“Could you tell me how to get my poems published?”
The guttural, insecure voice made us all turn our heads. Had he really asked that? We stopped staring at the clear spring sky through large, unwashed windows, we stopped wishing we could be somewhere outside, taking in all that warmth and freshness.
She was taken aback as well. She paused, holding a book and some papers with handwritten notes up in the air, halfway from her bag to the massive desk. Had she not been one of our favourite professors, most of us would have taken advantage of one of the first beautiful spring days instead of being there, in that stuffy room, counting the many, many minutes… That woman was never at a loss for words. She had written several books, she had read more then all of us together and we had yet to find a question about art, culture, politics, travel or education that she couldn’t answer. On top of everything, she was in her early thirties, attractive, had a great sense of humour, an amazing fashion style and a career most of her peers envied, having taught in a variety of universities abroad. What can I say, those of us who didn’t want to be her, wanted to be with her… Yet she was silenced for a second by his unexpected question.
“Do you write poetry?”
That was the question on our lips too, but she was the one to voice it. He grunted some kind of affirmative answer. Most of us were already jaded; shocking situations didn’t always shock us, but somehow the thought that he could and would write poetry was unimaginable. The kid who could hardly express himself coherently was writing poetry? The kid who often stopped our professors in the middle of their discourse to ask them what this or that rather common word meant or how to spell them, was writing poetry? The same professors who strived to allow us our creativity and freedom of expression, thus overlooking occasional mistakes, had their patience tested whenever he was the one speaking. But this was the guy writing poetry… By that time we were aware of each other’s intellectual ability and we often wondered how and why he was a student. He failed to understand simple facts and assignments, he lacked creativity and he only managed not to fail all his exams because he studied like a maniac all these things that made no sense to him. But now he was informing us that he wanted to be a published poet…
Envisioning him as a poet made us cringe. Weird didn’t begin to describe him – in fact, we were all somewhat weird in our own way, so weird was the norm. He was something else. He wasn’t simply different, he was “naked under the trench coat, exposing himself to girls on the street” strange. In truth, after getting to know him a little bit, we learnt to stay away. It wasn’t just that we didn’t like him. The girls feared him; the boys were tired to listen to his obscene stories of how he had been with all the girls, when everybody could tell they were just all too detailed accounts of porn he had been watching. He had amazing, non-discriminative stalking capabilities. As a girl, if you were at all nice to him – and by that I mean answer his Hello – you were bound to find him loitering on your street for no good reason, until someone else took your place in his heart. As a guy, he would obsessively try to convince you to include him in a “guys’ night”. On top of everything, his poor personal hygiene certainly didn’t do him any favours… But he was writing poetry…
Our professor provided him with names and addresses of several literary magazines where he could submit his poems. She praised anyone who had the courage to write poetry or fiction in general and subject their work to the public eye, as she didn’t believe she could bear the unavoidable negative critic. (None of her books were works of fiction; but she was an astute literary critic, who knew exactly how a writer is judged.) No, she was sorry, but she couldn’t read his poems; however, she could recommend some reading circles, if he was interested. But she was the one we felt sorry for – he relentlessly followed her around the university until the end of the semester and she soon became the protagonist of his disturbingly pornographic accounts.
As he ran after her to ask who knows what, we couldn’t help ourselves… we had to take a look and find out what sort of poetry he wrote. It didn’t improve our opinion of him – he was delusional, just like in so many other respects…
But he thought himself a poet and that’s all that mattered. After all, who can really tell what person hides behind a poem? In a way, we wanted to find that his poetry was something we could appreciate. In a way, we hoped his poetry could change the way we perceived him. In a way, we wished he had something that prevented him from turning into the monster we feared he might become…
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:–
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
William Wordsworth – Lines Written in Early Spring
In response to WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge: Half Light – Share a photo inspired by a poem, verse, song lyric or story.