The Club

	Martin joined a club because that's how people meet. Not in class, where all affections kept a tight root at the desk. He'd quickly noted how familiar faces froze and dodged his smile. And found it strange to laugh with someone who, in minutes, lost his name. But he accepted it, and adapted to the culture with cold grace. Indifference wedged itself between each student like metallic stakes. Although accustomed, Martin felt this distance become nauseating. His attempts at human bonding seemed like signals lost in space. And so the club would rearrange things, he would roost among like-minded folk, poets like himself, who, by compulsion, pinched the world with beauty. Moody intellectuals, introspective and sharp-witted, twenty-somethings who'd dissect postmodern angst with icy forks. He lusted at the thought along his walk to Bradley Hall, where, in room 41, he’d soon sink into his kind. The months of isolation would soon melt and vaporize.

	You see, it wasn't just the cliques and coldness keeping him from others, it was a visceral mark of difference that had drooled atop his being. It would ooze about his aura. People looked at him as if they sensed his body were a mask, beneath which had hid some sniveling praying mantis. But a poetry club is home to trained eyes; eyes that feel, eyes like sponges which absorb a presence, wholly and precisely. So, Martin met the room with nervous zest. The door was open, he drew in like a falling leaf. The room became aware.

	“Hey, yo what's up? Have you been here before? You can take a seat and bring it here.” A boy in khakis and turtleneck called out as ten heads turned.

	“No, it's actually my first time.” Martin said, standing at the door, anxious and forgetting to take a seat.

	“Oh word that's great man. What's your name? I'm Luke, I'm President of the club and the girl next to me is Julie, she's VP” Julie raised her hand and smiled.

	Someone grabbed a chair and made a space within the circle. Martin felt embarrassed, but warmed that they’d tried to include him anyway. He sat down.

	“My name's Martin, hey. And this is the poetry club?”

	“No it's the vegan-nazi alliance. Yeah it's the club man, and what brings you to it?”

	“Well, I like to read and write poetry a lot. I also don't really have any friends on campus, and figured this might be a good reason to leave my dorm.” Martin wasn’t sure about coming off so blunt, he chuckled a bit and felt a little stiff, he tried not to think about what impression he had made.

	“Well no shit, who do you read? What kind of stuff ya write? And I feel you on the no friends thing, people here are like ghosts, you really can’t talk to no one.”  Luke said.

	“Big facts.” one of them said before Martin spoke.

	Martin had never been asked about what he wrote before. It was wherever his soul’d fastened, a murky atmosphere, a dusky essence, images spat from a bleak unseen. But he couldn’t say that without coming off pretentious.

	“I read a lot of Byron, uhh Wallace Stevens, Trakl, stuff like that. I like spooky stuff mostly, lots of brooding imagery. I’m not really sure what I write. I guess it’s kind of gloomy? I’m not a depressing person or anything like that, I mean, it’s just what I write.” If he kept talking his tongue would snap. He couldn't express himself without feeling repulsive. He felt that his face would deeply redden if it could.

	“I haven’t read the other stuff but Byron’s cool. Real gothic shit, definitely spooky yeah. And is this the first club you’ve joined? Have you tried making friends before, or? I’m not tryna be rude or anything, just curious cause most people have some sort of story.” Luke asked, guilessly.

	“Yeah I’ve tried before I mean, I don’t know if like, I’m not good at it or people think I’m weird or what. I talk to people in class but they act like they don’t know me when I see them afterwards.” Martin was glad to vent.

	“No, facts, I feel you completely. Especially the class thing like, for most people I think being friends in class is just an excuse to not pay attention. It used to offend me too. I did the same shit where like, you think, ‘hey, well, this person’s laughed at my jokes and asked me for homework, they’ll prolly acknowledge my damn existence if i say hi’ and it’s like, big, fucking NOPE. Like shit ok bet, fuck you too then.” one of them started, seeming glad that Martin’d brought up the issue. Others laughed or “yupped” or “mhmd” at the sentiment.

	“My names Isaac, by the way.” the same boy said. Martin let a faint smile bud and nodded at him.  Inwardly, he beamed a doofus grin; it was so nice to greet someone who shared his story!

	“Yeah totally I mean, that’s why I honestly just stick to a small group. A few good people and you’re fine. It’s such a strain to just bounce around clawing for friends, I’m too anxious for all that shit. But anyway, as much as I love to whine that’s not really why we’re here.” Julie said.

	“I mean, it basically is.” Isaac jested.

