Poet’s presence

His presence was mostly awkward. He seemed timid. His scruffy look indicated he was a man of the book. Too tall for his humble presence, he did not seem like much.

He stepped onto the spotlight and his voice did not boom when his lips parted before the mic. His voice so mellow I feared I would quickly lose interest. It did not hold the room until I heard the poem slip out of him like thick smoke seeping through a smoker’s lips. His words were potent.

Drawn to the description of the woman who held his affections I wanted to be that woman. One who had occupied his mind long enough for him to make her home to his words. The words were something of a playful banter of the childish ways of boys. He admired her but judged her, I could tell the girl had fascinated him but not enough for him to call her his.

He drew her out with similes only to quickly catch her again with witty metaphors. And soon it was over. The tease had tantalised the crowd. He left us hanging. He did not speak a word again of poetry which left me wondering how much of it was left in him.

I wondered each time I saw him how many words had he strung together. All of a sudden I longed to be immortalised by another like the many men who would stay alive in the pages of my diary long after my affections for them had died. Here was a total stranger demanding my attention and I have no choice but to draw him:

He walked into the room, unshaven and unassuming. He did not falter under the intimidation of the many men who spoke big words and replicated ideas. He was not possessive of his space but kept it without the burden of possession. So we waited to be led by what seemed so mild.

“Tell me why you write?”  The best question I had ever been asked and I knew I was in the right space. The excitement was quickly thwarted by the sad realisation that I was surrounded by completed strangers. My reply was meek and what I had believed to be a passion, would be perceived as a hobby.

I wanted him to ask me why I wrote and I would say because of you. I would say because of people. I would say that question was better than the any question I had ever heard because it would require me to use the very words that I love.

I wanted to deliver my answer to only his ears so maybe he would cradle my answer and look to me with the admiration of a new father. It would be like I had birthed in him something he had dreamt off but didn’t know could be realised.

My words fell flat and felt still born when delivered. Those eyes never shone in reverence but only acknowledged my attempt at explaining my love. I, slightly disappointed took to basking in other stories which were all so different with the same chord running through each of them. We came to write so we could escape. It was a fortress, a parallel universe where we could have our souls exposed without the pain of dodging the spears of judgement.  

Some clapped, while some were swallowed whole by the spotlight but we had all achieved a kind of liberation that we could have only find on that stage. In that week I had revealed more of myself than I had in a long time. Pity the poet’s presence whom I had loved to be in did not realise this. I am glad of it. Maybe I would not have flown so high when I was showered with those bright lights.