A Poet's tale


A Poet's tale There used to live a poet. In a magical town outside time, with orange roofs and tiny streets somewhere in the Shire. He would collect his little coins every morning, and have coffee, with his dog. He loved her very much. He would even get up early to take her for a walk. She loved him too. As only a dog can. She did not understand why he was so depressed and angry all the time. He didn't really understand it either. He blamed on his ancestors, or collective consciousness, or entities, or what not. He was never out of reasons to be sad or mad or both. He had a woman in his life. She loved him, or better put she tried to love him. He Loved her too. In his own way. But the Truth is : He did not know how to be loved, nor did he really know Love. Except in the grand epic larger than life stories, where he could steal the world and the stars to save his beloved from this or that real or imagined great danger. They fought a lot. None of them really knew why. They would give the world for each other. She was angry because he was immature, And he was angry, because he did his best to be something he just wasn't. Because he believed that would somehow make her happy. He honesty did want to make her happy. And he did once or twice a year for a few hours, with this or that grand gesture. It didn't really work. Be could love the dog and tried to love HER properly too. But despite his best attempts , poetry, the magic, and his grand designs he just wasn't able to. Not the way SHE needed to be loved. And he thought to himself, that it could be worse. Since it had been worse. A lot worse to be honest. Despite his grand ideas about himself, and proclamations how free he was, he kept repeating the old ancestral patterns. He lived the only way he knew how to live, while desperately trying to live otherwise. He changed some jobs, traveled to far away lands, thinking maybe that would help. And somehow he could be, what he thought he needed to be. It didn't work. The kind café owner served coffee and allowed him to be in his silence. He was grateful to him. He always appreciated the silent kindness given to him by kind elders, even a bit older and a bit wiser than himself. Or so he thought. He admired virtue in others, but could not really appreciate it in himself. Then one day the plague came. They couldn't decide whether it was plague or nor. He did know either. He just kept trying to install windows in the land across the north border. Which he failed miserably. But he needed the money, And it gave him a purpose. And he had to pay off his debts and finance his next grand adventure. He kept walking the dog. Smiling at passers-by and writing his poetry. And kicking ass (well mostly getting his ass kicked, but with kindness) with his samurai bunch. One day he just had enough. And he knew it. He bought the ticket, boarded the plane and somehow arrived to Tir Na Nog. Supposedly he is still there, writing his poetry, hanging out with the Tuatha and the Fair folk. He has a dog to walk, and the spring replaced winter. He is looking back at his life, which he left behind and knows he cannot return to. At least not in a way he it was. But then Zen master said, that one has to let go or be dragged. He chose to let go. And all that was left behind him were footprints in the clouds. Poetry keeps coming though. Or so I heard. So maybe it was not so bad of an idea after all


(c) 2021 Samo Bohak

Dundalk, March 2021





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