Writers' Retreat

I was nervous - entirely out of place
I wanted to jump out of the window and
run into the Scottish highlands but instead -

I showed you what I had written, my trembling
fingers clutched the corners of my story
and you asked if I wrote out of experience
I lied and said I didn’t
I don't like to be judged

And then during dinner
You announced to them – all of them

The alcoholic film director
The lesbian cruise-ship singer
The chatty woman with half a face
The man with Parkinson’s disease
The talented guy - always on K
And the not so talented nurse

You announced to them
that I was important
that I was a writer

And suddenly their faces
looked at mine

Their conversations about Kafka and modern
day politics - stopped - their eyes
meant for hunting down anyone willing to listen
pointed towards me searching for something
that wasn’t there before.

The director passed the salt as if to
suggest we were now related and the
Ketamine addict told me my hair looked
real pretty tonight

You see,
what you said to the table
it simply, made me feel
special

An intention was given to my life
the plot was sharpened and words
carried that comforting weight
that comes with meaning rather than
running without purpose across
a blank page

My feet felt more secure
I unwound them from under the table

My hands didn’t tremble
I unraveled my sweaty fingers
and placed them on my lap

It was a feeling
that hauled me out of
the dark corners of
teenage angst - suddenly
I wasn’t so afraid
of being centre stage

But now -
I’m sitting here
surrounded by
a dozen
coffee mugs
some warm, some old
trying to find
poetry in
circles of
white fuzzy mould

And my limbs begin to tremble - again
as I balance the blotchy pen underneath
my chin and ink splashes all over
colourless skin

I don’t feel so important or very
secure – there aren’t any Scottish highlands
to run into as I try to live up ...

Try to live up to what you said
about my writing, to everyone there

But I can’t
find many words
if any at all.