The Green Man (26 page)

“To begin with, I’d like to thank you all for coming. I’m very happy to be here with you. As some of you may already know, the past few months have been something of a trial by fire for our little group. And, as you can see, I have not escaped entirely unscathed.” She held up her bandaged arms, eliciting some quiet, uncomfortable laughter. “But I’m pleased to tell you tonight that those troubles appear to be over. My good friend and fellow poet Leonard Wellman has some exciting news he would like to share.”

Leonard came up and stood beside her. “Good evening. It’s great to see such a large turnout. I’m glad you could come. I think I echo everyone’s sentiments when I say how delighted I am that the Tuesdays have resumed. For a good many years now, these meetings have been a source
of support and inspiration for poets young and old and for all who value poetry.

“As a young man fresh out of school with a passion for writing poetry, I can well remember feeling I was some freak of nature, alone in the world. The Tuesdays have shown me that we are not alone, or if we are, we are alone together.

“Some months back, when the continued existence of our little group seemed to hang in the balance, I approached the local arts council with a request for an operating grant. I’m pleased to announce tonight that the Caledon Arts Council has awarded us that grant. And so, for the foreseeable future at least, the wolf is no longer at the door. And the Tuesdays at the Green Man will go on.”

There was heartfelt applause. Leonard gave Emily a kiss on the cheek and returned to his seat. Emily smiled down at her hands in her shy way and waited for the applause to die down.

“It is somehow fitting that this wonderful news should come to us now,” she said. “For it was twenty-five years ago this month that Leonard and I and a small group of others initiated these readings. None of us at the time ever dreamt they would continue this long.

“Styles have changed over the years. Voices have changed. But many things remain the same. Writing is a lonely business, and writing poetry is perhaps the loneliest
kind of writing. No one gets rich writing poetry. But that’s not the reason one does it.

“You write because you must – because, for whatever reason, you have fallen in love with words – with the taste of them on the tongue, the feel of them flowing through the pen, the sight of them on the page. And as long as this world retains its mystery and wonder, there will be those who continue to fall beneath the spell.

“I have grown old in this work, but the spirit leaps in me still. If we are to keep the spirit of poetry strong, there must be new voices to come and take up the task, poets who bring their youth, their passion, and their vision to this age-old craft. Poetry is many things, but above all else, it is the constantly renewed vision of hope. To that end, I am pleased to present to you tonight a young woman ready to take up the torch. I give you – Ophelia Endicott.”

Right up until Emily said her name, O had been searching the room for the young new voice Emily was going on about. Now, as applause filled the air and heads turned to her, she felt her heart pound and her cheeks burn. Gathering her manuscript from where she’d tucked it on a nearby shelf, she made her way to the stage. She set the sheets down on the podium and glanced nervously over the group.

“Thank you,” she said. “When I told my aunt I might read tonight, she failed to mention that she might call
me up first. I’ll have to talk to her about that a little later. I have a couple of things I’d like to share with you. Both were written this summer and both, I suppose, are about poetry.”

She cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and began to read the “Garden Sculpture” poem. When she finished, she glanced apprehensively down at the audience. There was Emily, beaming up at her. Beside her, Leonard Wellman was giving her the thumbs-up sign. Miles was there as well, and beside him Gigi was sitting with Tiny from the Mind Spider – both, in their own way, poets themselves. For wherever something was done with grace and beauty, there was poetry.

Sitting sedately to the side was Isaac Steiner, who’d been such a help in the difficult weeks following the fire. He had witnessed with them the remarkable change that the carriage-house books had undergone during that time. The smell of mildew and damp that had seeped deep into them, and which nothing they did seemed able to remove, had mysteriously faded. Rippled pages had flattened, and the foxy brown spots that marred many of the books had disappeared. It was as though they’d been under a spell that had suddenly been lifted. Emily decided to donate several of the miraculously restored volumes to the university for Dr. Steiner’s research. She was adding the remainder to her private collection as a
nest egg against whatever surprises the future might send her way.

The room was full, but there were guests the others couldn’t see. Tucked in a corner at the back, Mallarmé was smoking one of his delicate French cigarettes. Pound was stroking his beard and staring intently at the ceiling. Miss Dickinson was nestled quietly in the shadows, the whisper of a smile on her face.

O’s eye drifted to the doorway. And there stood Rimbaud, leaning against the door frame, looking at her through those dark heavy-lidded eyes of his. His hands were pushed deep into his pockets, and his hair was rumpled. He gave her that crooked little grin, and something inside her melted. Emily followed her gaze and saw him standing there too. She turned to O and gave her a nod to let her know they were waiting for her to read her second poem.

“Thank you very much,” said O. “Now the title of this next poem will, I’m sure, have a familiar ring to it. It’s called ‘The Green Man.’ ”

Up until then, she had been reading from the sheet, afraid the words would slip from her mind as she stood on the stage. But as she started up again now, she recited the poem purely from memory. The words came slow and sure. She lingered over each before she let it go. There were plenty of people in the room, but this was meant especially for one.

In a week’s time, she’d be heading back home. She wanted Rimbaud to promise he’d write to her, send her gifts of poems on pale blue paper. She wanted to say she’d be back at the Green Man next summer and hoped he would be too. All she had for now were the words of the poem, but she sensed he could hear those other thoughts as clearly as if she’d whispered them in his ear.

When she’d first arrived at the Green Man, she would never have imagined herself standing here, reading her work. But from the moment she stepped through the door, she’d sensed this was a place of magic. It had worked its magic on her. She was not the person she had been. She had joined the ranks of those crazy people who call themselves poets.

It was her business now to believe – in the power and beauty of words, in the spirits that move among us always, in the worlds of light and dark that neighbor us – to believe in the possibility of the impossible.

Outside the shop, the Green Man swayed in time to the words of the poem. The vines that sprang from his mouth curled and wound about his head. The carved leaves fluttered lightly in the breeze. One of the birds that sheltered among the branches opened its beak in song.

The End.