i wrote poems for strangers

your neighbourhood poet, apparently

Would Sylvia Plath have liked writing poems for strangers on a street in her suburb? I’m not quite sure. Part of me thinks that in today’s age, she’d not have stood for it, taking the art seriously and not have wanted to share the creative process in the presence of others. Another part of me thinks she’d have sworn under her breath, tapped the ash off the end of her cigarette and prepped her typewriter with a sliver of cream paper, gazing upwards to the person before her without really moving her head.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed with myself that I’d write poems for strangers on any prompt they’d like at a local Saturday market. I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea, and quite frankly, I didn’t think of how it would make me feel the day before.

You see, the last time I’d written poetry consistently was during high school and university when the navy dashboard of Tumblr was the landscape for my digital stanzas which drew out the feelings that only ‘unrequited like’ can. I’d attended a literature class in Year 9, and enjoyed studying Romeo and Juliet, but my 18-year-old self had other ideas with what she’d do with her brain, studying a straight science degree instead.

I love the music in poetry, the unexpected peeping through letters and spaces. I love the almost instantaneous connection that tens of words can create between a few if not a group of people. It’s magic, in a way, that with alphabets on a page, two or more humans can experience the same feeling with only the variations of their minds being the difference.

So on the eve of the market, I went to my local florist and commandeered three tulips from their shelves. I cleaned a white tablecloth that I’d ‘stolen’ from a yum cha place. (To be fair they spilled a full dish of soy sauce all over my white jeans, and I used the tablecloth they offered me to cover the stain as I left. Needless to say, they never asked for it back.) I heaved a trestle table into the boot of my car. I was ready for tomorrow.

Then the concern began to sink in. I, a person with no literary accreditation, was going to write poems for people I’d not met before? What if I had no ideas? What if it was really terrible? What if it was embarrassingly bad and I’d have muddied my name in their eyes forever? I picked up a pencil and notebook and began to give myself fake prompts to see what I could come up with. Every poem felt bad and written poorly. By 2am, I told myself it was time to sleep.

9am rolls around. I’m set up!

My first poem is written for a fellow stall-holder selling his photography. I spied a sunset photo that I liked, so the poem was inspired by it.

Next, a poem for an illustrator.

The prompt: trees — for Callum.

The prompt: the person’s dog, a greyhound.

The prompt: the two people themselves, who appeared to be on a date. It appears Linda had used a pseudonym on the dating app they used, and she was outed when I asked their names! (The look on Rob’s face was priceless.) Perhaps it was a good thing they got that out the way on their second date.

The prompt: confidence.

By this point, I was beginning to feel as though the poems were just coming through me; they were not ‘of’ me. I’m reluctant to bring up the cliche thing artists say about letting an idea come through them, but that is, ultimately, the very experience I was having.

The prompt: their cat with a rainbow toy.

The prompt: a health challenge they were working through.

The prompt: where is home? (They’d moved multiple times.)

INTERMISSION: there’s been a mix-up and I’m asked to move to a different location. I move. Next thing I know, someone walks in with a Dalmatian garden stick. My ‘sign from the universe’ is a Dalmatian. Coincidence? Maybe, but at this rate, what with this small act being a leap of faith, I’m thinking not??

Next, I’m sent a message from the illustrator who came in earlier — she’s drawn an illustration of me. I’m lost for words and feeling so touched.

The prompt: Melbourne and its friendliness.

These next few were for a group of friends who, honestly, made the entire day. The stories that were shared and tears shed and kinship felt between everyone in the room was just a mere sentiment of the depth of connection that was forged that day.

The prompt: coming into one’s own sensuality, post break-up.

The prompt: feeling good with setting boundaries in relationships.

It was truly an honour to hear everyone’s stories. In some way, doing this restored my faith in humanity and reminded me about how each person has such a unique background and story. Would I do it again? Absolutely. <3