Poemsia

by Lang Leav

  She smiled at me sweetly. “You’ll thank me one day.”

  Four

  I woke up Saturday morning with butterflies in my stomach. By the time Jess picked me up in her little white Honda, the butterflies were more like a swarm of angry bees.

  We packed an old trestle table into the trunk along with a black tablecloth, a table easel, and a box of my books. Jess had made a couple of posters and coerced Jonesy to stick one up at his café. She’d also pinned one to her college noticeboard.

  We got to Centennial Park just after noon and chose a spot under a tree. I had hoped for bad weather so I’d have an excuse to cancel, but no luck. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny with a whisper of a breeze.

  We set up the trestle table and draped the tablecloth over it. Jess put her Poetry in the Park sign on the easel and placed it on the tabletop alongside copies of my book. “There,” she said, a look of solid satisfaction on her face.

  A small group of people gathered around watching us. I turned to Jess, and she had Mei Lyn’s prized microphone in her hand. It made a small hissing sound when she switched it on.

  “What do we do?” I whispered.

  Jess straightened and spoke. “Hello, everyone. Welcome to Poetry in the Park. Today, we are featuring a rising star in the poetry world, Verity Wolf. Please watch this face of hers, ladies and gentlemen, because she is going all the way to the top! Verity now has her book for sale.” Jess held up a copy for everyone to see. “They are ten dollars each, and our lovely poet will be happy to autograph your copy. You can also find her on Instagram, at Verity Wolf—all one word, lowercase. And please don’t forget to tag all your friends as well! Now, everyone, put your hands together for Verity Wolf!” There was some light clapping and a couple of hoots, and the commotion got the attention of other passersby. The group was growing into a small crowd, and suddenly, all eyes were on me. I gulped and took the microphone from Jess.

  “Um, hi. I’m Verity—Verity Wolf. Thank you for coming out to see me. Ah . . . today, I will be reading a selection of poems from my, um . . . book. I hope you like them!” I took a deep breath. I was shaking, and I wanted to run and flee, but Jess handed me a copy of my book and mouthed, “Good luck.” All I could do was turn to a random page and clear my throat.

  As I read, a strange thing happened. The people all somehow faded away, and I wasn’t nervous anymore. I read poem after poem, growing bolder and more expressive with each one. My audience listened, rapt, and I felt pure adrenaline rush through my veins. Hey, I’m actually good at this, I thought. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jess. She looked like she was over the moon. I saw that the book pile was smaller and realized with a jolt that she must have sold some.

  Finally, I stopped, took a few big breaths, and thanked the audience for listening and Jess for organizing the event. There was more applause and hooting before the crowd began to disperse.

  A girl came up to me, clutching a copy in her hand. “Mallory!” I said, delighted.

  “Can you sign this for me?” she asked, handing me a glitter pen.

  “Sure.”

  I worried that I’d pass out with all this excitement. I couldn’t believe what was actually happening. I autographed Mallory’s copy, and I looked over at Jess, who was watching us with a huge grin on her face. I felt a big, warm wave of affection sweep through me. She was the one who’d made this possible. I was so damn lucky to have her in my life.

  “I love all the poems you’ve posted ” said Mallory.

  I beamed at her. “Thank you!”

  “My friends really like your stuff as well. Keep posting!”

  As she wandered off, I felt my heart filling up like a balloon. I didn’t know why I had been so resistant to this idea and vowed that from now on I would be more open to Jess’s crazy schemes.

  “Morning!” A gruff voice interrupted my thoughts. I looked up to see an unfriendly looking police officer glaring down at me.

  “Morning,” I gulped, taking a step back.

  He took off his aviator shades, popping them into his front pocket. “Are you running some kind of business here?”

  “Um, no. We’re—it’s just an art project,” I said nervously. He raised his eyebrows at me and gestured toward Jess, who was just exchanging a book for a ten-dollar bill.

  “Looks like a business to me. Do you have a permit?”

  Jess looked over at us, and her eyebrows shot up in alarm. She came over in a flash.

