Most of the time, when I go out to meet my friends, something strange happens. Unusual things; Some things, accompanied me for a while.
After walking aimlessly in Oxford Street for a day, my feet began to ache, but its whole purpose was to enjoy, spontaneously take the Jubilee Line, explore the beauty of Westminster, stare at tourists' traps, eat cold sandwiches, and look like being in a telephone booth, strolling in an ancient museum and staring at transparent glass cabinets.
Our days are coming to an end.
However, when we walked slowly along the south bank, the first sight surprised us. Sitting alone at a cheap folding table. I can't escape the vivid details of his face and clothes, but he is undoubtedly an eccentric figure, with messy silver hair and round shadows covering his eyes.
There is a small paper label in front of the desk. Hire a poet.
What exactly does this man do? Pay a small fee to let this person walk with you on the south bank and make him sneer at the pure beauty of the Thames in Shakespeare's English?
There are several people around the table. I slipped past them and asked the man what his booth was.
He said, "I will write a poem for you, at any cost, anything."
What can I do for you? ? I asked.
"Anything will do."
His finger reached into the typewriter keyboard on the desk. Typing sounds like rain, showers, commas and metaphors. I want to put my hand on it, slide my finger into the ink and smear it on the crumpled parchment like black blood. Everything is so old.
But I chickened out. I waited. I looked at my friend. She doesn't want poetry, but I want it.
We tried to propose a theme that poets would write, but we struggled. Goldfish, we used to think, followed by London (definitely suitable), shoes (if I have heard it, it must be a metaphor), and even a goldfish bowl, but we can't decide.
Only then did I realize what I wanted.
I went to the poet again and handed in five pounds of coins. I am indecisive.
He didn't look at me properly; Instead, he tilted his head and his sunglasses blocked the sun. With his head down, he used a beautiful literary technique to put a piece of parchment into the typewriter, slide it along its spine (I'm sorry this lovely machine has no proper term), and then began to type.
My words, I feel. This is my poem. Every ink on that page is mine. Maybe not, but it feels like it is. )
"Five minutes," he told me.
Hesitant ... must be. Ironically, my decision. This reflects my way of doing things.
My friends and I sat on the wall by the river and waited. The sea water slowly flows down in the cool sunshine, and the boat glides and ripples on the water like a little plastic swan.
Two minutes later, he looked up and I knew he was looking at me this time. He motioned us to move forward. There, he took out a paper full of words and gave it to me. He conveyed a voice to me.
He talked to the next client without looking (if possible). I wonder what this means to him, the poem he wrote for me. I wonder if he is satisfied with the beautiful arrangement and rearrangement of these 26 letters. I wonder if he still likes the physical feeling of each key indentation.
I am doubtful about that. But I feel life in his works, and its simplicity makes it glow with sparks. We longed for immediacy in life, and I did it. But how much will it cost? Five pounds? My wallet is empty. It's terrible to distribute the price yourself. Fifty pence is equivalent to fifty pounds. Money suddenly becomes very personal.
Is his poem from the heart, or is it the strict poet who sits helplessly in the street on the south bank and writes for strangers? Maybe the first time was fun, but not anymore.
When I walked away, I reached out and held the paper between my fingers. I see sunlight penetrating through its granular fibers.
This makes it beautiful. From his hand to my literary beauty or monotonous transfer of words, it is bathed in the light of nature.
I'll never know what he thought when he wrote this book.
Let me introduce you to indecision-this is a completely strange poem to me.