I hate his poetry

A woman suffers through a boyfriends hobby because she loves him.

 

            I hate the cliché scene of the coffee shop on open mic night, but this is Brent’s thing and I was Brent’s girl so I tolerate it the second Friday of every month. I have done so for the past fourteen months. I sit in the corner as I sip my cappuccino from an oversized mug hoping the coffee will lessen the taste of bad poetry which hangs in the air. It helps very little, if at all. 

            The night started out like every one of these do, a massacre of rhythm, rhyme, and metaphor. A fluffy representation of pain and sorrow coupled with shallow depictions of love, which in the real world is known as infatuation. Poets seem to think any tingle in their toes is love. My favorite lines of the night, so far, are by a skinny red headed boy, “As you walked away / I watched your red dress sway. / From the movement of your body I knew / Heaven had matched me to you.” What the hell? The entire poem was about the movement of a woman being what attracted him to her. He never spoke to her or even saw her face, but naturally fate matched them. Sometimes I really hate poets and their ability to over water their emotions; turning a shallow wading pool into the middle of an ocean.

            I lick my lips of the foam from my last sip of cappuccino and I watch Brent take to the stage with guitar in hand. I cringe because out of everyone’s poetry his could possibly be the worst and he reads it as he strums the same two cords on his guitar. He also dresses the part which is horribly embarrassing. Tonight’s poem is about a summertime romance, as hot as the summer sun (I know, how clever of him comparing a passionate romance to the summer sun). He is wearing a pair of sage green linen pants, an unbuttoned cream linen top, and brown sandals. There is no shirt under his cream top so his bare chest is exposed, which would be fine if Brent wasn’t Brent but rather Gerard Butler. But alas, he is not and when he sits on the stool in front of the microphone his small gut rolls over the top of his linen pants.

            He strums the D cord, the first of many. Sinking into my chair I close my eyes and imagine Brent as he is all the other days of the year. He’s funny, carefree, simple, and well dressed.

His parents enrolled him in therapy at the age of twelve after his grandfather died. Never one to open up, his therapist suggested he start writing to express himself. His first poems were typical of a young boy expressing his pain and really helped him deal with his grandpa’s death. However after he stopped seeing the therapist he didn’t stop the poetry. I swear if I ever find that woman I’m going to smack her. Why couldn’t she suggest painting? If he painted I wouldn’t be in a room full of wannabe poets watching my normally … normal boyfriend make a complete an utter fool of himself, unbuttoned linen shirt and all. I’m positive I hate her.

“A summer muse she had become / our love burned brighter than the blazing sun” Brent slowly strums the D cord yet again.

We’ve been dating for two years now and it he didn’t inform me of his secret poet life until we had been together six months and I was too in love with him to cut in run. Though if I found out earlier I might not have returned his calls, he was wise to wait until I was head over heels. I remind myself it’s once a month for a few hours and I go on loving him.

I hear the E cord vibrate through the air.

“Walking the beach for hours on end / her freckles brighten with her tan.” Brent concludes his latest poem. The room quietly claps and he bows his head. On his way to the corner where I sit a short woman with a long black braid grabs Brent by the arm. He leans his head down and she whispers in his ear and glances my way. I can see his cheeks turn red. She claims to be his biggest fan, loves the way he includes the guitar. I think it’s stupid. Three months ago she wrote a poem for him about being supportive and loving him unconditionally. There was a line in it about being with someone who can’t stand the sound of your voice. I assumed she was referring to my hatred of his poetry.

Brent approaches me and kisses me on the forehead. I love it when he does that, it adorable. He takes his seat next to me.

“What did she have to say this time?”

He laughed and put his arm around my shoulders and I fall comfortably in his arms.

“She told me I didn’t even have to leave you she just wants one night.” He grinned from ear to ear.

“Freaking W***e. I’m going to knock her out one of these days and she can write a dumbass poem about it.”

“I have one question for you though. How does it feel to date such a desirable man?” Brent flexes and laughs loudly.

Four more poets and we are free I think to myself as I glare in little miss mackin-on-my-man’s general direction. She constantly asked him why he was with me and told him she would love him more. The thought of someone loving Brent more makes me laugh. I suffer through two hours of poorly written prose because it means something to him. I suffer because I love him. She needs to back the hell off.

Brent and I head towards the coffee shop door shortly after the last poet exits the stage. We pass by his biggest fan and an opportunity to grand to pass up reveals itself. Her back is to us and on the table behind her sits a cappuccino exactly like the one I was sipping earlier. I grab the end of her braid and drop it into the mug, giving her ample material to use for next months sorry excuse for poetry.

In the car Brent informs me that next month his poem will be titled, My Muse Hates My Art But Loves Me. It will be the first poem dedicated to me and I will gladly suffer through it.

