(Flashback) A Place for a Poet

[Blythe]

70 Fall, 505 AV

Blythe walked hurriedly, even though she didn't need to rush. She wasn't meeting anyone at the Starry Night, but, she felt rushed all the same. Some strange sense of urgency filling her entire body and urging her forward and to the poet's meeting place.

Eventually, the familiar, silver-stoned house came into view, and Blythe tightened her hold on her pack, she was almost there, she thought, as she further quickened her pace, watching as the two windows that dotted the building became more prominent, larger, more clearly displayed.

Blythe looked up to see a sign over the entrance, it read, "if you can imagine it, you can create it.” Blythe smiled, that quote was by one of the most famous poets in all of Mura. Blythe hoped to become just like her one day.

Blythe entered the front room, ignoring the sound of the bell ringing, alerting the empty room to her arrival. She looked past the storage boxes, and other things, heading straight for the door at the opposite end of the room. The door was decorated with all sorts of colors- blues, and greens, purples and browns, in all sorts of shapes. Blythe pushed the door's handle down, and found herself looking into a garden.

Blythe stepped inside the garden, shutting the door quietly behind her. She tightened her hold on her bag, and looked around. She found herself caught in the center of a vast arrangement of plants and small ponds. Tan and grey-colored pebbles weaved a path through the beauty that surrounded her.

Blythe, was speechless, no matter how many times she set her eyes on the place, she found that there was always something new, something that took her breath away. It was as though, each time she came to the Starry Night, she was looking in on a whole new place; a whole new garden ripe with plants and animals, only a pebble path leading the way here and back again; away from this majestic place.

Blythe took a few steps forward, making her way over a long, twisting green vine, with small purple flowers, and rounded, giant green leaves that had snaked its way across her path.

Blythe gently pushed away giant palm leaves, which tickled her face, and grew to heights the same as she or even taller. She walked slowly along the pebble path, making a crunching noise with each step, as she glanced all around her, allowing the sweet scent of honey and jasmine to fill her nostrils, creating a calm, and intensely peaceful high that she so rarely got to experience these days; or even, in all of her life.

Blythe made her way past giant purple flowers, with petals the size of her head, and flowing green leaves to a small pool of water, that was surrounded by small brown stones. Several small fish, of all sorts of colors- vibrant reds, yellows, greens, and pinks, with long, flowing fins swam happily around and around it in circles.

Blythe took off her bag, and set it on one of the brown stones that surrounded the small pool of water. She opened it, rummaging around for her journal and quill pen, before taking them out, closing the bag again, and setting the bag on the ground beside the pool of water.

Then, Blythe climbed onto one of the brown stones, and looked out at the clear water, her journal resting in her lap, the quill pen tucked inside. The sight of it all was positively breathtaking, and Blythe couldn't help but absent-mindedly swirl the fingers of her right hand through the water, forming tiny ripples that extended out of her fingers, and all around the water's surface, her actions scattering some of the more frightened fish away, while others swam up to her fingers, perhaps thinking that they were food. They nibbled her finger, which only made Blythe laugh because it tickled.

Blythe brought her fingers out of the water, looking down at it happily. It was just so beautiful. The remaining water on her fingertips dripped down, and back into the pool, like rain, wishing they'd dry off faster so that she could start writing, and not risk ruining her paper, she wiped her fingers off on her dress, making sure they were dried completely, before shifting her weight on the rock until she was comfortable, and opened her journal. She picked up it quill pen, and set out to write.

[Blythe]

Just then, a beautifully-colored hummingbird, with feathers of deep yellows, brown, and reds by its face, and purple, and blue-colored wings, and lime green around the body, a small dark blue tail, fluttered right in front of Blythe, reaching it's long beak into a pink flower, that draped down over the side of the pool of water from a nearby tree.

Blythe looked up at it, finding the creature to be rather majestic, perhaps she should write about it? Blythe thought as she watched it drink some of the flower's sweet nectar before beating its wings rapidly, emitting a low humming sound, and then flying away. Blythe watched it go, smiling sadly, before turning back to the water with all the tiny fish swimming about in circles.

Blythe opened up her bag, rummaging around for an old slice of bread. When she got hold of it, she broke it into tiny little pieces before throwing it into the water. Blythe watched as the fish opened their tiny mouths on the surface, wildly grabbing the bread crumbs, before swimming further down below with their catch, chewing thoughtfully, and then resurfacing for more, over and over again. Blythe laughed, finding the fish cute, and watching them until all of the bread crumbs had been consumed.

Some of the fish lingered, even after all the bread crumbs had left, and Blythe smiled down at them, "sorry, I don't have any more," and if hearing her, they swam away.

Blythe looked back down at her journal, the empty paper, the quill pen, poised and ready in her fingertips. But what to write? she wondered, looking all around her, mesmerized by just about everything, and unable to pick just one thing to focus on.

Must focus, she thought, maybe a quick meditation would help? Blythe thought, as she rested her journal and quill pen back on her bag, and took up the lotus position. She took a few deep, cleansing breaths, in through the nose, slowly out through the mouth. She allowed herself to feel her lungs filling up with air, feel them at their capacity, before letting the breath out and moving onto the next stage of the meditation.

