An Editor

       She sits on the balcony looking over the one way street. Her dress is tight and more suggestive than not. It is a static grey sleeveless piece, designed to keep the wearer cool while also keeping them attractive. She is out having tea, a ritual of hers when she has work to do. Her shoulders are sharp, much like her mind. She does not look the part, but she plays it well.

       Her mind is focused on nothing less than the summer itself. Her pen doubles as a highlighter, useful for marking significant passages through her editing. The two notebooks in front of her carry different handwriting. The smaller floral patterned notebook belongs to her client, while the larger plain dark blue notebook belongs to her. It contains the edited passages of each poem that she had corrected. It is rare that an actual poet comes to her for help. They are generally unwilling to accept an editor's suggestions.

       She lets her hair down. The humidity makes her long brown hair become more wave-like at the ends. While various locks get in the way as she edits, she prefers to keep it down in public. She knows that her position is central to the cafe, and so eyes are most likely on her. She is well aware of her beauty, and she always makes use of it.

       Her name is well known, although her face is not. That is the nature of her work. People can talk, but they can't show. Artists love her. Visual artists have offered to paint her portrait, but she always blushes and refuses.

       It is odd that she has never seen a part of herself in any work of art. She is completely separate from the works which are subject to her critical eye. This separation has made her one of the best in her field.

       The poet that had hired her intended for her to see the vast amount of dedication to expressing her being. But all attempts are poorly composed, and far from the goal. Her highlighting is rare as she dissects the poems with vicious diligence. To her, he sounds like a lovestruck fool looking to impress a woman who has no interest. She's seen plenty of work like this before, and often found that the poet's devotion is to the woman not the art. Normally this results in a few decent lines, as usually they do not write poetry.

       Poetry has always been a love of hers. Of course, poorly written poetry makes her sick, as she sees it as a waste of incredible potential. She has seen many so-called poets be nothing but slaves to cliche and emptiness. The lines she reads now are no different. They forsake and and all originality to express nothing but an over-worked ideal of beauty. They are possessive and contradictory. One lie praises her as a queen, while another reduces her to a simple object.

       The editor takes a quick sip of tea before she gives up on her task. The poems that she was hired to correct do not even belong to the so-called poet. They belong to Petrarch, as degrading as they are. She stands up and immediately heads into the cafe. The woman working is very familiar with the editor's methods of refusal.

       “Another love-struck fool?” The woman asks as the static grey dress comes into her sight, concealing the true nature of the editor from those who may be watching. The so-called poet's notebook is slammed on the counter.

       “I need to be more selective with poets.” The editor sighs as she looks at the dreadful collection of what someone thought was actual poetry. 

       “One pot, or two?”

       “Two.”

       “That bad, huh? Okay.” The woman behind the counter places the notebook in a nearby sink, and then goes into the cafe's kitchen. She grabs two regular sized teapots, one black and one white, and then places them by the kettle. She returns to the counter, where the editor is no longer standing. The editor had wandered off to the wall of tea in order to select what form of tea might be appropriate. She moves quickly, unwilling to waste more time on the bad poet, and hands the large jar to the server, who immediately reads it. “Blue Lady today? Your poet is going to love flavored black tea after this.”

       One teaspoon of the dried tea leaves is placed into one pot and then the other. The hot water is added and a timer is set for five minutes. The server brings the teapots by the sink, setting them down on a nearby counter.

       “Does her know you do this?” She asks the editor, who answers with a shrug.

       “It was in the contract that he signed, but he did not seem to be the type of person who reads important contracts. He will likely throw a fit when he finds out. Perhaps that may inspire some half-decent art.” The laugh that follows her little speech is both hopeful and disappointed. She has not gotten a decent editing job in a month, as her usual clients are suffering from incredible writer's block. Everything they put down on paper is no better than the lovestruck fool's poems. They know better than to ask for her help.

       “Should I start recommending you to writing clients of my own? Some of them write with a consistent passion, unlike your more recent clients.” She offers like she had some time ago. The editor considers it. The cafe is how she met some of her best clients, although she fears that she had already gotten all of the good ones.

       “I suppose so, but do not introduce me to any today. I need to head home and read some Keats before I lose all hope in today's poetry.” The editor replies in a tired tone. Her work is difficult in the way in which it challenges her view of modern art. But she is no fool. Bad art is universal, but so is good art. They require each other, a ying-yang of art.

