Poetry in the Park

 Piet has been asked to 'look into' a poetry group meeting in a park, which includes a student of his. This is a chapter in book DLC41.

On arrival in the park, I don’t even have to look for the group. I’m sure that I just have to follow a ray of light to find Huggy modestly covered in her tresses, but I can already see a very well-loved van that may as well have ‘student’ as a number plate (or ‘hippy’). Two other cars screamed ‘penniless student’ & one could have been ‘daddy’s little girl’, or I could be reading too much into it. The car park wasn’t as full as I expected.

Track from there to the lake’s edge, avoiding the too-obvious picnic table.

Dreadlocks must be the van’s owner. Wispy blue hair is his life-partner. If the van was hers, then it would be pink, & he would be a she. That’s not pigeon-holing (bad expression), but the voice of experience. This is a boy-van. Boy-vans have girls. Girl-vans have girls. I am yet to see any other combination. Damn. There goes my theory, I just remembered my misspent youth, where Polly had access to a van, & she’d drive me or Guppy around. That was white, though, so that must be the exception. The van was white. Polly often had an oil smear somewhere, & she was far from pure white, & that wasn’t my fault at all.

“Prof! We’re over here!”

Even if it wasn’t Venus waving languorously from her shell, the group she had under her power was obvious. I’m needed to balance the chromosomes, I think, because - & I did expect this - Dreadlocks is the only other male. I can’t see his guitar, so he’s not a real hippy. If there’s a lesbian couple here … yes. Two girls close-ish. One is a poet (Emo with untidy straight black hair), the other is her muse (ordinary-looking) & studies … politics. Too obvious. It’ll come to me, or she’ll tell me when I actually cross the distance, pushing the bike that I should have just left against the van. I don’t think anyone steals bikes in Hamilton, but I’m too conservative to test that hypothesis.

Meanwhile, I waved to acknowledge that my inability to see that my draft is headed in the wrong direction does not come into play when I’m not wearing reading glasses. They’re secure in my backpack, of course.

“I’m soooo glad you came.”

Said the actress … No. Sorry. Wrong book. Jeeves!

I smiled back & waved towards Riley or Peg or whoever she is today. Did I mention that Wispy-Blue looks familiar? She must hang around classrooms looking moody. Emo looks familiar, but all Emos are meant to look alike, & that’s probably being offensive, or else it encourages their raison d’etre. I give up. She’s not one of my students … unless. Yes, she is. She’s only Emo on weekends. Maybe her parents are out of town, & she’s daddy’s little girl.

She smiled at me. Front row! She’s the girl with no friends. She’s wearing a wig! Have I done ‘kids today!’? I must have done. It bears repeating. I’d say she last used that wig for Halloween. Now the unfortunate part is that I can’t remember her name. She’s a fruit. I don’t mean that in terms of her sexual preferences, but … Paech! That’s her surname. That matches with a first name (because I memorised the student list once).

“Sonia.”

“Hey.”

I looked at ordinary girl in the hope that she’ll reveal her major.

“Intros! We should. Everyone else knows everyone, but,” Huggy pronounced.

“They do?” from Riley-Peg.

“Yeah, OK. Maybe not. Riley. This is my cousin Riley, & she’d like to do a piece on us.”

“Hey,” with a wave. “For the rag, eh?”

“Hey,” from a few.

“& I guess most of you know the Prof - Prof Malone.”

“I’d be happier with ‘Piet’, thanks Amanda.”

“Sure. So, we have …”

& because she didn’t write down a list of names, I forgot about half of them on the first reading. I need an RA. I do hope that Riley’s taking notes. Maybe she’s recording. Maybe I need to ask her to start.

“So, … Piet, we’re what’s left of the Poetry Society. We used to meet every … so often last year. A few of the regs graduated. Riley’s our only new … member.”

“Haven’t signed anything yet.”

“& we were hoping that, with you as kind of academic sponsor thing, we could do a bit of a member drive.”

“How much work would that be for me?”

“Pfft. Maybe turn up once or twice. Nothing admin. A reading would be nice.”

“I can do that.”

“I’m not contributing,” Riley added with a wave of her arm like a faulty robot.