  “Hi, officer, is there a problem?” she asked cheerfully.

  “You bet there is. You’re not allowed to operate a business in this park without a permit. You know, you could be liable for a hefty fine.” He puffed out his chest and glared at us. There wasn’t a lot of action in the park, and it was just our luck to have a run-in with a cop on a power trip.

  “Hold on a minute,” said Jess. She whipped out her phone and dialed a number. Then, without a word, she handed the phone to the officer. “Here, it’s for you.”

  He raised his eyebrows and brought the phone to his ear, wincing as he was attacked by Mei Lyn’s wordy assault. “Lady . . . lady, your daughter is operating an illegal business in the park—”

  We sensed Mei Lyn rattling away while the cop tried in vain to get a word in.

  “Yes, but—liable for massive fines . . . uh, no I did not know that. No, of course not . . . there’s no need to escalate this matter . . .” He shot us a wary look. Then, as Mei Lyn continued to fire away, I noted a slump in his shoulders, almost like he was visibly shrinking right before our eyes. “Yes, OK, I understand, ma’am.”

  With a sigh, he handed the phone back to a now-triumphant Jess. When he spoke again, the cockiness had left his voice. “OK, girls, pack it up and don’t let me catch you out here again.”

  When we got back to the store, Jess and I were on a high, laughing and hanging onto each other. Pop was at the counter, talking with great impatience to some unlucky guy. When the guy turned around, I saw it was Sash, and my heart did a little skip.

  Pop’s head swiveled toward me. “Verity, this young man here says he’s your friend. Is that true?”

  “Uh, yeah, kind of,” I stammered.

  “Then why is he trying to sell me something from his college?”

  Sash shot me a helpless look, and I saw he had a rectangular-shaped package in his hand. “I’ve just, um, finished your collage and thought I’d drop it by.”

  “Oh!” In all the excitement leading up to my reading in the park, I’d completely forgotten about our deal. “Pop, I think he meant ‘collage,’ and he’s not trying to sell us anything. Sash makes really cool collages, and he offered to make me one as a thank-you—” I stopped.

  “A thank-you for what?” Pop asked.

  I gave him a sheepish grin. “I kind of loaned him one of your signed books.”

  “You did what now?”

  “He needed to scan in a few pages to make a collage—it’s a long story.”

  Pop looked from me to Sash, who was fumbling with the brown paper wrapping. Once it was free, he handed it to Pop.

  Pop’s expression softened. “Gee, well, this isn’t bad—not bad at all.” He looked up at Sash. “You made this?”

  Sash nodded.

  Pop motioned me over. “Come here, Verity—see whether you recognize this book.”

  “The Green Wind,” I breathed. “I love that book!”

  “Hey, that’s really something,” said Jess, who had come up behind me.

  I had seen only a photograph of the collage Sash had made for his friend. Now, holding one in my hand, I saw it was something else entirely. Carefully, I ran my fingers over the ridges and grooves made from layers and layers of paper. It had green text on white paper and white text on green. Slivers of the cover peeked through in a fractured composition that looked random yet somehow deliberate. It was as t
hough the book was made of glass and someone had dropped it from a great height then captured the moment it had shattered.

  I looked up at him. “This is incredible! How did you know I so love this book?”

  “Lucky guess,” he shrugged, with a grin.

  I was so absorbed in the collage I forgot that Jess and Sash hadn’t been introduced. I put it down and turned to him. “Oh, by the way, I see you’ve met Pop, and this is my best friend, Jess.”

  Jess smiled at him. “You must be Sash. Verity has told me so much about you.”

  I looked at her with daggers in my eyes, and all my warm feelings from this morning evaporated.

  Sash raised his eyebrows. “She has?”

  “I told her about the donkey,” I said quickly. “I thought it was a funny story.”

  “How did you girls do at the park?” Pop asked.

  “Awesome!” Jess crowed. “Couldn’t have gone any better. Vare kicked ass. You should have seen the audience when she read her poetry. Everyone was dead silent. You could’ve heard a pin drop. Also, we sold, like, half a dozen books!”

