The Poet and His Muse

After an awkward silence, sipping his coffee, seeing Emily's eyes looking into his, their eyes meeting, Jason took a deep breath. "Emily, I'm too old for you. It would be wrong for me to take advantage of you," he said.

"That's so stupid," Emily said.

"No it's not. It would be a huge mistake. It was foolish of you to come all the way here with your sexual fantasy. There's no way I would let that happen," Jason said, trying to ignore how her green eyes were looking into his, how her breasts were straining her shirt, how the feeling of her brushing his thigh awakened memories, how he was trying to ignore the stirring in his cock, the growing erection which he tried suppressing by crossing his legs.

"Jason, I know about you and all the lovers you had after your wife died."

"You do, how do you know anything about that?" Jason asked. "That's all gossip."

"You had a reputation. I interviewed some of your colleagues at Sarah Lawrence and at Bennington then you taught at the University of Boston and I know some of the professors who are still there who remember you and they told me lots of stories, off the record of course, since it had nothing to do with my dissertation, but that's how I know.

"Well, some of that might be true, not that it's any of your business, but that was then and this is now. I'm out of that scene and have been for fifteen years. That's why I moved to Maine. My life was getting too complicated and I decided I wanted to write more than I wanted to have any more emotional turmoil. It got too distracting."

"Well, it also produced some of your best love poetry. I mean, your poetry is so erotic to begin with, so honest and your descriptions were so sensuous and subtle, so understated and suggestive that it made it really hot. And you know that, don't you."

"Emily, can we change the topic?"

"Why, what's wrong Jason?"

"Nothings wrong. I just think we should not talk about this. I am flattered that you feel so turned on by me, but it's ridiculous. You coming here thinking I'm just going to get in bed with you. It's not that you aren't interesting and attractive, it's just wrong for me to take advantage of you coming all the way from Boston to fuck me. I won't let that happen."

"Well, I guess I goofed," Emily said. "Forget it. I made a stupid mistake following my fantasies, I'll deal with it."

"Good. That's sensible," Jason said.

"I guess," Emily said, standing up, glancing down at her backpack and computer. She went to the window, looked at the flower boxes then out at the garden in front of the cabin, the raised beds lined with tree trunks, the flowers on the hillside, the bird feeders, the woods that surrounding the cabin. She was quiet, thinking.

Jason poured himself another cup of coffee then asked if Emily wanted more. She put up her hand, indicating she didn't. The silence between them was awkward and he could see she was upset. Jason cleared his throat, took a sip of his coffee looking at Emily at the window, noticing how her dark hair went past her shoulders, the dangling earrings, the way her face shown in the sunlight, her smooth olive skin glowing, her snug jeans straining her ass. "She's really lovely," Jason thought and fought his urge to come up behind her and hold her, feel her soft skin, grind his hardening cock against her.

"Hey I just got an idea," Emily said.

"What?"

"Why don't I stay here for a day or two and work on my dissertation. You will be right here and we can discuss things. Most of the time I would be working and not bothering you," she continued. "What do you think?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," he added, realizing he might have difficulty concentrating on his work if she was working across from him or even in the other room. He also realized how risky it would be having her sleeping in the small room next to his. "I don't know, Emily, I'm so used to being alone. I'm not sure I want to have another person here."

"I understand, but I think it would really help me finish. My deadline is three weeks away and I still have a lot to do. I promise I won't be a distraction except when we're discussing your work. You won't even know I'm here. I'm disciplined when I am working. You know that. Come on, let me stay," she said, putting her hands together in front of her as if she were praying.

Jason sighed deeply, something he frequently did, shook his head and closed his eyes, thinking about Emily's idea, knowing he should reject it, but then remembered his philosophy to say yes to whatever presented its self to him, to be open to the notion that what comes to him is God-sent. He often said that and wrote about it, though he wasn't certain he believed in God or any religion.

"Okay, Emily," Jason sighed, shaking his head, exasperated by her pleading. "Okay, stay. I think it will be okay."

