Fields Of

Fields of

I: The Professor

Here lies him who say’st he is past himself;

who, having seen all, discovered that which was left.

That sign makes him tremble to this day.

“B-beyond the roses and the pansies,” Professor Hildensour sputtered, “are the fields of ignorance. Stray a little, and you might find intellect. Stray further, and you’ll discover creativity. Further still is originality. But alas,” the old man concluded, “stray too far and you might find that you can’t return.” Having finished reciting his obscure poetry, the vulture poured himself another glass of Fairy and grinned at me.

“What do you think?”

“Well” I began, wondering how I got pulled into yet another drunken rehearsal, “I found it quite refreshing after Mrs. Tarry’s erotic poetry last week. And perhaps more intriguing than that industrial nonsense Mr. Griphyn performed the week before. The imagery of the distant fields of the mind is charged with, I suppose, the nature of adventure. I could see a younger, less experienced poet relying too heavily upon the stretched topics of nature... ”

I continued on this way for a while, but it’s not quite pertinent to my story. I try to help others craftily construct their thoughts into words. Normally it is under a professional environment, but recently I’ve been receiving calls amateurish in nature. Reading poetry with a drunk is one of my least favorite things. It misses the whole point of self-expression. But I suppose I shouldn’t judge. All in all, I complimented the Professor’s words directly and sometimes backhandedly, eventually growing quiet. It would be best if I didn’t upset the aspiring poet. I was still trying to understand the ‘roses and the pansies’ he had mentioned in his final lines. I suppose both flowers are rather common in one dimensional poetry, suggesting natures of romance and homeliness. But I couldn’t help but notice the emphasis on the latter, perhaps implying something deeper he was hinting at.

The fire crackled, and embers shot out onto the stone floor. I awoke from my internal monologue and glanced at my watch. It was about Midnight, and the yellow moon’s rays mingled through the window with the orange glow. The Professor was just finishing his absinthe (undiluted), encouraging me to take my departure. I stood slowly, the floorboards creaking under new weight, and polished off my glass. I donned my jacket, thanked the Professor for the drink, and crept out the front door.

The cold of autumn pierced my coat, and I carefully closed the rugged door before setting off into the night. Professor Hildensour lived at the end of a long dirt road, perhaps an half hour stroll from my residence. He had always struck me as of an odd sort; the type of man who’d laugh at the macabre and the horrific. I had met him at a coffee joint in the downtown, and after introducing him to other poets, he efficiently let me know of his own word play. After chatting for a bit, he gave me his number and bid farewell. That was approximately six months ago, and, having forgot about the man, was surprised when he left a message a week ago. This wasn’t completely abnormal, as I do help others craft their poetry, ending in the usual drink and conversation, but it still struck me as strange that the rather obscure fellow called.

The pines swayed with the wind, the moonlit shadows dancing along my way. It was a dry night, and my coat was doing naught against the chill of Midnight. The lights of the house faded behind me, and I was left with the night’s freckles as my guide, the moon being the lamp by which I walked. This was not the first time I had strolled past my bedtime, yet I felt unnerved. Perhaps it was a sign that I ought not return to the old man’s anytime soon. He had left his impression on me though, and his poetry could use some professional advice. But even still, I ought to stay away. “Beyond the roses and the pansies are the fields of ignorance.” I knew I would see him soon. I lit a cigarette for company, and the whisper of the shifting trees kept conversation.