  Pop reached over and pinched my cheek. “Well done!”

  I grinned at him.

  Sash shot me a quizzical look. “You write poetry?”

  “Lucky last copy! Here, it’s all yours,” Jess said, handing him my book. He turned it over in his hands, looking impressed.

  “Thanks.”

  “Also, a cop came by and practically tried to arrest us for operating an illegal business, but Jess called her mother, and she sorted him, quick.”

  “She basically murdered him—it was beautiful to watch,” Jess laughed.

  “Jess’s Mum is a barrister,” I explained to Sash. “She’s a killer in the courtroom and has a reputation for reducing grown men to tears.”

  “A talent I wish I had inherited,” Jess sighed.

  “Sure wouldn’t want to be in Mei Lyn’s way when she’s on the warpath,” Pop agreed. “Remember when they tried to force me into selling this old place and she put a stop to it?” His eyes lit up at the memory.

  Jess smiled proudly. “That’s my mother, all right.”

  “All in all, a fantastic day,” I said. “We sold some books, I got some new Instagram followers, and we got to witness Mei Lyn in action, which is poetry in itself. Poetic justice.”

  “Aw!” Jess clapped her hands. “Verity just made a little joke.”

  I giggled.

  “Anyway, we should go out tonight to celebrate.” Jess turned to Sash. “Want to join us?”

  “Ah, I’d love to, but I’m meeting some friends at Fidelio.”

  “Isn’t that the bar where they hold those life-drawing classes?”

  “Uh-huh. Nude models every Tuesday.”

  “I’ve been meaning to check it out,” Jess said.

  “Why don’t you two come along? My friend Penelope writes poetry, too.”

  For situations like this, Jess and I had a signal. One cough meant yes. Two meant no.

  I coughed twice.

  “Yes!” she said. “We’d love to come.”

  My mouth fell open. “But Jess, don’t we have to do the thing?”

  She shot me a wicked grin. “The thing can wait, Vare.”

  Sash looked from me to Jess and back again. “So I’ll pick you guys up here at seven?”

  “Seven is perfect,” said Jess.

  I knew Fidelio was a bar on the outskirts of the city in an old converted warehouse with high ceilings and exposed beams. Round paper lanterns and tabletop candles gave it a soft ambience. A bar ran down the whole length of the establishment, and tables, barstools, and armchairs were arranged haphazardly across the polished wood floors. The far wall was decorated with sketches and poems on coasters donated by the artists, writers, and musicians who were regulars at the bar. Tonight, we found it buzzing with conversation and laughter.

  Jess and I followed Sash to a table where two guys and a girl were in a heated debate about karma.

  “—associated with Buddhism, along with reincarnation, so wouldn’t karma apply to all your lives, not just the one—”

  “Maybe it’s cyclical; it applies to each individual life as well as holistically, over the entire map of your existence.”

  “But it’s based on action, right? And behind each action, there’s a choice that affects the outcome of your circumstances for better or worse. Unless you’re telling me our lives are predetermined and we’re just following some kind of template.”

  Sash cleared his throat, and the trio looked up at him. He lifted his hand in an awkward wave. “Hey, guys.”

  “You’re late!” said the girl. She looked at us. “Didn’t know you were babysitting tonight, Sash.”

  “Don’t be rude, Pen. This is Verity and Jess—Verity is the girl from Wolf Books who loaned me Door into the Dark.” He turned to us with an apologetic smile. “These are my friends, Penelope, Teddy, and Tom.” He pointed around the table. “Teddy and Tom are engaged,” he added.

  Penelope smirked while Teddy and Tom smiled at us.

  “Don’t mind Pen; she’s an acquired taste,” said Teddy. He had long caramel locks and a shadow of a beard. His eyes had a mischievous look, as if he was about to play a trick on you. He touched his hair often, and you could tell he was vain about it. His fiancé, Tom, had striking catlike eyes and the longest lashes I had ever seen. His hair was impossibly black and lustrous.