"Really, oh wow," she shouted, her eyes widening and she wanted to hug him for saying yes, but didn't. "Wow!" she repeated, holding her hand to her chest. "I guess a woman my age shouldn't be saying wow," she said. "But it's one of my favorite words, I mean I'm not a kid, I shouldn't say wow. Sorry."

There's nothing wrong with saying wow," Jason said, chuckling at her exuberance and again felt her vibrant energy filling his cabin. "By the way, are you hungry? I know you were driving and probably haven't had breakfast. Do you want anything?"

"No, I had an apple in the car and I don't eat much in the morning and I don't want to bother you. I have raisins in my backpack and a chocolate candy bar, I'm addicted to chocolate, but I do like to cook, I'm passionate about cooking and if you will let me make dinner for you tonight, that would be my way of saying thank you for being so nice and letting me stay here."

"I didn't know you liked to cook. I hardly know anything about you, but that sounds good except I don't know what we have. I haven't been shopping for over a week," he said. "There's lettuce and spinach in the garden but that's about it. It's still early."

"I'll figure something out, Jason and I know you don't know much about me, but you're going to find out, I'm a lot more than a kooky graduate student, but, like I said, I promise I won't bother you. I'll just do my work while you do yours, then later, I will make us dinner, you'll see and I promise you, your tongue will throw a party for your mouth."

Again, Jason laughed at Emily's way of speaking to him, no longer feeling upset that she just showed up unannounced but was enjoying her lively energy, the way she looked directly in his eyes when she spoke and how beautiful she was, how petite and though she said she came here to fuck him, there was nothing teasing or flirtatious in her manner. Still, he found her presence alluring, her passionate way of speaking, her breasts straining her shirt, her jeans snug but not tight and instinctively knew that she was bringing something into his life that he had been missing for a long time.

"So where can I set up to start working and where will I be sleeping?" she asked, bending down to pick up her backpack and computer, petting Oscar who was laying on the kitchen floor, his dark alert eyes on both of them. "You're a sweet little dog, aren't you Oscar," she said, moving her small hand down his back then standing up, "Lead me to my boudoir."

"Yes, madam," Jason responded, playfully then led Emily into the other side of his cabin, through a book lined room then to the small bedroom off of that with a skylight over the bed.

"Wow!" Emily said looking up at the skylight then threw her backpack and computer onto the bed. "What a cool room this is," she said, noticing the beam was a large tree trunk, the wide planked boards on the floor, the windows, the little side porch with railings made from long branches. "Your place is magical," Emily said. "I can feel the love you put into it," she added, pushing her hand down on the mattress to see how firm it was.

"You can work at that desk," Jason said, pointing to an old green desk against the windows in the other room. She walked over to it, moving her fingers over the surface, looking around the room at the books filling the shelves with more books sloppily piled on top of them.

"Jason, I can't believe I'm here," Emily said, looking at him. "It's beautiful. I think I will really be able to finish my dissertation here and that would be so cool, really, to describe how you live will add a lot."

"Interesting," Jason said, looking at her leaning back on the desk, her ass on the edge, his eyes trying to ignore her nipples pushing against her tight turtle neck shirt. "I never thought my cabin would become part of your dissertation," he added, feeling his attraction to her swirling through his mind, struggling not to think about how sexy she was even without her trying to be. She seemed so natural.

"Will I be able to see any of the new poems you've been working on," Emily asked. "I think that would be of interest."

"I guess so. I mean, I have a lot of poems no one has read. I'd like you to read them. I've been writing mostly sonnets but I'm not sure it will help with your thesis. Isn't your focus on the origin of my imagery and what you called my suppressed romanticism?"

"I think using your recent work will be sensational," she said, scrunching her eyebrows as if pondering a question she wanted to ask while also liking the way he was looking at her. "Why haven't you tried getting your new poems published?"

"I tried a few times but I kept getting rejections, mostly form letters saying thank you, this is not for us, some not even signed. Occasionally, I receive a few written notes from editors I knew a long time ago--polite, friendly rejections. I'm just out of fashion now but maybe that will change. I don't know."