Huggy gave her a slightly exasperated look.

Dreadlocks put his hand up quickly & then down, as if swimming half a backstroke.

“I reckon we need a reboot, anyway. Name change. Slough off the dead skin & grow wings.”

He didn’t say “man” at the end, but it happened in my head.

“What’s the current name?”

“The Poetry Society. Didn’t I say?”

I blinked. She did. I just didn’t register that as a name.

“Something more dramatic,” Sonia stated with a deadpan voice that was quite different to what she uses in class, but about as engaging.

“Poetry Circle.”

Wispy-blue (I told you I’d forgotten things) sighed audibly.

“Bigger - not just a bigger circle, either, Derek.”

Derek (formerly referred to as Dreadlocks) had been about to say something when … I want to say Elaine, for some reason, but that’s not her name - cut him off. He took it well.

“You got a better idea, Jerry? You’re the … expert.”

How did I get a Seinfeld connection out of that?

Jerry is the expert because she’s … his better half. For a pair of hippies, they’re not very relaxed.

“Umm. Piet? Could you …?”

Do not appeal to my … whatever. I didn’t bring it with me, because I rode a bike.

I turned from Huggy (unwillingly) to Sonia.

“Don’t think of this as a test.”

She groaned. It’s a test. Have I trained that class so well so fast? My creatives must live up to their designation, or else they fail. I’ve made that clear to them. Failure is not about doing badly, it’s about not doing.

She stood, almost using her bland accessory as a lever. She waved her hand about, but I don’t know if it was to attract attention, brush off a mosquito, or else shush people. She looked fleetingly to the lake for inspiration, as if Nessie would pop up & spout Burns at her. (What would I know?) A bird tweeted somewhere. I know, because I heard it & she heard it & we may have been the only two.

“Circle … of … Life.”

That’s it? Well, she didn’t fail, but she’s not topping the class.

Riley snorted so hard that she had to push her glasses back up her nose, although I suspect that was just to cover up the snort & any potential overflow.

“A circle is a line, not a life.”

Now she had their full attention, so she felt like she had to say something, I’m sure.

Huggy snapped her fingers.

“Circle of Lines. Good one. You know, lines of poetry.”

“No! A circle is only one line!” Riley insisted.

“It’s poetic,” suggested the bland one.

Sonia bumped shoulders with her & checked a smile.

“Piet?” Huggy asked, worriedly.

“Works for me. It’s not too obscure. It makes some sense. It makes you think.”

I saw Sonia’s eyes go heavenward. She knows I’d appreciate that. Huggy nodded along with my fine analysis.

“Also, if you’re thinking of advertising, you can get a nice image out of that.”

“But don’t recycle …”

Garbage. Any argument will eventually descend to a TISM reference. That’s probably not true anymore, especially for this group in this place.

“No; recycling is cool,” Derek advised, & I still think he should have ended that with ‘man’, except that it might have sounded sexist.

“That green triangle thing?”

“How is a triangle a circle?” Riley asked.

I love a good skeptic in the argument. She’s my favourite, now.

“It just is, Peg. Write it down.”

That put her in her place - using her real name! It was a reminder that some are here to think & others are here to record what was thunk. Separation of concerns.

Riley raised an eyebrow. She dramatically clicked her pen & wrote something in her very journalistic-looking notepad that did not in any way make her look like a secretary. She’s the hard-core journalistic type, a Lois Lane, a Mary Tyler-Moore, a … peripheral character out of history that is feminine but also able to stand up to the grumpy editor-in-chief. She’s also stopped writing. I can tell when her eyes go all misty, but I’m the only one looking that way, because she happens to be standing next to Huggy. 

The others are watching Sonia. She hadn’t sat down, but she’d taken a few steps from the other girl towards the water, as if a Kelpie was calling - but they’re female water spirits. OK, that works if it’s a lesbian Kelpie, I guess. It’s hypothetical, so let’s not discuss that possibility here. I’m trying to use a metaphor, without directly delving into celtic mythology, which was metaphor enough once. Anyway, she’s approaching the water, like Miranda climbing up to Hanging Rock. This probably means that the bland girl whose name I still don’t know will follow, & someone like Riley will be left behind to make a small fortune out of writing up their memories of the occasion when they’re in middle age. Don’t let Huggy be sucked up in the spiral. In the water, it could be a whirlpool, but I have some recollection of a swirl of colours & light in the book - only in the later editions. Take Sonia, but leave Huggy. What am I thinking? Don’t take anyone. Who am I actually talking to? I should ask Riley if she’d taken note of the voice in my head.