       The timer goes off, signalling that the tea is now strongly steeped. The woman behinds the counter motions to the opening that allows her to enter and leave the employee area as she wishes. “Want to do one too?”

       The editor grins. “I would love to.” She joins her friend behind the counter. Each one of them grabs a teapot before moving to the sink. Their eyes meet, and then they begin to pour the steaming hot tea onto the notebook. A quick hand opens it so that the tea may wash away the poorly constructed poems, to destroy them for all time. Once the cleansing ritual is complete, the two women leave the notebook there to dry. One goes back to work, and the editor goes to finish her own pot of tea. All in a day's work.

-Zero

Read My Heart (Poem)

Read my heart,

Will you?

The words on paper,

And in my throat,

Spell out

My affections.

The idea is terrifying,

As interpretation

Is dangerous,

I can’t let anyone know.

Even if this game of chess,

Cannot be played,

It is war,

A naval battle.

But I am tired,

No longer a soldier.

And so I retire,

To stare at the sky.

-Zero

The Fatigue of Beauty

            An elderly man sits in the shadow of his youth. By the river he looks for the vulgarity of nature. The mountains far beyond the dividing rushing river part the untouchable veil of blue. They reach for the realm of the gods, trying to become the great Mount Olympus. An autumn covered forest ignites with a non-burning fire as Ra carries the sun across the sky. On this day even Zeus keeps the skies clear. No storm will fall on the elderly watcher.

            The children of Pan scurry about the woods that border the clear water river. A chipmunk, the tiny and friendly rodent, takes a moment to observe the observer. Its dual white stripes rush down from its forehead to its small brown tail. Against the bark brown fur, the white is thrown at the eyes with a divine contrast. Vivid live green inhabits the rodent’s eyes, shining with the light and blessing of Apollo. Two blinks command the chipmunk away. 

            In the stream, old eyes regard the counter-current salmon. Their scales shine bright with the rays of Ra. But not even these children and supplicants of Poseidon are able to stir the heart of the visitor. The great deities can conjure beauty all they wish, but neither Helen of Troy, nor the great Cleopatra, could capture his eyes. Aphrodite’s touch has no influence on him. Only Seth’s expression of chaos and power may satisfy the tired man.

            In one final attempt, the chariot of Ra rushes towards the twin peaks. Zeus strikes down mighty bolts on the slopes of the mountains, crushing rocks and toppling trees. The light turns orange as the sky is engulfed by the warm colors of experience. The flaming land touches the vibrant pink sky through the smoking peaks of duality. Seth’s influence begins to take form far away, but the divines keep it apart from the serene image set before the old mortal. It steals the breath from other inhabitants as if the Almighty himself had taken it away.

            But the elderly gentleman lets out a sigh of disappointment. He rises to his feet with aching joints, places his old hat onto his head, and then turns his back on the grand scene of the gods’ making. “Another day wasted.”

-Zero

The Flux of 'Home'

       Home is a mysterious thing. How is it that it may move with us at times and remain stationary at others? It can be a palace in the mountains, or a shack in the desert. It is as adaptable as the human race. Samuel Hogan is well aware of the constant flux of the entity we call home.

       For the first two decades of his life, he only ever had one home. It was his parents' house where he was born and raised. He knew every aspect of the building and the surrounding grounds. He was comfortably numb to the flux in discussion. But time dictated that he must leave, and so, he did. In those final weeks at his childhood home, he came to feel the swamp of memories that the land had become. His mind became aware of the way in which his feet dragged through the past, as well as how it had smeared muck all over his being. The mirror on the wall could not show him the true image of what had happened. It could not reveal how his form appeared to be one with the swamp he had long gotten lost in. But his soul whispered it into his ear, and so, the catharsis of departure began.

       With due diligence he packed his belongings. Samuel had become a man who existed as a boy. Something inside of him no longer wished to wait. It urged him to depart earlier so that he may bathe in the pools of unfamiliarity. But Samuel stuck to the initial plan, as if not to upset the balance of nature. However, his heart was pacing about his chest like the stressed in their studies. The flux was unknown, and as the departure drew closer and closer, Samuel found himself more and more entangled in the roots of the swamp. His childhood friends were to remain, and the farewell had never been conceived. None of them, including Samuel, had ever imagined a world without each other. And yet, Samuel was taking it upon himself to seize that particular goodbye.