Author's Note

I wrote this just now as I was skimming through contests. I'm enterting it in the Suffering for Love contest because I'm a huge fan of everyday love sorta stuff. Nothing Epic, nothing tragic, just the everyday affairs and sufferings of love. haha.

Reviews

[Taja B.]

Thanks for sharing this, it was a entertaining and humorous read. Even though I'm mostly a poet myself, I really despise poems who would contain something like, "From the movement of your body I knew / Heaven had matched me to you." Errgh. I am tired of reading something so cliche like that! ha ha...

However, I did enjoy reading this story in general. I liked the fact that despite of the woman thoroughly despising her boyfriend's poetry, she still continued to put up with it because she loves him.

So thanks for sharing. This is a nice, lighthearted and enjoyable story.

[Collect-Eye]

umm..this is exactly why I go way over the top w/ ridiculous prose..hahahaha
I'm doing a poetry feature this month..I can barely sit through the things usually..some is good..I just video tape it and smoke outside and watch the videos I like later

I'd much rather sit at home and read walt whitman or even dr seuss usually

I like the open shirt Idea..I think I'm gonna wear a woman's blouse and my orange bell bottoms and read to samba music in a spanish accent..that's only part of it.."riddle's million dollar gesture" [one of my pieces I have posted] is gonna be in that format, w/ some brittish accent narration

this is a well written and honest story..I like your perspective, and I can't necessarily disagree w/ your point of view..I like how you can be so truthful about his writing and so appreciative of who he is..it kind of touched my heart. thank you

[Captain Goldpants]

sp: chords

Been to far too many of these poetry events and tend to get a little mischievous myself!

[J. Hampton]

Too funny...
I KNOW ...women just...like this
I spose we all have supported things our loved ones love...that may bore or annoy us at times.

"little miss mackin-on-my-man's general direction. "" ~...Gotta luv this
and..
this ~ "I grab the end of her braid and drop it into the mug, giving her ample material to use for next months sorry excuse for poetry."

~ or have been less-than-thrilled perhaps a jealous moment ...when their " love/craft" might be share by an attractive member of the opposite sex"

comical...write

Blesssssssssss

[mrowepat]

"...hoping the coffee will lessen the taste of bad poetry.." Hahahahhhhaa!!!! I know how you feel. Great write and a super fun read!!! We all make sacrifices.... but to have to put up with that???? Wow, in love you must be!!! Sounds like he loves you too!!! Great job!!! :)

[Gary H]

Very enjoyable. I have never taken to reading any of my poems but have entertained on the guitar. Sadly this has the effect of losing any chance of acquiring male or female friends. I'm thinking though that at least this 'hobby' is safe.
There are far more embarrassing ones out there that would strain any type of love (what was that train number now?)

[R J Askew]

I like this very much. I was thinking at the end of para two, "Yeah bang on! If most so-called poets were machine gunned, no one would miss 'em". I also though, "Yeah, slap the therapist!" I also think of times I've stood at a mic like some silly pratt trying to give it large. And the guys who are good at the mic are usually just those with spitfire egoes and right on msgs. Real talent? As rare as hen's teeth.

[Raef C. Boylan]

Thanks to Emily Burns for sharing this with me.
It's an entertaining read. I enjoyed the narrator's weary cynicism, and the digs at cliched poetry.
The man-stealing fellow-poet, and our narrator's response to her, was also fun.
Overall, good write. Realistic - is it based on true events?

p.s.
I back-up the typos a few others have pointed out
"cord" [chord]
"an opportunity to grand to pass up reveals itself" [too grand]
"and I was too in love with him to cut in run" [cut 'n' run / cut and run?]
"We've been dating for two years now and it he didn't" ["it he"]
"I love it when he does that, it adorable." [it's]

[TL Boehm]

I don't know if Emily sent this to ME first but I am so glad she did. I too am beginning to loathe poets simply because of the glut of emoetry and myspace lamentations that have popped up like crabgrass on the manicured lawns of the cafe - squeezing out the rarer prose, fiction and essays. There are a few GOOD poets here....but I am starved for prose these days. This gem reaffirmed my faith in the cafe as a place for other types of writing. (besides poems)
It was a great humorous write - articulate, genuine and most definitely not tragic.

[Jenny Davis]

I enjoyed the way you told this...it is so true...what we won't do for love ;)
Very nicely done :)

[Rod Zinkel]

A fun read. Though, having loved a singer, I didn't mind the quality because I was too flattered to think a song might be sung to me. Warren Beatty wasn't the only guy to be so vain as to think Carly Simon sung about him. There's one typo that tripped me up: "an opportunity to [too] grand to pass up".