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Member
Join Date: Apr 2006
Location: Montreal
Gender: Female
Posts: 4
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The Fool
The King's Head was not unlike most inns in London, smoky and utterly bleak. At the bar: a toothless old whore that reminisced about the days of her youth and, here, around my table, the poets of this world, the ruddy bourgeoisie; noble in blood but seldom in action.
Some of us were educated into talent and some of us talented ourselves into seeming to have education. There is no difference to the vulgar ear or eye and, hence, we can live in harmony knowing only amongst ourselves who plays what part. Either way, it is thoroughly entertaining to watch the middle class cunts in their unflattering petticoats play cheap to my friends and peers.
I believe it to be their true nature. There is a part of every woman that strives to sell herself to the highest bidder. It is a sad truth, for love sick poems can be spat out at any moment, but purity itself can never be duplicated.
I smiled as I watched Bennington slip an ace into his sleeve. He'd never been good at cheating; a quality utterly unadmirable in an artist. As trivial and boring as his plays were known to be, he was still accepted as such for his remarkable connections. I was no longer as disgusted by this as I had been in my idealistic youth. I now knew that, in my time, art was no longer a gift but a product.
Huxley had won the hand despite Bennington's attempts and I laughed inwardly as the cheat fumed.
The fool is a man without a cause
That never succeeds no matter what the odds
He is given
His applause are as formidable
As a bordello is to live in
It was my belief that any verse can be bettered by a ring of truth and this verse is true. It is what I see when I watch Bennington use what little wit he has to cheat at cards or Huxley fondle his mistress. They are both fools.
The wind whistles and all heads turn to the door as it opens. "Bennington, Huxley, Kingsley…"
"Barnett," I acknowledged as the fourth of our party joined us at the table, it was only when I looked up that I noticed he was not alone.
The younger man was pale and blue eyed, with the face of a boy. I was sure that he could not be more than nineteen.
"Gentlemen, this is Louis de Marquis," he explained, snatching my attention from the youth.
"A new protégé, Barnett?" asked Huxley, wiping red wine from one of his many chins.
"Yes," he answered, taking a seat and gazing up at the unmoved boy. "Monsieur de Marquis comes to us from France, but he is already quite versed in our language and our customs."
"Has he written anything?" I jested, unable to restrain a small smile that came to face at the look of disdain on his.
"No, but he shall in good time… in good time," replied my peer.
"What? Nothing at all? Then what talent does he have or is he but another peacock feather in your hat, eh Barnett?" I pushed harder.
"Now, now, Kingsley, you can not expect them all to be as inspired as yourself. What was that last poem you wrote… oh yes: For my king and country," he teased.
"An aberration," I stated, failing to hide the shame in my voice, "the King–"
"Requested it," he finished for me, "Yes, I know. Oh, come now Kingsley… a commission? And I had always thought you a man of means and virtue. You can not laugh with us at the monarchy and then proceed to praise it in verse. It is hypocrisy which is a poet's only blasphemy."
"Is not it blasphemy too to pick young boys off the street and use them as tools to write rhyming words that have no meaning only to market them as your own to the tin ears of higher classes?" I taunted, my eyes never having left the youth's.
"I beg your pardon, Sir…" he rose from his chair, besot with rage; I loved it.
"I have read some of your work," the angry intensity was broken by the accented voice of the angel with blue eyes.
"Have you?" I mused. "And what think you of it?"
He smiled before answering. "To any person who hears it, it is full of light and power, philosophy and deep thoughts…"
"I am flattered," I admitted.
"I am not finished," he stated, smiling wider. "I say that to any person these verses are touching, but to an artist such as we are, it is nothing, if you permit me to say it, but witty orthography."
These words stung more than he could know. "You consider yourself and artist then? But how can you when, by your own masters admission, you have yet to put quill to paper?"
"My master is ill informed."
"Is that so?" I asked, feigning surprise. "Let us have it then."
The young one stood wide eyed for a moment and then smiled with a new determination in his face.
"Vos mots sont nobles
Monsieur, mais vous dansez dans la vanité
On ne peut connaître la poésie sans comprendre la moralité
Qu'exige l'art
Sans lequel il ne serait plus nécessaire de composer
Deux ou trois petits mots pour une dame
Pour réclamer un simple baiser
Et, sans le baiser de cette dame bien-aimée
Il ne serait plus question de vivre
Donc, en composant, vous nous rendez ivres
De leçons manièrés
Sans toutefois comprendre
Les qualités qui vous manquent tant," he recited unbridled sarcasm glistening from his words. He seemed to shine as he finished, looking to me at the last words.
It took me a moment to recover. "And when did you compose this… ditty?"
He smiled crookedly at my question. "I believe that there is a poem composed for every man in this world and it is written in his life as well as in his work, waiting for another to recite it. That ditty was yours."
I should not have given it a second thought, but I could not do otherwise.
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Maggie
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