“Round & ‘round we go; I stop, but you don’t see me. Did you know? I am the voice within, without true substance unless you are there. You are my sustenance, my air, my senses, & yet everywhere stays dark until you open up your eyes to see that I am still around.”

“Yeah, Dude, you tell him,” from Bland.

Well, that’s changed things. I did a double-take. I think I misread things a little. Sonia is not a dude, & neither is Bland (I’m quite sure), & that’s not an endearment unless you’re BFFs or some such. Taken with ‘tell him’, & the very nice little image of a broken heart or unrequited love, then Sonia is straight & Bland is … well, she’s even less relevant. She’s supportive, great, but she’s just made herself more peripheral to the story by saying something germane. She is no more than that statement, a marker character in this stage-play, like Wilde’s Merriman announcing the arrival of various guests, but without a Wodehouse attitude or memorability. She doesn’t deserve her own name.

“Thanks, Babe.”

Or I could be wrong.

“Ruthie, you’re hardly qualified …” & Jerry stopped mid-sentence as Derek touched her hand.

Babe. Ruth. Snookered again. I really should have been listening when people were introduced.

Meanwhile, Sonia has turned on Jerry with a raised eyebrow that is far too emotional a response for an Emo. It’s as if her wig has truly slipped. Maybe that was the point. She’s come here in disguise, hiding her hurt beneath a layer of Emo. I can admire that. She’s worked through her own little problem, or at least managed to give it a voice, right here, in front of people. She probably knows the group well enough, & she may well have done this before, but her doing it is new to me. She’s clever, she’s diligent, but she’s also creative when she sets her mind to it.

She saw me staring at her & blushed. All pretense of being above all this feelings shit has gone. She lifted her chin, then, which made me smile, which made her blush again. We’re having a whole new conversation now. I want her to consider doing honours next year. She doesn’t know that yet, & I don’t know how to express it, because I don’t actually have an honours program to tout, but I will do by then. She’s going to be my inspiration for creating one.

“Er, Piet? What do you think?”

“About?”

“Sonia’s … piece?”

“I think Sonia knows that she’s just raised my expectations somewhat.”

“Yep. Figured.”

“Huh?” from Jerry.

I waved to Sonia to explain. I know she gets it.

“Look, Jerry, this is why I was reticent about, you know, bringing … Piet along.”

She waved about uselessly as if it was obvious.

“I don’t get it.”

“Because he’s a real, published, poet,” Huggy supplied.

Sonia turned on her rather aggressively.

“No, because he’s a fucking creative arsehole who’s so next level he’s fucking schooling me right here right now.”

Oops.

I think that’s my cue to leave.

“I’m sorry, Sonia, I didn’t mean to … push you.”

“Yeah you did. I mean, I knew you would. I thought …”

She pulled her wig off. There was a gasp from Bland-Babe-Ruth, but I think it was for the drama of the moment, rather than the big reveal. She knew, right? Let’s not go all Scooby-Doo over nothing.

I had my arms out. I want to make things right. I don’t like people being angry at me, ever. I tried to make it look like I wasn’t trying to hug her from a 20m distance, though. I also don’t want to say ‘Sorry’ again, because that’s just lame. Evie warned me. She said that poetry in the park would be creepy. I don’t want that.

“I should go. I am more than happy to … rejoin you guys when I’m more capable of putting my own ego aside & can listen attentively to new talent.”

“Fuck me, don’t you dare! You’re staying until I can cope with your supportive fucking … support.”

Riley snorted again. Is she getting all this on paper?

“OK. Is there some way I can moderate my support to be less … confronting?”

This time, Sonia simply stopped. She opened her mouth. She closed it. A smile started to appear, & she wrestled with it. Then she just giggled. I kid you not. I’m thinking of calling the little men in white coats with big butterfly nets, but I’ll give her a moment just in case it’s acting or something, & I’ve been played.

