Episode 50 – Bloody poets...

Beth is seriously considering forming a SL Group called “No Poets” so she can have the label hovering over head when she goes out. This might give them an unequivocal message, perhaps dissuading them from bothering her or following her home. Now let’s get one thing straight right from the start. Beth is a big SL girl now – she knows there are people in here indulging in all sorts of sensuous, wicked and licentious activities – poetry being one of them. And she is a tolerant person. She knows there are a lot of people out there wanting to write poetry – and a lot of people who want to read it. She has no problem with the fact that these people need to meet up in order to indulge. And knows to expect a certain degree of ‘checking out’ in public places. She doesn’t mind people flicking a few stanzas around on Local Chat to ‘test the waters’. She understands that she might receive the odd IM from some misguided soul who imagines she might be ‘up for it’. She knows there are poetry clubs. She knows there are group readings. Heck, we were all young once – Beth freely admits she has tried poetry herself. But it’s not for her. Beth knows there is a place for poetry in any and all worlds. But she is never going to respond well to a direct encounter with an actual poet. Especially this kind:

Beth was returning from the Blarney Stone after seeing Joaquin Gustav – a fabulous French guitarist who is most certainly on her recommended list of things to do in SL. She was buoyed up on Guinness and in a splendid mood, humming along to the catchy Spanish tune Joaquin had encored with. Then the IM came…
He “Hi Beth. I hear you are a writer. Would you like to see my poem?”
She “Oh, hi N…. Um, I’m really not a great one for poems”
He “I’d like to show it to you”
Beth is getting a bad feeling already. What is it with some guys and this urgent need to have you look at their poems?
She “Hey, really N…. I’d be the worst person to ask. I’m no poet”
He “I’d really appreciate it if you could take a look. I’d like your opinion”
Beth had heard of embarrassing incidents where poets had forgotten to check their avatars after a reading session – and had left the building with their poems still poking out for all to see (and accepted it as just one of those things that happens in SL, something everyone can have a good laugh about) But Beth is not prepared to indulge someone who wants to thrust his poem in her face, unbidden
She “Really It wouldn’t be fair to give you a critique. I’m not the person to ask”
He “Its long”
She “I’m sure its enormously long, N…. And I can tell you’re really very proud of it”
He “Lots of other writers want to see it”
Beth groans at where such illogic and misdirection might cast up. She glances round for an escape route.
He “I can send you a copy – I have it on a notecard”
Beth’s stomach turns at the thought of a copy of this guy’s gnarly ol’ poem turning up top right on her pc screen. Honestly, don’t they get it? She knew it wouldn’t be anything special. They never are. As far as Beth is concerned, you’ve seen one poem – you’ve seen them all.
She “Thanks everso for the offer N…. I’m sure it’s really nice. But straight out – I don’t want to see a copy of your poem”
He “It’s a romantic poem. I really think you might like it. Please take a look”
Beth throws up a little bit in the back of her mouth. Beth is proud of her live-and-let-live approach to most stuff life throws at her. She prides herself on being able to hunt down a rational explanation for most things. But when it comes to romanticism, she runs up against a total no-no. Beth has to get away. And now...



She “N…. Somewhere out there is a woman who is gonna love your poem and will read it for hours. But seriously, you haven’t met her tonight. I do, however, wish you all the best with it”
And with the briefest “Gotta go” Beth whooshed off to the Botanical Gardens. She stared into the waterfall until she had washed away the lingering, slightly malodorous image in her head of this wretched creature: dishevelled, ratty-haired, standing with his limp poem dangling between his fingers – a pathetic and pitiable creature who probably deserved sympathy and understanding. Beth tried, but she couldn’t muster it. “Nah,” she thought. “Bloody poets…”



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