	“Well yeah, but the point is to make it look cool, so you get away with it. And on that note I think we should start sharing what we’ve wrote, if anyone has anything” she said.

	“I’m just glad he mentioned it because, truly, no one tries to reach out or anything, and that shit hurts you know? I’m glad we have a space where we can all admit that and write whatever and share. Because even the poetry classes are people who have no idea what they’re doing, and they still don’t talk to you and it’s like, ‘shit ok’. And trust me I’ve tried to talk to them but even that’s a chore. You have to think about when they’re getting bored, if you said the wrong thing, if they’re just being polite...”  another whined, others nodded at its truth.

	Waves of candlelight ascended Martin’s spirit; a hum of handbells winked behind. The conversation stirred a bolting pulse throughout his chest. He felt ethereal and vital, fixed to each voice like a nail. Time spent here was edenic, he was fat with shy wonder. To connect with those who understood was a special harmony.

	“I know I know but I don’t want to spend the whole time here crying about being lame. Especially when we have a new member. Sorry, trust me, we usually spend more time writing. And we’ll do that soon I promise.” Julie said, turning to Martin.

	“Oh no it’s fine really, I don’t care. I’m not in a rush or anything.” Martin said, fighting the urge to kiss them all at once.

	“Ok cool, well do you want to share anything? You don’t have to, I get if it’s weird at first.” Julie asked.

	“Umm yeah I can share something, let me just get out my notebook.” Martin said, and unzipped his bag. He pulled out a small black journal.

	“This is called The Dragonfly ” He tried to prepare a bardic tone, but was unexpectedly nervous, and tried to compose himself before flickering his heavy soul.



			A dragonfly went, cloaked in sour fog,
			Through realms of wilted light, a dreamless bog,
			And found a sleeping nymph; her snow-like hair
			Had glint as plucked with endless heaven flare.
			He measured darkness brushed against her glow
			Enticed, he reached; she melted quick as snow.




	The room was silent. Martin was proud. He'd doused the air with violet ambiance. He stood patiently, half expecting: “O Martin, you've struck our tender hearts with glass!” from one.  But there was none. Luke rubbed his thumb around his chin.

	“Hmm” Luke went. But no one spoke.

	“That was cool, not bad at all but do you mind if I critique a bit?”

	“Of course!” Martin said, one-third yelling.

	“Ok so like, it's definitely well put together but, I can't help but feel that it's a bit archaic in some ways? The images I mean, they're kind of tropey, like something from the 1800s. And that, along with the tone and language makes it feel affected. It's not that it's bad or anything it's just not really of today. Does that make sense? It reminds me of Byron or Poe or something like that, but in a way that feels trite. I feel like if people wanted to read that type of stuff they'd just read it from when it was made. And in poetry you're supposed to create new language, you know? ‘Make it new’ But I'm not saying that it's bad.” Luke said.

	“Yeah I feel that I didn't know how to put it but Luke kinda said it right. It seems put on, like, you didn't really write it or something. Like, you might be copying something you'd heard before? And I get that like, that's how you learn to write. But you gotta be just like, self aware about it so you catch yourself and make it better.” Isaac said.

	Julie nodded but didn't speak.

	“Does anyone else have anything to say?” Luke asked.

	But Martin didn't want to hear it. He didn't like what they’d said, and he wouldn't be taking more. Affected? Archaic? The whole thing was real! He wasn't copying anything! He'd spent hours just trying to piece the thing together. You think it's easy? You think he sits and thinks “well what will i steal today?” Before he writes? No! He dives into his being, he escavates his Self, polishing each ugly stone. There was nothing about it that wasn't genuine.

	“No? Alright, well what do you think Martin.” Luke said.

	Martin was ready to eat Luke’s head (maybe he was a praying mantis). But he kept stoic, fortunately, he didn't want to risk ruining everything at once. Besides, if he explained it, they might come around, they were understanding.

	“I don't really think that stuffs true honestly, I don't. I wrote the poem sincerely. I don't try to copy people or like, make it sound old. It's just how I write, it's how I feel. Does that not come out in the poem? Is there a specific line or something?” Martin said.

	“No, I mean it does, it's just that the way it's done seems inauthentic. It's not like I want you to not express yourself just like, try to think about how people write today, and how they think.” Luke said.

	“But I'm writing and thinking today, that doesn't make sense. Who else should I be thinking about?”

	“I get that I mean, I guess just think about other writers. Do you read anything contemporary?

	“No, I don't.”