It made his hairs stand on the edges of the only cliffs they knew. It was the fear of change that came to overwhelm him. His initial conception of his life away from home was one of isolation and sickness. He was absolutely correct.

       Samuel was to leave by train. It was a time-honored method to watch one's home slowly move out of sight. Of course, all he could see was a blurred image of his hometown. He felt the unfamiliar warmth drip down his face and onto his lap. An instinctively curious hand touched and partially absorbed the little manifestations of both his fears and unbridled joy.

       The first night that Samuel spent in the baths of the unfamiliar was a night of lonely sorrow. From his new place of residence, he could see all sorts of people moving about the city. They were a mosaic of humans, bearing all sorts of differences between them. Despite this, Samuel felt as if he did not belong among the masses. He saw himself as the exception to the great acceptance of the land.

       The second night was spent arranging his new place of being. All was put where he wished, and a sense of home began to move towards Samuel's heavy heart. It had become his place, as opposed to his parents'. Possession often increases one's attachment to a piece of property. But still he was lonely, as he had not yet been integrated into the community.

       The third day he stumbled upon a neighbour of his. Like many of the other residents, Madeline was roughly his age. Her features were like those described by a Romantic poet, but there was no Porphyro present. She had been wearing simple grey sweatpants along with a large hooded sweater bearing her university's logo and name. Sweet Madeline had been doing the tedious task of her own laundry for the first time. Her feet were stepping carefully on the steps because the basket of clothing blocked her view of that which lay before her. Samuel had been hastily on his way down when he saw her. His anxious mind instructed him to leave her be, but it was not up to Samuel to decide. A misguided step on Madeline's part essentially threw her basket into him. Both were caught off their guard and stumbled backwards in response. In a matter of minutes, the paramedics had arrived to tend to the unconscious Madeline. Samuel, nearly bedridden with guilt, kept by her side until she recovered. No serious injuries had been sustained, but a great friendship had just begun.

       No more than a week had passed when Samuel had found himself referring to his new residence as his home.

-Zero

   

The Departing Emptiness (poem)

The bare walls,

Empty Shelves,

Barren floors,

And tidy desks.

All things moved,

Removed from home,

To boxes

And suitcases.

This room,

A ghost now,

There, but not,

Nothing within.

A clock,

Tick. Tock.

Dies out.

No use.

Stagnant air,

Still memories,

Dust collecting,

Dust consuming.

The unbecoming,

Undoing,

Unraveling,

Emptiness of goodbye.

-Zero

Familiar Pursuit (Poem), and an update

She enters the room,

Unsure what to find.

Fellow students around,

Beer cans in hand.

Genderless for a time.

He watches,

Predator eyes,

Every movement.

Interested in meetings,

Recognizing a familiarity.

And so it commences

With an alcoholic inspiration,

Smearing dignity,

But not their intentions.

Each have a story.

He wants her

Like many others,

But wishes not

For physical actions,

But emotional closure.

Her heart is hers,

And refuses to care

About the men around her.

Attempts fall short.

She is wise.

The pursuit drives him,

A race back in time,

Hopelessly impossible.

But emotions control him,

A slave to his subconscious.

His mind remains focused

On her elegant being.

All the while,

She is free.

That past is only his curse.

----------------------------------------------------

As of late I have taken to a new residence far from home in order to pursue a greater education. I arrived on the thirty first of August, but have been kept busy by fellow classmates. However, I was given enough time yesterday to write this poem, along with two others, from the well of inspiration that my new home has given me. Strangely, I find little sense of homesickness. In the beginning, I had felt as if I did not belong, but that quickly faded. I believe I will enjoy my time here.
As for this poem, it was inspired by a young woman I have been seeing rather often around campus. She and I have met and talked, but this poem truly comes from a concept I have been thinking about for some time now. I believe it was Freud who suggested that we subconsciously make connections between people. If in some subconscious way a person reminds us of someone who we are fond of, then we are more likely to wish to know them. This young woman bears a striking resemblance to an old friend of mine. Their personalities are worlds apart, but I am convinced that I was drawn to her based upon her familiar appearance. It was with that in mind that I wrote this poem. Anyways, I must be off. Until next time,

-Zero