  As for Penelope, she was a natural beauty. Not a stitch of makeup on her face, yet her skin was clear and dewy. Her champagne-blond hair was swept up in a tight ponytail. She wore black trousers and a jacket over a white T-shirt. She looked like a violinist ready to step onto the stage.

  Suddenly, I felt self-conscious in my jeans and sweater emblazoned with the phrase “I am the crazy cat lady of your dreams.”

  We exchanged a few words of greeting before settling into seats. I glanced over at Jess and winked. She tapped my foot under the table and winked back.

  Teddy leaned toward me. “So you’re the girl from Wolf Books.”

  “Sure am.”

  “Gosh, that place has been around since I was a kid. It’s such a relic.” Teddy shook his head and smiled.

  “How did you manage to score a copy of Door into the Dark?” asked Tom.

  “My grandad found it at a flea market in Brussels.”

  “Talk about find of the century!” Teddy leaned in and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “What else have you got?” I rattled off a list that Pop had collected over decades, and he let out a whistle. “A first edition of Notes from the Underground? Whoa. Is there anything you don’t have?”

  “Well, there is one thing. Pop’s favorite poet is Sal Dollinger, and it’s one of his life goals to get an autographed book.” Dollinger was one of the most celebrated American poets of all time. In addition to serving two terms as the poet laureate, he’d won practically every literary prize there was. He was openly gay and a prominent activist for LGBT rights.

  “Oh, I love Sal Dollinger!” Teddy squealed. “His book Grape was literally my bible. I read it at sixteen, and it was the perfect backdrop for my sexual awakening.”

  “Mine was Love Is a Dog from Hell,” said Jess.

  Penelope made a face. “Bukowski? Ugh.”

  Jess looked at her. “What’s your problem with Bukowksi?”

  “I can’t stand all that pulp fiction bullshit.”

  “What poets do you like, Penelope?”

  She shrugged. “Calmine Verdue.”

  “Who is that?” Jess asked.

  Penelope shot her an incredulous look. “You don’t know Calmine Verdue? He was a sixteenth-century poet, son of an English aristocrat—a genius! Wrote in complex stanzas that corresponded with prime numbers. His subject matter centered mainly on fractals, mirrors, and death. His greatest
masterpiece was his seminal poem written from the point of view of a worm making its way through the carcass of a wild boar.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Jess’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  “I find Verdue a bit dry. I don’t mind Bukowski, though,” Tom piped in. “Granted, he doesn’t have the best batting average, but when he gets it right, ball’s out of the park.”

  “Tom, we’ve discussed this! As far as I’m concerned, there is not an ounce of merit in his entire body of work. What’s more, he paved the way for the shit they’re calling poetry these days.”

  “You mean pop poetry?”

  She looked at him as though he had said a dirty word. “Pop poetry is not poetry; it’s—” She threw up her hands. “It’s something a monkey with a typewriter can do.”

  “Can a monkey with a typewriter sell millions of books?” Jess quizzed. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was a poetry snob.

  “Pop poetry is just a stupid fad—like coloring books for adults.”

  “Isn’t that what they said about Ginsberg and the whole Beat poetry movement?” Sash countered.

  “Are you seriously drawing that comparison?”

  “I don’t see why not. The Beat movement attracted the same criticism they’re heaping on pop poetry now. Maybe we just need to give it time before we call it.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes.

  “Verity writes poetry!” Jess blurted. “In fact, she’s just written her first book.”

  Penelope turned to me. “Really? Who’s your publisher?”

  I blushed. “Um, it’s sort of self-published.”

  She snickered.

  “Isn’t that the way most writers start out?” Teddy said kindly.

  “Someone’s going to pick her up—it’s just a matter of time,” said Jess.

  I flashed her a grateful smile.

  “Is your book on Reader, Verity?” Tom asked.

  “No—should it be?” I asked.

  Reader was an online platform where you could review and recommend books. I’d never gotten around to signing up and wondered whether it was time I did. It could be a great place to promote my poetry.