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Author Note: A little long for flash fiction; please forgive.
Write a Poem about That
We all sat with styro-foam cups of coffee, Pepsi, Coke, 7-UP – waiting for the guest speaker to make his way to the podium. A room full of writers and wannabe writers, gathered at our twice monthly meeting, the Panama City Writer’s Guild. Most of us were amateurs, never published, just yearning for a little acceptance.
Robert Drury, the Guild’s Chairman, announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Please welcome one of the most prolific poets of our time, and THE most significant guest we have ever had visit our group; Mr. Thomas Chase.” We sat up and clapped in earnest appreciation.
Tom Chase walked to the front, a freshly opened glass bottle of Perrier in his hand. He took a quick swig, set it on the small table next to the podium, a table heaped with a selection of his last three volumes of poetry.
“Let me begin,” he began, “by expressing my sincere gratitude for this invitation, and the opportunity to address such an eager and talented group.” He took another swallow of Perrier.
“Honestly, I really do not have a prepared session, not that I don’t prepare for readings, because I am always preparing in one form or another. However, Mr. Drury, uh, Bob if you will, so graciously invited me here to discuss the craft of writing poetry, and he mentioned that I was certainly welcome to read some of my works, which I very likely will do in good time.
“Relative to the work I have chosen as my life’s passion, as a method of earning a living, and indeed as the very reason I awake each day with an inspired sense of reason, I must first caution that poetry is not a craft for the faint of heart – it really does take GUTS!”
With that, Mr. Chase received his first applause of the evening -- for the GUTS it takes, we were inspired. He then launched into a discussion of what makes a good poet into a great poet, and a good poem into a great poem. Of course, we all wanted to know.
“Let me tell you a little story, one told to me in Seville, France by a Critical Studies professor who teaches at the Paris Academy.” By now Mr. Chase had ventured out from behind the podium, and paced skillfully across the small conference room.
“The good professor related this – a story of a struggling writer of prose, poetry and songs. He spent his evenings sitting along the banks of the Marne, writing feverishly on any subject, continuously and feverishly. Of course, he was penniless and relied upon the kindness of strangers for a gift glass of wine or loaf of bread. But his passion was his writing.
"One night, this underachieving poet happened to overhear a love struck young man practically beg his lovely maiden to somehow feel for him the love he obviously and somewhat overbearingly displayed toward her. Apparently, she was not buying it.” We all gave a quick laugh at this point while Chase took a swallow of Perrier.
“Now, this writer, the struggling poet, took it upon himself to offer a choice to the young couple. He offered to write a love poem – especially for them – based completely on the pleading words the young man had used in the attempt to charm the maiden. The poet promised the poem would touch the maiden’s cold heart and cause it to soften, and having heard the pleading suitor read the poem to her, she would fall helplessly and eagerly in love with him. It would be their very own poem, never to be uttered to another, by another, or for another.
“The only favor the poet asked in return is that the young couple would spread the word to other young, courting couples that a master poet resided on the banks of the Marne, and for the price of a bottle of wine or loaf of bread he would compose a one-of-a-kind masterpiece for each couple willing to pay. No two poems would be the same.
“Can you imagine, the GUTS it took to conceive of such a concept?” Again, we raised our hands in applause at his overstated theme word, “GUTS”. “Of course, the poet became very popular, though not terribly gifted, and he died a very respectable death at the age of 87 years.” Chase turned on his heal, hands folded behind him, head downcast and paced to the edge of the room, a gregarious pause obviously intended for more applause. We obliged.
“And so, I will relate this story.” He began again. “This while I was working on my third compilation, while on sabbatical and living in Spain, near the same villa where Dali was known to paint, a small town in the Catalonia region – Tarragona it is called. He seemed such a tortured soul, Salvador; but that is another story entirely.
“I was nearly finished with this particular volume,” he reached to the small table and elegantly lifted one of his hard bound books of poetry for our viewing. “I had only a final proof to read. Then it suddenly struck me, I was completely empty of creativity. I had drained every ounce of my poetic energy into the manuscript you see before you.” He shook the book a little, then set it back down.
“I was depleted, entirely empty and nearly broke. So, I did what any respectable writer does when in Spain; I took a nap.” The group laughed and clapped a little. A few murmurs circled the room – espousing Mr. Chase’s wit.
“I woke up at around 10 p.m.” he began again. “I dressed myself in my finest peasantry and walked a few short blocks to the local restauranté, there on the Mediterranean coast, in Tarragona, where Dali had once lived and painted. And ladies and gentlemen, I should say I was really feeling a bit exhausted; physically, mentally, and emotionally because it took GUTS to stay in Spain for those long months to finish what I felt at the time was my crowning work.”
Chase turned on his heel again to pace, another exaggerated pause, expecting applause for the word “GUTS”. This time just a short murmur rose. “There I was, in the restaurant, and the waiter approached to tell me a certain guest had requested my presence at his table, and asked if I would follow him – the waiter. Naturally, I was curious, and nearly broke, so I figured WHY NOT!” A few short laughs, more like coughs.
“I was ushered to a long table in a dim corner, and seated myself. Right across from me was Salvador Dali in the flesh, pouring a glass of wine for me. Which is very unique, since he himself did not drink alcoholic beverages; but there he was, and there I was.
“I mention these situations for a reason. The reason is that a poet is nothing without his surroundings – the situations we work our way through, the events we witness, the very wine we drink with Salvador Dali, to be certain. And so, I would like to read to you from my latest volume, the book “Whence We Arrive”. It is a short poem, called “Marbella”.
Marbella
The loose fit of the evening
The run of a good bull
Where the streets bend in shadow,
And Dance in Spanish daylight and
I witness the cause of all enlightenment
It was there, once, a century away
It is still there, in the loose skirts of evening.
Chase finished the poem, closed the book and bowed his head slightly accepting our applause. A few soft murmurs began around the room again, with overstated admiration. Chase stood in a triumphant pose. A meager writer seated in the back of the room stood up, probably going to empty his bladder, seeing a convenient pause for the escape.
Chase, in his own pompous righteousness, gestured toward the man with open palm and said, “Yes, please; a question from the back. Yes, sir. What would you like to know?”
The man turned and stopped, like a freeze frame. He looked around the room; we were all quiet for his question. He straightened up and spoke quietly.
“Well, my daughter and son-in-law had custody of their little niece, Heather, because Heather’s mother is a drug addicted prostitute who is in jail. Heather was three years old. She heard the older kids say they were going to McDonald’s for milkshakes, and so Heather climbed into my son-in-laws Bronco, got in the back seat and found her blanket, and laid down and waited to go to McDonald’s, then she fell to sleep. It was 125 degrees inside that Bronco. When the other kids walked back from McDonalds my daughter asked where was Heather. Her oldest boy said she didn’t go with them, because they walked and it was too far for her. My daughter panicked, began looking all over the place, pretty soon the whole block was looking for Heather. They found her in the Bronco, wrapped in her favorite blanket; her heart was racing about 150 beats a minute. They couldn’t wake her up. They called an ambulance, and she was flown on a flight-for-life helicopter to Pensacola, but she died on the way. And my son-in-law couldn’t stop crying for two weeks, had to be hospitalized, and kept saying he wanted to die. My daughter barely held it together. They got divorced because they could no longer feel anything for each other – not love, not hate, nothing—just the largest load of guilt you can imagine. The news paper printed a story, “Child Dies in Car While Family Eats at McDonald’s”. Can you write a poem about that?”
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The worst thing in the world is the homesickness that comes over a man occasionally when he is at home.
- E. W. Howe
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