“Tres dramatic, bitch,” Ruth finally got out.

“Fuck. I don’t know. Just ignore me, OK? I’m having an off day.”

& I shouldn’t make it worse by trying to make it better.

Huggy is looking to me for direction. She’s older than the others, their leader, of sorts, but she’s not mature enough to deal with this.

“So, Sonia …” I begin.

“Oh! Fuck. Look, just let me walk around for a bit, & I’ll be … myself again, right? I mean, carry on, like.”

“Peach? You want …”

Of course she gets called ‘Peach’. Her surname is pronounced ‘Pake’, by the way. I know this because … I can’t remember. I know this, anyway.

“Stay, Babe.”

Ruth nodded once. Good girl.

As Sonia started walking away, seemingly talking to herself, Riley looked to me.

“This is so cool!”

“Shut up, Peg,” Huggy expressed without looking at her.

She did look at me then.

“Creative. Your class, right?”

“Yes, Sonia’s in it.”

“Why is that important? I mean, I don’t remember it being … a thing.”

“It’s new. It’s what I brought in from my last Uni - Macquarie. It’s a course to make English students express themselves, stretch their writing & thinking skills. It’s not much analysis, except for research, & it’s not just creative writing by doing what you want to do.”

“& Sonia … yeah, it’s her thing.”

“Apparently, yes, it is.”

Huggy looked at me thoughtfully, then across the others.

“Jerry? You into it?”

“Next year, I hope. Dunno. Someone said there was a barrier to get in?”

“Ah. That would be my fault. I wanted limited numbers, & I wasn’t here to provide any guidelines, so this year’s entry might be different to next year’s.”

“Like how?”

“For next year, I’ll be able to ask people to provide a portfolio, & then I can decide if they’d benefit from the course.”

“Err.”

“Or if they’d just want to do it for the sake of it. No easy rides.”

“Oh. It’s tough, then?”

“Not tough - demanding. I want students to put in the effort & prove they … sorry, I shouldn’t be doing a sales pitch.”

Or even an anti-sales pitch. A sales anti-pitch?

“No, you’re good. No-one ever tells you why you should enrol in shit, eh?”

They really don’t. We just tell people to do it. People. Kids. We expect them to ‘get it’, without providing the right level of information. We provide updates to the Calendar, we don’t tell people what it’s all about. Do this, & you get a degree. That’s the business I’m in. That was my career choice, way back. Twice. Yes, sometimes listening to the feedback would help. Why are you doing a degree? Mum said I should. My Mum didn’t, but the respect she showed my brother made it worth my effort to try, then it was just pig-headedness all the way. That’s the secret - don’t let anyone tell you you should just stay working as a checkout chick. Would Jerry be … yes, I suspect she does her shifts in Blueys. No, they have a different brand here. Whatever they call it. I know this. No, I don’t. I should shop more.

“OK, it’s on me to check the entry. I should see if there’s … is there a career adviser type service?”

Blank looks.

“Course advisers?”

A shrug.

There must be. A good student doesn't necessarily need one or think too much about it. A good student accepts that the schedule they’re given makes sense in getting a degree.

“I’ll look into it. I like people to know what they’re in for, & it is very new. For you, Jerry, drop by my office & ask the Department Secretary for some of my time at some point in the future, before the end of the year, & I’ll make sure you’re comfortable with taking that course.”

Then I thought about it.

“Derek? Ruth? I have no idea what you guys are studying.”

“Philosophy.”

“Economics.”

You work out which was which. You got it right. That says as much about you & me as it does about them.

Meanwhile, Sonia was heading our way, still waving her arms & looking as though she was talking to herself. Huggy saw where I was looking, & everyone else followed suit. Sonia looked up finally & noticed. She paused almost mid-stride, seemed to shake her arms a little harder, just the once, then came on towards us.

“I’m working on it, but it’s still not there.”

I was clueless, but so was everyone else.

“What’s that?” Huggy finally asked.

“You know, the rest of the … piece. Can I get back to you?”

That last was to me. I’m the critic, you see.

“Fuck me,” Riley whispered, clicking her pen.