A Tale of the Poet's Pub (MichaelTyger)

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A Tale of the Poet's Pub

It was a stormy afternoon and I didn't have an umbrella handy. Wandering the streets of town near the corner of Watt Place and Pad Way , I was looking for directions. It seemed as if I had come there by mistake.

I saw a sign hanging from the brick building right in front of me. 'Poet's Pub,' is what I read. As I pondered this curious sign, a cab pulled up.

The door opened and a most interesting person exited the car. She stood up in a bright outfit, contrasting the dreary weather. She smiled as she paid the fare.

"Oh hello," she greeted me when she turned back, "Have you stopped by to quench your thirst?"

I was puzzled and did not reply right away.

So she said, "Best Pub this side of town." She gestured to the sign.

"C'mon, I can show you around. Name's Myna."

"Michael," I told her. "Michael Tyger."

The door seemed stuck but, once you got it pried it came right open. Though she nearly fell back when it did. Adjusting her hat, she held the door for me.

"Thank you"

This place was livelier on the inside to be sure. It was the most people I'd seen in one place here.

I heard a kind of music somewhere down a distant hall. Laughter was all around.

The barstools were filled with patrons. I was overwhelmed at first. It was awkward to me until I started to catch the vibe. I felt something familiar. It seemed inviting. There was a syncopated kind-of rhythm and a mellow tone.

As we approached the bar a jovial man was smiling at us. He stood behind the bar.

"Hey Bill," Myna said, "A drink for Mister Tyger please."

"What'll you have?" Bill asked.

"I'm not sure. What do you recommend?"

"Tell you what. I'll get you one of the House favorites. First one's on me."

I nodded and thanked him. As he started getting it ready I looked around.

There were so many people I didn't know.

"What you have there?" Someone asked.

A man with a long beard was pointing. I realized he meant my old beat up notebook. I didn't realize I was carrying it around.

I looked at it awkwardly and said, "just something I was writing."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be nosey. I'm Joe."

"Michael," I told him.

"Well," Joe said, taking a sip from whatever, he was drinking.

"Let's see."

I handed it over and he seemed eager to leaf through it. I watched him nod at something and then smile.

"So you do this often?"

"What? Write? I mean a little, yeah."

He nodded again but didn't take his eyes off it.

"You want to meet the others?" Myna asked me.

"Sure"

"Here try this!" Bill encouraged.

My drink was ready. I took the glass and drank from it.

"Wow!"

"Yeah?" Bill asked.

"Yeah that's amazing."

"You ever mix any yourself?"

"Sometimes," I told him. I went to bartending school."

"Really?"

I nodded. "But I never got the chance to finish officially."

"Well we ought to make up a new drink together sometime."

"That would be cool."

After that, I met so many great people. They were doing Karaoke poetry in the back room and we stopped to watch.

It was inspiring listening to their renditions of Keats and Frost and Poe and the like. Then they exchanged each other's poems. And that was incredible. Listening to someone else read out your emotions must be exhilarating if not a little scary.

Then Joe walked up. He asked if he could read one of mine. I didn't know what to say. I didn't really know anyone yet.

"Here," he said. He handed me a different notebook. "You can read one of mine if it makes you feel better."

'Oh my god!' I thought. 'No that does not make me feel better.'

I was maybe okay with someone reading my poetry on stage but reading someone else's work myself?

But I did not want to be rude. They were all so nice it seemed.

So I agreed after all.

Joe went first. He took quite a different spin on my poem than I expected. The crazy thing was that it took on a whole different meaning the way he did it.

And I realized something. I had an epiphany in that very moment. Poetry is not just for the writer. It is for the reader too.

In fact, it takes on a more rich and meaningful life when read by others. Their interpretation is not wrong if it is different. It adds to the poem's value.

Now I understood what this place was really for. Now I see how we add value to each other's works here.

So I shook off my nerves. I chose a poem of Joe's that I liked and I took the floor....


A/N: Of course this is a fictional representation of how I came to the Poet's Pub. But it is how it makes me feel to be here. I truly enjoy it. Though I may spend much of my time back in the corner booth just observing, yet I am present, nonetheless.

So I raise my glass and toast all of you sincerely. Thank you.

Your fellow poet and pubber, Michael Jeremiah Tyger. :)

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