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  1. #1
    Bassim is online now Senior Member
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    Default The Poet, part eleven

    This is the eleventh part of my short story, "The Poet". Please would you correct my mistakes.

    Waiting made me restless. I tried to write poetry, but when I sat at the table with the writing machine in front of me, my mind went numb. Words did not want to come out, for some reason. My mind was with my “children”, and I was eager to meet them again, to hold them between the covers of my book. I could not stay in the flat for a long time and went outside and walked away from this dismal suburb and its inhabitants, many of whom had lost hope for the better future. I would walk in the part of the city where successful people had built their homes and lived their lives surrounded by well-groomed gardens, clean streets and people who took care of their bodies and clothes. It was always quiet and peaceful; even the dogs seemed to have lost their ability to bark and howl. Through the open windows, you could not hear people shouting at each other and quarrelling like in my suburb but quiet classical music by Mozart, Beethoven or List. How I wished to live here, how I dreamed about having my own house, sitting in my garden under the trees in blossom and writing poetry. “This is the perfect place to raise children,” I told myself, and I suddenly wanted to marry and have a family. It would be wonderful to have small children scampering around, and a loyal wife taking care of our home. I was daydreaming, but I was also aware that one published book could lead to many more after that. Although I was never interested in profit, if need be, I would write day and night to fulfil my dream. I had a strong will and almost a limitless imagination, which would never leave me in the lurch.

    One morning I was eating my breakfast and listening to the radio when I heard a literary critic talking about the sensation. The Prime Minister had just published his first book of poetry which contained such original, impressive, and inspirational poems, seldom seen in contemporary poetry. The critic was throwing epithets, and still admitted that words were not enough to describe the quality of The Prime Minister’s poetry. This was poetry which went straight to readers' hearts and stayed there forever. These were the verses which spoke to every human being and filled them with strong emotions, even if they do not usually read poetry. To illustrate what he meant, he read the poem titled “Ultimatum” in which the poet has to choose between his wife and poetry. In the end, the poet chooses poetry, because the wife will inevitably become old and ugly while his poetry will always remain young and beautiful. I had not paid much attention to his praising of the Prime Minister’s verses, but when I heard the poem, I immediately recognized my own poem with the same title, which I had written a few years ago. “How dared he to steal my poem?” I shouted. He promised to help me, but instead behaved like a petty thief. I jumped from my chair and started looking for a telephone number I got from Mr Katz when he contacted me the first time. It took me a while to find it, but when I called the number, I could only hear the ringing on the other end and then the line was disconnected. I tried a few more times and then gave up. I was furious and was prepared to walk all the way to the Prime Minister’s residence and tell him to his face what I was thinking of him, but I knew that his guards would stop me even before I had a chance to see him.

    I dressed quickly and run outside. I was angry at the Prime Minister, but above all I was angry at myself. How could I have been so naive? How could I have forgotten what people used to say about politics and politicians? “Don’t trust politicians!” I had heard the warning hundreds of times and yet I ignored it. And now my lovely poems were in the hands of a cunning man, who would do anything to promote himself and ensure success for himself and his party in the coming elections.
    I rushed into the nearby library and picked up all the daily papers. I sat down and open the first one at the book section. There I saw the cover of the Prime Minister’ book. He was smiling wryly at me from his three-quarter portrait, painted in oil, in which he appeared at least ten years younger than he really was. The background was dark, and above the Prime Minister’s head there was a title emblazoned in red, “Secretes from the Past.” At the bottom of the cover was printed the poet’s name in white “George”. The author of the article was describing the Prime Minister’s poetry as extraordinary. His ability to create a new world completely different from politics, the establishment and the ordinary was admirable. To illustrate his point, the critic quoted the poem titled “Separation” in which a young boy laments his parent’s divorce and the loss of his father. It is Saturday afternoons which bring him particular pain. Before, there were football matches, and now just a great emptiness. Reading the poem filled me with rage again. This was one of the first poems I had written on the writing machine and the Prime Minster had stolen it also. I read more articles, discovering more poems which were all my own, and I was devastated. Without my poems I was nothing. I had no reason to exist any more. I could not imagine waking up every morning and knowing that my poetry and I would be separated for ever. They were in the hands of that despicable man, and I had nobody to help me or protect me. I was just another misfit and a burden for society, whose words had no weight with the authorities. I decided to kill myself as soon as I left the library. I would walk to the railway, await the first train, and jump in front of it. Then my eyes caught an advertisement for the book signing. It called lovers of poetry and other readers to meet the Prime Minister and get his book signed. The event was at 7 p.m. in the largest bookshop in the city. A small notice at the bottom also said that the book must be purchased in the shop before signing. My mood immediately brightened. I was going to spend my last money for this month and be without food, but I was going to meet him and look straight into his eyes. I knew that he would be well protected by his guards and the police, but I was not afraid. I had the truth on my side, while he was a man without a conscience.