That must be so hard for you. I mean, you were famous. You won the Yale Younger Poets prize when you were twenty five and then the Pulitzer and The National Critics Award and they had a special on PBS with you being interviewed by Charlie Rose and George Plimpton interviewed you for Paris Review and now you can't get published."

"The important thing, Emily, is to keep writing no matter what. Maybe I will be rediscovered who knows. It's all fucking luck," Jason said. "Fame is fleeting. I have a line in a poem, "Beware of fame for she's a whore who will break your heart."

"Wow! What a great line." Emily said, looking up at Jason standing a few feet from her while she leaned against the desk, her eyes looking into his.

Their eyes met and Jason liked Emily's enthusiastic response, her green eyes sparkling, the way the sun shown on her dark hair made it glow. He wanted to hold her in his arms, sensed she wanted that too, but then turned and walked towards the other room.

"Well, I'll let you be," he said, standing in the entrance to the other side of the cabin, "I'm going to get back to work. I'll see you later."

"Right and I promise I won't bother you. I have plenty to do. I'll get myself settled. I might have to come and fill up my water container but you won't even know I'm here," she said, smiling, nodding, "I'll see you later and remember I'm going to make you a great dinner."

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it," Jason said, before closing the door to that section of the cabin--a door he usually kept open but now thought best to shut so his concentration would not be disturbed, knowing how sensitive he was to sounds when he was writing.

She lifted her hand and made a small goodbye gesture, opening and closing her fingers, "Thanks for letting me stay," she said, "I'm really happy to be here."

"Good," Jason said, touched by the way she said goodbye, her small hand waving, her little fingers bending, the sincere way she expressed her happiness brought a warm, tender feeling over him and he too felt happy that she was here, marveling at how suddenly his whole life was being transformed. "I'm glad you're here, too," he said, surprised that he allowed himself to express himself in a way that sounded affectionate.

Sitting down at the table, he picked up his pen and glanced down at the page in his notebook where he had been writing, trying to recall the line he had been saying before the phone rang announcing Emily's arrival and suddenly it came to him and he wrote it down and found himself unable to stop writing as the next line flowed out from his pen and the next and the next. He was not struggling to write, the words just came, surprising him that he was able to concentrate on the poem and not think about Emily in the next room or the empty bird feeder or anything but the sonnet he was writing and suddenly, the poem was finished with a powerful couplet that surprised him. He read it over several times.

And know that you control on every page,
a lovelier and more significant rage.

Jason was thrilled with the sonnet and delighted how he found the poem pouring out of him, the rhymes coming effortlessly. He knew he was eager to read it to Emily later, suddenly thinking about her working in the next room and feeling the strangeness that she was here, writing about his poetry, a beautiful young woman who suddenly appeared. Sitting back in his chair, tugging at his beard, looking out at the trees that surrounded his cabin, noticing the squirrel on his window sill searching for any sunflower seeds that might have fallen from the empty feeder then suddenly remembered how he felt when her thigh accidentally touched his and he felt a bolt go through him, something that he tried to ignore but was aware that he liked, that it had awakened sensual memories in him, feelings he was now re-experiencing.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by a poem coming to him, jolting him. He picked up his pen and began writing a new poem, inspired by the feeling of her touch. He couldn't believe how quickly he was writing, the lines flowing; the rhymes of the new sonnet coming easily and he wondered what was happening, he felt inspired. Usually, he had to labor over every line, cross out words, count the syllables, struggle to get the line right, but now, for some reason he could not explain, the words and lines just poured out of him and within a half hour, he was writing the last few lines of a poem he titled, "One Slight Touch.

I wonder, ignorant still, how, once
our senses know, what force, what gay alarm
moves through the nerves, decides and instantly,
in one slight touch, speaks out such poetry.

As soon as he wrote the last word, tears swelling inside of him, a feeling that always swept over him when he knew he had nailed it and said what he was struggling to express. He also knew he hadn't felt that sensation for a long time and though most of his new poems were well written, successful sonnets, none of them brought the rare sensation he now felt when he finished these two new poems in a little over an hour.

