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.

[Legion]

"Poets seem to think any tingle in their toes is love." - I wasn't aware that that tingle was found in my toes. Too far south by my reckoning (or maybe not that far depending on how you look at it). :)

You are either a saint or a masochist. Funny stuff though. I don't see how you put up with all that, love or not. Heck, I can't even stand my own stuff. LOL Good write though. Wish that hadn't been my cappucino you put her hair in though. Cost me $5 for that you know. :)

[Fabian G. Franklin]

This was funny in a great many ways. I have never been to a poetry reading except my own and there were no bored wallflowers there. lol But I was invited as a solo performance. I think good poets are the most complicated and rare of species from Dylan Thomas to Bob Dylan. There are not too many singers at karaoke bars that can carry a tune either. lol Great little story here. On a spelling note, the word "chord" is spelled like this.

[Mark Pearce]

Fun read.

You captured an interesting relationship with it.

[Ken Simm.]

I can see him doing his Leonard Cohen bit now, dressed all in black with a little goatee. This is a wonderful write.

[Emily B]

Oh, this is awesome! I love it so much. . . Witty and fun and clever. I can't think who to share it with first!

[Erotic Goddess]

LOL! :) I loved this, and loved the revenge as well. Good for her! This one was really cute and fun to read.

~Stephanie

[FamliJules]

I love this - this first line is perfect. Barnes would get a kick out of it I think too. I have always wondered why Open Mic nights for Poetry always have coffee and for Comedy they always serve alcohol......should switch those.

[Pamela]

Thanks for this, I was really starting to despise poets and writers. I love the part about knocking her out so she can write a poem about it. Great lighthearted read, it made me laugh.