The Poet

I could see the storm upon us. I had planned this day for so long, I did not want anything to derail us. We needed this. To be honest I needed this. I had been laid off a year now, and there were days I started to feel like I was disappearing. Have you ever felt that, one little limb at a time, heavy, gravity pulling you down. Inertia, vertigo, depression, many people had much to say. You didn't. Your life carried on much the same, the work, the glory, the parties until one day when you came home and saw me curled up as a foetus in the dog's bed.

I felt ashamed you had to see me like that, perhaps I had engineered it so you felt some guilt, either way it worked and you made this plan and put me in charge. We were going to make a picnic of it Friday afternoon, on our anniversary, just the way you and I did before your life took off and mine stymied. We would relive our first few years, take off with a lunch basket and those mini champagne bottles and choose a quiet corner in Hyde Park. I would read you my poetry and in turn you would read me some pretty prose.

We were upcoming stars, they would tell us at the poetry jams, the spoken word fests, the side panels of lit fests, so many lit fests. You went on to write your first book, I went on to write my first book of poetry. Your book did well, it was a thriller and it sold. Imagine a first book reaching its audiences, how often does that happen. My poetry I was told made people swoon, at the many literary gatherings we went to. People would congratulate you on your success and then come and ask me to recite some of my lines. We both put on a happy face, but somewhere inside we had become competitors.

I would dream of a book deal, you would dream of getting invited to speak like I did. I guess we both wanted the balance of fame and commercial success. I remember that year when we went to Hyde Park, the year it was so cold, we decided not to miss our picnic. We stole into the park, and put our portable chairs onto the snow lining the ground. We opened our picnic basket. It was too cold outside to eat, so we poured the coffee from the thermos into our cups and added a generous measure of whiskey to it. It would be our very own Irish coffee. We could still look at each other and every fibre of my body would light up and so would yours I think. That was five years ago.

The year after I published a book of poems, and you got the call from a studio. They were going to adapt your book into a series. I remember I wanted to go open champagne at Hyde Park, but you said you were busy and somehow we never got around to it. That was the first anniversary we missed our Hyde Park appointment. I had a premonition things were going to go south then, and it did, slowly. You were so excited about your book being adapted, that you ignored me when I told you to write your second one. You got caught in the whirlwind of glamour and parties and the industry. I was left alone to my poetry.

My book was a modest success and I got invited to many lit fests and speaking engagements. I even started making money off of it, well a tiny bit. The series kept on getting delayed and the script kept on getting changed until one day I came home and saw you in an alcohol fuelled rage in the bedroom. You had given up the script rights to your book, and hated the series. I was the recipient of your frustration. I tried to tell you it was time to stop obsessing over the series and start writing your second book, when you accused me of having it easy. Only a lazy writer becomes a poet you threw in my face, rendering my work invisible with one blow of your tongue. You were my confidant, my biggest supporter and now where were we. Nowhere at all.

You started drinking more, I started sinking into my work more, picking up more speaking engagements, a little tutoring here and there as the bills piled. We met in the evening at our home, what had seemed cosy earlier now seemed too small a space, sometimes uninviting even. You said you would work late at the library writing, I wondered whether thats where you were. The horrid series version of your book came out, against all odds, it worked and once again you were in demand. Parties, photo ops, speaking engagements, meetings, agencies all lined up to meet you. No wonder your head went for a spin. Yet again the anniversary passed and I walked past Hyde Park, lonely without you. As your stars glowed, mine dimmed. There is only so far one can go with poetry, but all I wanted to do was write and you told me I had to leverage it into paid work.

So easy for you to say now that you were commissioned to write a second book. The money was back, and so was the confidence. We came apart at the seams more. Why is that art cannot thrive in the presence of art, or is that the artist cannot shine in the presence of another artist. I knew there were limitations to my craft. Rejection after rejection, I was skilled for nothing, until you came to my rescue. You got me the interview, you could do anything now. I got the job. Associate Professor at a local college teaching poetry. Didn't know these jobs existed.Maybe they made it up for you.

You laughed when you said I was paranoid, I stewed when you said I should be thankful for work. How could I explain that being in your orbit was the death knell, like the lives of many before me. Sylvia Plath, Camille Claudel and the likes. Not that I aspire to their genius. I know my strength is lyrical, poetry in motion, well above average, but not extraordinary.

I died a little everyday, teaching a bunch of students who cared not as much as me, perhaps they care more, but what will I advise them, they can become, when my path forward I don' t know. I stopped going to classes, lost interest in teaching, until I lost the job. I knew I was a burden to you, but I clung on, because I knew not what else to do. So I tried and I try now to bring you back to me. One picnic together should do the magic trick I think, but this impending storm will surely spoil everything.

You call and call, to cancel I know, but my feet move forward. I still have faith, I think. I need to do this, for what we used to be, for what I need to be. The rain comes down hard in waves. I am at Hyde Park now. If you are there waiting for me, on this day of our anniversary, I know we will be okay. I move forward, the music of the rain on the trees, leaves, ground, blending into a magical moment of sorts. You are not there. I finally look at my phone. The sole message says we are done, you are moving on. The rain stops and the next moment brings a rainbow, criss crossing the sky, the magic and beauty of nature rendering me speechless. Then I sit down, open my bottle of champagne, take a swig and start writing poetry, the art pushing all other thoughts aside.