	“Well you should give it a try, maybe Louise Gluck? Donna Tartt? Stuff like that I think might give you a better feel of what I mean. But it was good either way. Does anyone wanna go next?”

	“I'll go” Julie said.

	Martin felt confused, he hadn't read either of the writers Luke had mentioned. He decided that he'd check them out at home, he was curious, even if offended. Julie took out her phone and rose from her chair.





	“It’s called you.”

			Your tar lips rot my arteries in
			the morning i syringe the
			cleansing fluid and
			i wait and
			nothing is not motionless
			or
			everything is still.
			and still the rotting settles
			muzzles me, my muscles muted,
			you--

			you are not trash,
			trash was useful once,
			trash was food, trash was
			your favorite childhood toy;
			still nice to think about
			and this is not
			its not
			its shot
			its bleeding,
			whimpering, but
			let it rot--

			and i’ll rot too,
			i’ll return to nature,
			i will grow something that
			fuels a life and
			you…

			you’ll only exist in this poem.




	“Wowwwww” Isaac said.

	“That’s fire! Like ‘you are not trash, trash was useful once’ who comes up with that!” He followed.

	“Yeah this is actually one of my favorites of yours Julie, really good shit. Each line felt so tense and real. I’m guessing it’s about an ex or something” Luke said.

	“Yeah it is, I mean, I guess. It’s not necessarily directed at a single person I mean, I did have someone in mind but it’s mostly to all the sort of toxic guys I’ve had in my life. It was kind of hard to write just because I had to try and bring myself to that place full of bitterness and anger and all that, but it felt cathartic to put onto paper. Something about reducing a person to just words on a page is really empowering for me.” Julie said.

	“No I feel you, for sure. I’ve definitely written things where I had to get into an uncomfortable headspace to make it punch. It’s hard but you know, it clearly pays off.”

	“Yeah haha it does I guess.”

	“Alright, does anyone else have feedback for Julie?” Luke asked.

	A couple other members praised the poem. Mostly for the trash line and the “rawness” of its themes. Martin didn’t say anything. He sat within himself and chewed the situation tightly. How could they praise something so simple! Something without form, rhyme, meter, atmosphere, nothing! Where does that writing even come from? He dragged gold from hellfire to write and she? She was a log in mud. She didn’t understand the heart, the mind, l'âme du poète, not one bit! How were they so clever about suffering with nothing to express? How could they understand him so well and not be true artists?

	But Martin knew better than to shout at times like this. He knew speaking his obtuse mind against a norm meant quick exile. So he sat and didn’t smile, but kept his spite hid from his eyes.

	“Alright if no one else has anything to share lets do 20 minutes of free-write for the rest of the time. You can use the prompts on the board if you want or just make something up.” Luke said.

	Martin couldn’t write a poem in 20 minutes. It took too much to stir up verse from those low realms within him. He hated the idea of a “quick poem”, “A line will take us hours maybe” after all. He drew a skinny dog assaulted by hornets instead.

	He watched the club slice lines to paper, spiteful of their haste. The room jittered with quick artistry, and Martin, still as bone. What kind of poets were they? Hip to angst, ennui and solitude, but blind to care and form? God misplaced their wits. If it were up to Martin, he’d mold his friends like dough, baste them with flair and talent, and wear them like a crown. A perfect world would let you customize your creed, no one to cringe at or disagree with, everything just as it should. He’d even have a girlfriend, why should it be just a dream?

	Eventually, the writing finished, and a couple members shared their dross. Martin sat, indifferent as seaweed to rain, expression null. Luke began to wind down the meeting.

	“Alright everyone, we’re basically out of time and the next class needs this room so we need to be out quickly. But first, I just wanna say thanks for coming, thanks to everyone who shared today and thanks Martin for becoming the newest member of our club. I really hope you come back and enjoy your time here honestly, I think everyone appreciates your being here. And I’m sorry if I came off a little harsh with the critique, I really do think the poem was good, and you have a lot of potential. Oh also, we’re gonna be meeting on the quad next week, across from this building, it should be a nice day so we might as well take advantage you know? But yeah, alright, everybody have a good day, study hard and all that, see you all next week!”

	Julie smiled at him as she left with Luke, and Isaac patted him on the shoulder. A couple other smiles and faces saying “peace” passed him by as they left the room. Martin couldn’t guard himself from the warmth, and he didn’t really want to either. They were all so sincerely nice and welcoming. He had to give them another chance. So Martin decided that, when he got to his dorm he’d read what Luke recommended, and try to write how he suggested, and maybe, it might even turn out decent. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about molding his friends.