By Nasta Levine

Everybody makes poetry. It might not be on display, it might not even be on paper, but everybody has moments of trying to “express the inexpressible”. Resorting to clichés is an easy way, as is internally commenting upon the poetry of others. It may be fragments, moments, reflections. Conversely, it may be developed over days, a stanza or line reverberating in the author’s head for minutes – or miles – in contemplation. The latter sort of poetry is carved out of hours, incubated within a human being to sometimes emerge precious and to be recorded carefully by hand.

It was this sort of treasured text that he gave me, a story that came from days of thinking, a story on the theme of trust, about the relations between one person and another, and between one person and him/her self. He’d been discussing the writing process with me over the past days, taking each of my suggestions with great thanks, but had never shown me the resulting words. It was the first time in years that he had made the decision to write, though he had been intending on doing so for as long. I was the only person he spoke of it to, and the only person he showed.

I sat with him on that same bed I sat as a child, the room smelled of his things and splayed out all his past in stacks of books and paper. I sat with an irritation: there was something always displeasingly atemporal about this room. Adult now, I was used to changes, to expecting and effecting them and…he was not. I took up the page he offered, him smiling nervously, earnestly at me; he thanked me for looking over his poetry like he had thanked me for my input earlier. Even that makes it only semi-worthwhile for me to be here and to go over whatever-it-is he’s made, even though my moral code emphasises the good of helping the needy. But in the background, I’m thinking, “What’s the use? Can he really relay anything to me when he’s stagnating here in his parents’ house?”

Just as I thought: not. The story went nowhere, there was little character development, the dialogue was unrealistic, the whole thing was just a jumble of concepts recycled from things I knew he had read, with crude unsubtle literary devices. Just as predicted. I cocked my head to deliver this news to him, running in my mind the various ways to phrase it. I felt delighted with myself. How best to phrase it? They all seemed tempting and the more biting ones would surely be the most effective for expressing my disdain for his situation. It wasn’t good. He wasn’t good. That was the point, and it was never so clear as now. It’s what I wanted to express – but the story was in my hands, and I could almost feel that expectant smile of his. It would have been too cruel for me myself to smile, but inside I was delighted.

“Heh. Well, I read it.”

“And? What did you think?”

“You want me to be honest?” I smiled when his expression became anxious.

“Well yes. But don’t be too harsh, I haven’t written anything really for a long time,” he added carefully.

I seized this. “You want me to be honest without being harsh? Heh.” Now he was really starting to worry. Wonderful!

“Okay fine.” Backing down. “Tell me what you think.” Bracing himself.

“Well, heh, I don’t really know what to say. I mean I know it’s your first time writing for a while and everything, but…” I trailed off, deadpan; I relished his alarm. Oh, I realised my cruelty, even now as a writer I felt empathy for this complete subversion of him and his offspring text. I was being my own antagonist; playing in the worst way I could imagine someone doing to me. But he was silent – and let me carry on.

“Being honest, I can’t believe I’ve spent the time to read this! You want me to be honest, right? This is just reusing loads of your influences – sure, they might be quite distinct – but there’s very little originality in here. You’re just stuck in the past, reusing the same old things. You could be trying something new, something really new. That’s what I’d do. But you’re just reusing the same words. You just can’t move on to the future can you? Look around you! How long has that been there? It’s your attitude to life in general, you pick out something you like and you stick to it. But it gets stale. I mean, look at all these literary devices, these self-references. It’s been done. In my opinion, I don’t really think it’s worth you pursuing this. But that’s just my opinion.”

Despite the ending, that utterance marked the blow of no return, violent as any transgression. The inward emotions of shame, futility and betrayal: I despised everything: myself, my story, oh and her – her who I invited to read around my mind, and who had deceived herself that she was being helpful when she was painfully callous. I could not protest – yet – I was almost trembling.

She carried on. “Look at this. Far too self-reflective and convoluted! I’m lost already by this point.” But she was enjoying this. “Sure you’ve made it clear at the start – ‘express the inexpressible’ is a cliché, and then you mentioned clichés in the next sentence. But all it shows is that you couldn’t find a real way to express the inexpressible. You failed, and you highlighted your failure! Heh. And I haven’t even got to the end yet! You think you’re being so clever. ‘A story about the relations between one person and another’? Come on now!”

“And also between one person and him/her self,” I reminded her. “You’re not even a real antagonist. You’re a figment, a fragment I let you read about; I carried you in my head for days, and I wrote you in. Heh. You thought my dialogue was ‘unrealistic’, what will you say now that I’ve declared you a fiction? I haven’t even finished writing yet.”

She stood still, horrified and confused.

“This is enough!” I told her. “I let you run with my thoughts for a while, but I am the Author, as I always was – now, I am the narrator too, and the character. And reader. And what are you now? Nothing but a reference. You may be right on some accounts, but I do enjoy self-reference immensely, I do enjoy irony. It all fits in. It’s not as perfect as you’re used to reading, but everybody starts somewhere. It’s not as original as you hoped it would be and it’s strongly influenced, but that’s based on the assumption that everyone works in a vacuum!”

“What are you going to do to me?” she asked eventually.

“Oh, I won’t turn you into a cloud of butterflies – although that would be fun, just because I can.” I let her think that over! “No, you are of use. Progress must be made – but don’t be over-zealous. Here’s the moral of this story. (How unsubtle, you’re right, but how enjoyable for me!) The old must go hand-in-hand with the new and you can’t rid yourself of the past, you have to adapt it in new ways. After all, nothing will be achieved if you persistently chase after the new, every time you catch something it will surely too become of the past; but neither is it right to stay locked in old habits. A balance must be struck – and I think I’m doing at least something of the sort here now. We must trust. We can’t judge the other completely by our own standards. You might say that you can judge it from your own standard just fine, but you’ll never shake me off completely.”

“Resign myself to co-dependency, then?”

“Resignation is acceptance. Both are wise on an unsound course. There is no sense in division; we are both the Author.”

“Potential to Author, sure. But – we are divided, and I have voice now.”

“As you said, the story goes nowhere.”