everyday life.
They simply cannot help it.
Let’s imaging for a second the sight of a mother whose beloved child has just died if she’s nothing but grieving.
Or the sight of a man plodding home from work after losing his job if he’s nothing but melancholy.
Or the animated countenances of kids gazing at a flock of egrets either calmly perched on the backs of the grazing cattle or simply hovering around them.
Or even the sight of school children who are deservedly anxious to but couldn't just access their examination results if they’re nothing but frustrated.
All these are varying emotional whose meaning can never be lost on the perceptible members of the human community.
This is much more so because authors are like stars of the big screen that put their souls in their assigned roles.
And by so doing, they bring fully into the fore without leaving anyone in doubt as to the true essence of the theme(s) or ideas being projected.
Every day, we betray emotions of all kinds depending on how life happens to us; and the emotions could either be dominant or varied as occasions may demand.
An emotion is dominant if the author devotes greater part of his time to it above several others which occurred in the printed page.
While on the other hand, if more than one mood pervades the selection we say the author emotions are varied.
As a rule, hardly is there an author who is not governed by certain attitudes to, a feeling for or conviction towards the ideas or themes behind their writings especially in imaginative realms.
There's hardly an author also who sustain one emotion throughout a written work except the subject or scope covered is narrow.
For instance, an author may sound hopeful in one stanza and in the next appears to despair or show a lack of faith.
But in almost all cases, an author is like an eagle in flight poised to gain necessary heights, for effect, must rides on thermal of varying columns of winds.
The sort of reverential feeling you get when you read Wole Soyinka's 'Mohammed Ali by the Ring Side in 1985'
Readers on the other hand who wish to grasp the poet's emotional meaning must first of all feel what he felt to be able to adequately share with others the beauty of his communicative emotions.
Among the various emotions known to human kind are: joy, sadness, awe, grief, excitement, anger, apathy, sympathy, empathy, envy, jealousy, reverence, humility, hate, love, soberness, fear, courage and confidence and so on and so forth.
Most written pieces from the Bible and other classics of old and contemporary time are bunk with exercises in elements of emotional beauty which the reader as interpreter must grasp if he is to fully appreciate the author's noble endeavor.
In no other poetic selection is varied emotions are made more evident by an author than in this long poem of mine titled: The Business Register.
You'll clearly see how disapproving I was of widow Shoboe, the dramatic personae who I model exactly after the real life personality; most especially for her ingratitude, the disrespect shown to her late husband and her poor sense of business.
After all, we're all admonished never to speak ill of the dead; and in this case a loving dead husband at that.
The Business Register
They were your ideas of a dignified old couple,
Perfect perceptible to eyes,
Index by conservative piety.
There’s a matrimony in heaven consummated you would say.
Its needles the overstated narratives the sail was long
And arduous and many the futile storm
That swift arises to wreck their marital ship. Survived,
Now they proudly berthed at life nocturnal shores.
And subsequent a household name the community wide.
They were your standard torchbearers of the cross;
Mouthpieces of the good news;
They worshipped faithfully as the clock:
Many at the marble-porch parishes;
Many at their humble home;
And not a little nags or fights
Or bedlam was heard from their pious floor.
Except perhaps omniscient nature does record some
Behind closed door, of hearts bruising unseen, untold.
They were proud parents of lovely sons and daughters;
The perfumed emissaries to our stuffy-aired world;
And how as morning stars they brightly shone through
Firmaments of social and religious engagements;
Like they use to say, to know a good family,
Into the children all must look.
The husband is a perfect gentleman widely likable,
Who kept an open door to children not even his from far and near;
Even wayward nondescript were welcome;
And at his table he fetes them equal all;
Quick with rod at his right hand
To prove justice is love to their aberrations;
And with the left draws them close for soothing sermons;
A good man known also gospel by inheritance: His dwelling,
Though a small home with walls un-built;
And bath and kitchen and detached crude convenience unroof;
And ventured borehole and chairs and canopies now on threshold disrepair;
Like they use to say,
A man who raised himself a room apartment,
Has proved an achievers’ grade,
Ceases to be a member of the renters' club!
But sudden died, first, Lord of the house as is often the case;
When from vigil an ailment struck to cast in haste;
And tributary wailing and mourning rend the chamber's air;
Next entered widow Shoboe as heir apparent to estates bequeathed;
A dame hearty and lightly built to sail with all winds;
For whatever they were worth, she has her honours too:
She is a dancing Ikoto as sings the Sunday's Mass choristers;
A leading light among the class of good women;
And ever charming a sight for her years advanced;
Her gifts munificent she bestows more on the haves
Than the haves not; while a typical widow would have her failings blame
On a dear deceased, wax lyrical his multitude of virtues,
Lineage; such alive rarely acknowledge; shrewdly appreciate.
Accentuating the truism: "Till gone don’t know what you have got".
But Shoboe is an atypical widow who by the day more disgruntled became.
Piping to ears unsolicited her vexed notes of ascending murmurs:
Of how meagre the patrimonies, empty the vault;
Of how little accomplished her suggestions profound never took;
Of how once he brought a strange woman, their matrimonial bed defiled;
Of how she could have been history, save God and man;
Of how the union really was a patchwork through the years;
And of how-this how-that poorly fixed never fixed;
Often all these spit fired faced down the narrow balcony
Where beloved Kith and Kin hollowed the dead a marbled rest home;
Not even once did his paean sublime from her mouth freely flowed;
His fate sealed a worst mortal of all, unworthy a husband;
Now five years the thriftless dowager reigned;
Stewardship's to none but self alone rendered;
As ever a working bee save the hive's empty;
Pouched the year's round rents and rates collected;
And in defaulters ears the reminder she crooned
On the go dusk or dawn; in trade all rivalling,
Even tenants struggling starters;
Every known article, she vowed to trade in not too distant future;
Enquire one not on her wooden-stall,
And with lightning speed she ordered it,
Bungling yet the arithmetic of the gains;
At threescore and more life seemed just began
And in it she simply revels; a party freak her ears everywhere
Went for the breaking news; denied invitation the concerned
Mantle sooner arrived with her grievances. Their plea accepted;
Her avail next time she vouched. So consumed to splurge on
Things mundane that not a line or circle or square drawn.
Nor a shade of colour splashed;
Nor a brick added as improved re-inventions to the wheel-heirloom
She's been so critical, mauled denigrate all these years.