Blythe continued to breath deeply, while lowly muttering the word, "ohm," over and over. Her eyes were shut tight, and the smell of jasmine filled her nostrils. "Ooooooohmmmmmm, Oooohhhhmmmmm," Blythe kept repeating and repeating for ten minutes until she felt cleansed, and restored, and slightly stiff for sitting so long in the same position.

Blythe opened her legs, and shifted her position, until she was comfortable once more. Her legs were more outstretched, but still bent at the knee. Blythe reached for her journal, opening it to the page her quill pen was tucked into. Enough fun and games, she thought, time to really get to work.

[Blythe]

Blythe picked up her quill pen, it hovered over the empty pages of her journal. She bit down on her bottom lip, wondering how to begin, before absently writing:

cream-colored petals
covered in glassy tears
the morning dew
that settles,
rests,
sleeps,
until the sun wakes them
calling them up to the sky

What? Blythe thought, not liking how that had turned out at all. Biting her bottom lip angrily, drawing a thin line of blood, she wished she was better at this. Better at simply coming up with the words, as opposed to receiving them all the time.

How about:

The sky calls
to the rain that falls
in uneven amounts
on several counts

No! No! No! Blythe shouted in her head, not even bothering to write the second miniature rhyming poem in her head. Oh how she loathed poems that rhymed, too cliche, she thought; felt, as she wrung her hands through her hair, balling her hands into fists, and clutching her hair inside. Keeping the blonde strands captive in her pale fingertips. How come she couldn't come up with anything, even when she was surrounded by so much beauty, majesty, serenity? Blythe wondered, before biting down on her lips again, the blood trickling slowly down her chin, before she wiped it away, and rubbed it into her fingers, giving it a pale red tint.

Why oh why couldn't she think? Blythe sat and wondered, full of frustration, before taking a minute to simply breath. Getting angry would not help her creative muse, she thought, as she breathed slowly in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth, over and over again until she finally began to feel a little less frustrated with herself, and her apparent lack of creativity today.

"Ahh... much better," Blythe whispered, as she took up her writing stance once more. Time to churn out a poetic work of art, Blythe thought. Before considering the lines:

on golden wings
it flies
high
in an arch
like the crescent moon

Blythe shook her head, definitely not, she thought, realizing that she liked her first attempt the most, minus the last few lines. Maybe she should try to revise it? She thought to herself as she looked back up at it again.

cream-colored petals
covered in glassy tears
the morning dew
that settles,
rests,
sleeps,
until the sun wakes them
calling them up to the sky

Hmmm.... she thought, before getting rid of the last few lines, so the poem now read:

cream-colored petals
covered in glassy tears
the morning dew
that settles,
rests,
sleeps

Now what should she write? Blythe wondered as her teeth eased up on her bottom lip, and she began to tickle it with the tip of the quill pen's feather. What to write what to write?

cream-colored petals
covered in glassy tears
the morning dew
that settles,
rests,
sleeps,
until awoken by...

Blythe's mind trailed off, until awoken by what exactly? she wondered.

[Blythe]

cream-colored petals
covered in glassy tears
the morning dew
that settles,
rests,
sleeps,
until awoken by
sun-kissed lips?

Blythe stared down at the page, not sure she liked that either, she tried a few other things:

the gentle touch? she didn't like that, the gentle embrace, was far better... although, she wasn't loving that phrase either. The sensual lips? Ughhhhh.... no way, she hated that one. The radiant rays? No. The pale yellow light? Ehhhhh, she could do better, Blythe thought, searching the inner reaches of her brain for the next line in her poem. The smiling face? Ehhh, maybe Blythe thought, still deep in thought, praying that her artistic muse would shine her light soon enough, and guide Blythe through this poem.

cream-colored petals
covered in glassy tears
the morning dew
that settles,
rests,
sleeps,
until awoken by....

morning's light? No. Morning's embrace? Sill no. Blythe sighed, she had to think of something soon; surely she'd come up with something soon. Rose-scented lips? No. The gentle hum of a bird? Blythe didn't like that either. Why was she struggling so much, just to come up with a single line? Blythe wondered, as she reflected on the list of possible lines she had already written down, deciding that if she didn't pick something, and soon, she'd be obsessing over it all day, and would never get anything done. Even though she wasn't in love with any of her past ideas, it was better than letting herself get stuck in a proverbial artistic quicksand, incapable of moving forward. Besides, not all poems sounded perfect. Wasn't that what truly made them beautiful?

Blythe looked over the list she had made, setting on the line, "the gentle embrace." Her poem now read:

cream-colored petals
covered in glassy tears
the morning dew
that settles,
rests,
sleeps,
until awoken by
the gentle embrace....

What next, Blythe wondered, as she looked up and all around her. The tiny fish were still swimming around in circles in the pool beside her, and the whole garden smelled strongly of several different types of flowers- jasmine, roses, lilacs.... Blythe smiled. She wanted to write about it all, channel all of these things and their energy into a poem, if only she had the time, or the skill, she thought, looking back down at the partially empty page before her. What should come after the line, "the gentle embrace," she wondered.

