There\u2019s a bar underground where all the poets hang.\u00c2\u00a0 At midnight, a procession of eight or ten will get on stage and read their latest.\u00c2\u00a0 It\u2019s a small stage, but no place for the timid.\u00c2\u00a0 If you read something old, they\u2019ll throw coffee mugs until you retreat in a shower of ceramic.\u00c2\u00a0 But they applaud magnificence, and even celebrate failed experiments.<\/p>\n
They say Poe read \u201cEldorado\u201d here before it saw print.\u00c2\u00a0 They lie just as often as he did.<\/p>\n
This is a place for true poets, as well as people with word disorders in their head.\u00c2\u00a0 Roger always speaks in iambic pentameter.\u00c2\u00a0 Lillian rhymes.\u00c2\u00a0 Marisol sits and watches and drinks shot after shot of cheap whiskey, but never saw a word except when she\u2019s on stage.\u00c2\u00a0 Harold works on his courage, and scribbles tiny phrases into the margins of his well-used notepads, but never seems to find the strength.<\/p>\n
Maybe because, until tonight, no one\u2019s ever challenged him.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cGo on,\u201d the girl says, the girl with kohl in her eyes and honey in her throat.\u00c2\u00a0 \u201cI dare you.\u201d\u00c2\u00a0 A dare is never just a dare.\u00c2\u00a0 It\u2019s a promise.\u00c2\u00a0 A covenant, you might say.\u00c2\u00a0 An unmistakable invitation.<\/p>\n
Harold signs up for his chance to poeticize in front of friends and strangers and wordsmiths and cutthroats and one intoxicating beauty with sapphire dust in her eyes.<\/p>\n
Twelve others go before him.\u00c2\u00a0 Tammy is chased off stage trying to mix words on her feet.\u00c2\u00a0 Maria leaves half a dozen men in tears.\u00c2\u00a0 So does Reginald.\u00c2\u00a0 As usual, Christopher\u2019s words are brilliant and quickly forgotten.\u00c2\u00a0 Tristan falters in a treatise on love.\u00c2\u00a0 Andrea opens her heart.<\/p>\n
Mikhail recites something utterly incomprehensible, which does not make him clever.\u00c2\u00a0 Janice reminds everyone of their last sunset.\u00c2\u00a0 Nick cries–with rhythm and cadence.\u00c2\u00a0 Martin loses his nerve.\u00c2\u00a0 Kevin offends–not in a good way–and leaves the stage with ceramic-induced scratches.\u00c2\u00a0 Claire steals everybody\u2019s breath for most of a minute.<\/p>\n
\u201cGo on,\u201d the girl says, winking, encouraging.<\/p>\n
On stage, the lights don\u2019t blind Harold.\u00c2\u00a0 He had hoped not to see.\u00c2\u00a0 The bar goes quiet, so that ice cubes clinking against glasses are the only sounds.\u00c2\u00a0 He had hoped not to hear.\u00c2\u00a0 No nervous whisperings ripple through the patrons.\u00c2\u00a0 No fits of laughter or giggling or hiccups.\u00c2\u00a0 No one coughs.<\/p>\n
Harold starts.<\/p>\n
Poetry is useless.
\nWords cannot describe
\nthat which defies description.
\nImages cannot be painted
\nwithout your eyes.
\nLove cannot be won
\nby words you scribble.
\nTake my hand,
\nwalk with me,
\nand let\u2019s forget
\nthese silly metrics.<\/p>\n
It may not be stellar poetics, but the girl loves it.\u00c2\u00a0 Hand in hand, she and Harold abandon the bar, the poets, and words.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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