house of happy

Life adventures in prose and verse. Explorations of places, people and words. Stories and fun.

Tuesday, 10 April 2018

The Park Poet

Sometimes you just set off on an errand; a simple A to B, and yet; you find yourself veering off. It took years (I used to be a very dutiful creature) but I have learnt to follow these loops, in search of the unexpected.

I walked by the park poet with a flicker of a glance; already marching up the Meadow Walk; a moment later marching back, just as resolutely. Don't ask me why.
'How does it work?' I heard myself ask.
'You tell me about the poem you want. We chat for a bit, then I write it.' Just as described on the notice at his feet - but he was too polite to point that out. A bright smile, hair everywhere, fingers typing on air as he talked.
'Don't you get cold?'
'I can barely feel my hands.'
'What do people ask you to write?'
'It's coming up to Valentine's day...' he shrugged, but not dismissively because he also blushed.
'Are you tempted to type the same poem?'
'Never,' he said, then added in a hush, '...sometimes I sprinkle a little advice. Depends what I see, what they tell me.'
His confession seemed to ask for one in return, so I blurted out that I, too, wrote poems on occasion.
'Hey, we could write a poem for each other,' said the park poet. So we made a pact, just as a neat, small man hurtled along on a bike and informed us that the word of God is the best poetry.
May be why the park poet gave me a one-word topic: BLESSED.
May also be why I wrote a poem that steered away from all religion, or any whiff of earnest wellbeing:

Before he left, he slipped a sprig of rosemary under my pillow. The scent, the shadow of his lips on mine.
Later, lines of dawn etched a poem on the inside of my eyelids, urgent, bright.
Eventually I rose and wandered to the borders of my day,
Summoning strength from a child’s unicorn in a gutter, 
Every creature is hungry, the raven wrapped in disdainful black wings, even him, 
Drawn to my door, tall, taut, dancing around my light like moths or angels, a sprig of rosemary at his lapel. 

I forgot what topic I suggested for his poem; I may remember when he sends it. I'm still waiting. 


At 18 April 2018 at 11:39 , Anonymous John said...




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