Thinking about it for a moment, before writing, "of warm sunlight dancing." The poem now read:

cream-colored petals
covered in glassy tears
the morning dew
that settles,
rests,
sleeps,
until awoken by
the gentle embrace
of warm sunlight dancing

Blythe wrote on...

across its soft,
velvet petals,
licking away its tears,
drying them in an intense
sensual heat
like two passionate lovers
having been kept from each other's
arms for too long.

[Blythe]

cream-colored petals
covered in glassy tears
the morning dew
that settles,
rests,
sleeps,
until awoken by
the gentle embrace
of warm sunlight dancing
across its soft,
velvet petals,
licking away its tears,
drying them in an intense
sensual heat
like two passionate lovers
having been kept from each other's
arms for too long.

It seemed to be complete enough, Blythe thought, before wondering if she should name her work. She glanced over the poem one more time, before deciding that she didn't want to name it.

Blythe looked up from her journal, the quill pen wedged in between its pages. A large butterfly, about the size of the palm of Blythe's hand, fluttered across the area just in front of her. It had pale pink wings, outlined in black. Blythe watched it, wondering how such a delicate creature could manage to exist in such a harsh and cruel world, not like Mura was a particularly dangerous place, it was just, the elements, and Blythe wondered how such a tiny thing could manage. Blythe sighed, she supposed she would never know for sure.

Blythe looked down at her journal again, running her hands over the smooth paper. It had the distinct smell of a well-used book, and the edges of some of the pages were now frayed, and others had a slightly yellow, and aged tint to them. But Blythe didn't mind. She felt as though these flaws gave the journal character, and after all, it served its purpose. It held her thoughts, her poems. It was as reliable as any other journal, wasn't it? Blythe laughed, smiling down at her grandmother's gift to her, wondering what she would come up with next.

Blythe stared down at the paper, maybe:

a misty maze,
a fiery haze,
leaves me in a daze.

Blehhhhhhhhhh. Blythe hated rhymes. She viciously scratched the poem out of her mind. No rhymes no rhymes no rhymes! Blythe scolded herself, before taking a deep breath and trying again:

on broken beak
its wings flap furiously
trying to outrun
the waning moon
before the night sky falls too
to the shining sun
the light of day

Wow! Where did that come from? Blythe wondered, as she quickly wrote it all down, before she could forget. She had no idea where the idea for that particular poem came from, having seen no other birds that day, other than the hummingbird. Perhaps it was something important? Something sent to her from Avalis? she thought, as she looked over it again and again, trying to make some sense out of it, but completely incapable of doing so.

Hmmmmm.... she thought, giving the poem one last, cursory glance, before turning to the next blank page in her journal, and making a mental note to come back to that poem later.

[Blythe]

Blythe sighed, taking a cursory glance at her surroundings. The area was strangely quiet now. Not that it had been particularly loud before, it was just, eerily quiet now.

Blythe looked over at the pool of water next to her, all of the fish seemed to be hiding in the farthest reaches of its confines. She frowned, wonder what frightened them? Or what is so interesting over there? Blythe shrugged, looking down at the blank sheet of paper, her quill pen resting in between her fingertips, ready to record whatever thoughts popped into her mind.

Blythe cleared her throat, a sticky clump had lodged itself there, and was growing more and more uncomfortable. "ehhemm.... hmmehem," was the noise she made, before she wrote the words:

into open arms
the lilac runs

Heh? Blythe stared, positively perplexed, at the page. Why don't we just ignore that one? Shall we? Blythe thought to herself, as she thought-up the lines:

dagger-lined
eyelids
with darkened
fine black hairs
long lashes

Yeah, no, she thought, shaking her head back and forth as if to shake out all the bad poetry. As though such a thing could fall right out of her ears. Blythe sighed. What now?

purple raindrops
fallen from darkened skies

Blythe threw that one out of the proverbial window. No! No! No! she thought, certainly she could do better.

[Blythe]

In the dead of night
the flakes will fall
a glittering white
they will flutter
to the cold, hard ground
of dark mud and grass fronds
they will sleep
until morning
when they will melt
into nothingness
being lost to the soil
until called back up to the sky
by the sun's warm embrace
each of its rays
guiding them with their never-ending light

Much better! Blythe thought as she smiled down happily at her poem, before shutting her journal with a low thud. She smiled triumphantly, feeling good about her time in the Starry Night, having had written something that may one day, reach the eyes of several citizens of Mizahar.

[Alice]

Blythe

Experience: 2 Observation, 1 Animal Husbandry, 1 Meditation, 5 Poetry Writing
Lores: The Starry Night, Feeding Fish, Meditating for Focus, Judging One’s Poems, Revising a Poem, Struggling with The Last Line, Drawing Inspiration from One’s Surroundings, Avoiding Rhymes, Writing Bad Poetry

Comments

Thanks for a beautiful read! I love your poems. The nature descriptions sound so elegant and light. They very much suit the Konti’s peaceful personality. You’ve also described the Starry Night quite well. Good work!