The Calling

"True poetic practice implies a mind so miraculously attuned and illuminated that it can form words, by a chain of more-than-coincidences, into a living entity—a poem that goes about on its own (for centuries after the author's death, perhaps) affecting readers with its stored magic. Since the source of poetry's creative power is not scientific intelligence, but inspiration—however this may be explained by scientists—one may surely attribute inspiration to the Lunar Muse, the oldest and most convenient European term for this source?"             

                                                                                                                      Robert Graves

(The city expands itself vehemently through streets and buses, like a giant sleeping monster. It's summer. The monster feels lonely. It spins and twists and calls out the names of those left behind.)

He heard the calling carried under automotive wheels, then spinning and flying through the wind. Finally he saw it ending up hanging from a leaf (he was living in a place in the outskirts of the city, where plants grew). He caught the leaf and the faint echo of his name became a transmission travelling to his heart through his veins, transforming itself to a call a shout a holler. And then to music.

It was a lazy summer Saturday. He took with him a couple of things and left the house.

On the bus and listening to music, he realized that all this was premeditated. The urge, the need, the thirst growing inside. He was yearning for it. And, of course, he knew that all this was bound to happen. Why else he'd lose half the day before making these mixtapes? Why he felt this anxiety and uncertainty about all things mundane all the previous month?

Now he was sure that all this was arranged. A bomb ticking, scheduled to explode.

And everything was going according to the plan.

And he loved it.

He stepped off the bus near the city centre. It was empty, of course. Everybody had taken advantage of the previous day being a bank holiday to retreat near the sea. But not he. He would never run away just to lick his wounds. He would stay behind in the great, ghost city and confront the beast.

He looked at the empty streets, the closed shops, the silent cafés, the gray, depressing buildings. His eyes filled with the deserted city, twisting and turning, complaining like a forlorn mistress, dethroned and abandoned.

And yet, through all this desolation, the sickly wind and the dried leaves spinned and flied and gave birth to a miracle. A newborn goddess, dancing around herself, her long hair whipping the wind, filling the wind with sparkling wonders.

“Thank you for coming”, she said to him.

“Thank you for calling”, he replied.

They walked together on and through and inside the city, hand-in-hand. She, the anonymous one, although mankind had given her countless names since the beginning of time: the Goddess, the Muse, the Sophia. The Empneusis, the Breath-Inside.

And he, the Poet, just another one of her countless, humble servants since the dawn of man.

He stepped into a café. The fruit of his encounter was already forming itself inside his head. A series-of-words, a story, a world was ready to be born. Demanding it.

He took out a piece of paper and started writing.