    I dressed in the same clothes I had on me when I visited the Prime Minister’s residence a few months ago. I did it on purpose and wanted to be recognized by him as soon as I entered the bookshop. I did not have money to buy a bus ticket and walked more than a half an hour until I came to the bookshop. There were three police cars parked nearby and some police officers walking up and down the street. A police dog was sniffing around, searching for explosives. I took my place in the queue, which was long, although the doors of the bookshop were still closed. In the shop window were displayed enlarged photographs of the The Prime Minister, whose eyes and smile enticed people to come inside and buy his book. A crowd of journalists waited on the other side of the street, taking pictures of people who were arriving. Apparently some people were jumping on the bandwagon and using this opportunity to promote themselves: politicians, celebrities, artists, authors. Many of them were never interested in poetry, let alone read one single poem, but this evening they all were climbing Mount Parnassus.

    To be continued.

  2. #2
    Gillnetter is offline Key Member
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    Default Re: The Poet, part eleven

    Quote Originally Posted by Bassim View Post
    This is the eleventh part of my short story, "The Poet". Please would you correct my mistakes.

    Waiting made me restless. I tried to write poetry, but when I sat at the table with the writing machine in front of me, my mind went numb. Words did not want to come out, for some reason. My mind was with my “children”, and I was eager to meet them again, to hold them between the covers of my book. I could not stay in the flat for a long time and went outside and walked away from this dismal suburb and its inhabitants, many of whom had lost hope for the a (a better future is anything better than what the present is. The better future doesn't work here unless something else is added - "...had lost for for the better future promised them") better future. I would walk in the part of the city where successful people had built their homes and lived their lives surrounded by well-groomed gardens, clean streets and people who took care of their bodies and clothes. It was always quiet and peaceful; even the dogs seemed to have lost their ability to bark and howl. Through the open windows, you could not hear people shouting at each other and quarrelling like in my suburb but quiet classical music by Mozart, Beethoven or List. How I wished to live here, how I dreamed about having my own house, sitting in my garden under the trees in blossom and writing poetry. “This is the perfect place to raise children,” I told myself, and I suddenly wanted to marry and have a family. It would be wonderful to have small children scampering around, and a loyal wife taking care of our home. I was daydreaming, but I was also aware that one published book could lead to many more after that. Although I was never interested in profit, if need be, I would write day and night to fulfil my dream. I had a strong will and almost a limitless imagination, which would never leave me in the lurch.

    One morning I was eating my breakfast and listening to the radio when I heard a literary critic talking about the new sensation. The Prime Minister had just published his first book of poetry which contained such original, impressive, and inspirational poems, seldom seen in contemporary poetry. The critic was throwing epithets, and still admitted that words were not enough to describe the quality of The Prime Minister’s poetry. This was poetry which went straight to readers' hearts and stayed there forever. These were the verses which spoke to every human being and filled them with strong emotions, even if they do not usually read poetry. To illustrate what he meant, he read the poem titled “Ultimatum” in which the poet has to choose between his wife and poetry. In the end, the poet chooses poetry, because the wife will inevitably become old and ugly while his poetry will always remain young and beautiful. I had not paid much attention to his praising of the Prime Minister’s verses, but when I heard the poem, I immediately recognized my own poem with the same title, which I had written a few years ago. “How dared he to steal my poem?” I shouted. He promised to help me, but instead behaved like a petty thief. I jumped from my chair and started looking for a telephone number I got from Mr Katz when he contacted me the first time. It took me a while to find it, but when I called the number, I could only hear the ringing on the other end and then the line was disconnected. I tried a few more times and then gave up. I was furious and was prepared to walk all the way to the Prime Minister’s residence and tell him to his face what I was thinking (or, what I thought of him) of him, but I knew that his guards would stop me even before I had a chance to see him.