While he was typing the poems into his laptop, copying them from his notebook, glancing up at the clock seeing he had been working for an hour and half, then heard the door from the other side of the cabin squeak open. He looked up and saw Emily bare footed, tiptoeing past him at the table and into the kitchen. When their eyes met, she said, "Sorry, I just need to get some water."

"It's okay, I'm just typing up these sonnets, I'm not writing, you're not disturbing me," he said, glancing at her clear plastic water bottle.

"Good. I don't want to disturb you but I drink a lot of water," she said, holding up the empty container.

"Its fine," Jason said and went back to typing while Emily went to the sink to fill up her bottle. After typing a few words, glancing down at his note book, he looked over at her holding the bottle under the faucet while looking out the window, again noticing her slender, petite body, the roundness of her ass in the snug jeans, her breasts, her long hair, noticing the dangling earrings, her small bare feet, felt something stirring. He saw the water was overflowing her bottle as she stared out the window then quickly turned off the faucet.

"It's really beautiful here," she said. "I'm really getting a lot done. It feels good to work here." She paused, "How's the writing going?"

"Good. I just finished two sonnets," he said.

"Wow, really, will you let me read them later?" she asked.

"Yes," Jason said, realizing the sonnet he had written was inspired by her touching his thigh and suddenly felt reluctant, afraid he would be confessing something he wasn't sure he wanted her to know and quickly added, "well, maybe. I'm not sure. I sometimes like poems to rest a few days before I think they are really finished."

"Okay, I understand," Emily said, nodding.

Jason was certain he saw a disappointed pout on her lips quickly replaced by her glancing at the laptop.

"So is that what you do, write your poems in a notebook then type them up," she asked.

"Yes," Jason answered, seeing Emily's expression change to one of fascination.

"This is helpful for me to see how you work. It's interesting. I mean I've read everything but now I can see the process," she said, nodding. "Have you always worked this way?"

"Well, years ago I used a typewriter. I just started using this laptop about three years ago, but yes, I always write in a note book before typing them up. I keep all of my drafts and I have all of my old notebooks somewhere," he said.

"Wow, I wish I could see your notebooks, that would help my dissertation," she said. "It would help me with tracing your use of imagery from your earliest poems."

"Well, you have the poems. I'd rather you not see the mess of drafts and revisions," he said.

She then looked down at his feet and laughed.

"What are you laughing at? What the hell is so funny?"

"You're wearing one grey sock and one blue sock," she said. "And your shirt is on backwards, did you know that?"

Jason looked down at his feet, noticing she was right. "Oh, yes, well, I guess you could call it a mixed metaphor," he laughed. "I'm more precise about the syllables in a sonnet than what I'm wearing."

"It's cute," Emily said then took a deep breath. "Listen, I'm having a problem with one of your poems from your first book, can I get it and see if you can clear something up?" She paused, "Would that be bothering you?"

"No, I'd be glad to help," Jason answered, looking up at her, enjoying how earnest she was, how quickly she went from being light to being serious.

Emily dashed into the other room and came back with his first book, A Patch of Grass.
She moved her chair closer to Jason, opened the book and Jason could see all the words underlined, little question marks and scribbles in the margins. "It's the title poem," she said, opening to the page, "And I am like a patch of grass between the cracks of sidewalk," she read. "Tell me about that, why that image?"

"That's from a long time ago," Jason said, feeling Emily sitting next to him, the book opened in front of them on the table, her arm touching his, the smell of her hair distracting him for a moment as they both looked at the poem. "That's one of my earliest poems."

She looked up at Jason, noticing his blue eyes, her arm and thigh against his arm and thigh as they sat close, hovering over his book. "I know it's one of your early poems, but you made it the title of your book, why did you do that, I mean, why is this poem so important to you?"

Jason noticed how she was looking into his eyes and noticed her blue green eyes, her lips as she spoke, her smooth olive skin, finding himself distracted by how pretty she was, how sweet and serious she was, the feel of their bodies lightly touching.

"Well, that's what I felt at the time," he said, trying to concentrate on her question, "I felt insignificant, like a weed growing in an indifferent world but struggling to grow and live. I saw the patch of grass between the cracks in the sidewalk as heroic, I think."