    I dressed quickly and run ran outside. I was angry at the Prime Minister, but above all I was angry at myself. How could I have been so naive? How could I have forgotten what people used to say about politics and politicians? “Don’t trust politicians!” I had heard the warning hundreds of times and yet I ignored it. And now my lovely poems were in the hands of a cunning man, who would do anything to promote himself and ensure success for himself and his party in the coming elections.
    I rushed into the nearby library and picked up all the daily papers. I sat down and open the first one at the book section. There I saw the cover of the Prime Minister’ book. He was smiling wryly at me from his three-quarter portrait, painted in oil, in which he appeared at least ten years younger than he really was. The background was dark, and above the Prime Minister’s head there was a title emblazoned in red, “Secretes from the Past.” At the bottom of the cover was printed the poet’s name in white “George”. The author of the article was describing the Prime Minister’s poetry as extraordinary. His ability to create a new world completely different from politics, the establishment and the ordinary was admirable. To illustrate his point, the critic quoted the poem titled “Separation” in which a young boy laments his parent’s divorce and the loss of his father. It is Saturday afternoons which bring him particular pain. Before, there were football matches, and now just a great emptiness. Reading the poem filled me with rage again. This was one of the first poems I had written on the writing machine and the Prime Minster had stolen it also. I read more articles, discovering more poems which were all my own, and I was devastated. Without my poems I was nothing. I had no reason to exist any more. I could not imagine waking up every morning and knowing that my poetry and I would be separated for ever. They were in the hands of that despicable man, and I had nobody to help me or protect me. I was just another misfit and a burden for (for or, on. On is more common) society, whose words had no weight with the authorities. I decided to kill myself as soon as I left the library. I would walk to the railway, await the first train, and jump in front of it. Then my eyes caught an advertisement for the book signing. It called lovers of poetry and other readers to meet the Prime Minister and get his book their books signed. The event was at 7 p.m. in the largest bookshop in the city. A small notice at the bottom also said that the book must be purchased in the shop before signing. My mood immediately brightened. I was going to spend my last money for this month and be without food, but I was going to meet him and look straight into his eyes. I knew that he would be well protected by his guards and the police, but I was not afraid. I had the truth on my side, while he was a man without a conscience.

    I dressed in the same clothes I had on me when I visited the Prime Minister’s residence a few months ago. I did it on purpose and wanted to be recognized by him as soon as I entered the bookshop. I did not have money to buy a bus ticket and walked more than a half an hour until I came to the bookshop. There were three police cars parked nearby and some police officers walking up and down the street. A police dog was sniffing around, searching for explosives. I took my place in the queue, which was long, although the doors of the bookshop were still closed. In the shop window were displayed enlarged photographs of the The Prime Minister, whose eyes and smile enticed people to come inside and buy his book. A crowd of journalists waited on the other side of the street, taking pictures of people who were arriving. Apparently some people were jumping on the bandwagon and using this opportunity to promote themselves: politicians, celebrities, artists, authors. Many of them were never interested in poetry, let alone read one single poem, but this evening they all were climbing Mount Parnassus.

    To be continued.
    What a rat this Prime Minister is! This part reads very well.
    Gil

  3. #3
    Bassim is online now Senior Member
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    Default Re: The Poet, part eleven

    Dear Gil,

    Thank you again for your great work.
    The President is a real crook, but he is also a politician, and uses every opportunity to win more votes and more sympathy from the public.

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