It was lush inside, but simultaneously a mess, with papers lying everywhere, and old magazines, and posters on the wall of Elvis and Humphrey Bogart. The poet, by contrast, was pristine. Her hair was white-grey and cut short on her slightly ovaled head, she wore a knitted scarf and light blue woolen jumper and if I saw her on the street, I would have easily confused her with one of my professors. My guess would have been law, not literature. She was almost too well-kept for my idea of a poet. I’d always imagined poets as living in basements, on boiled noodles and failed dreams. 

“Hello,” I said. 

“Oh, hello, it’s just so wonderful to meet you,” she said, as if I were the poet in residence, not her. 

We sat facing each other – me on the red sofa and her on the blue. This was some sort of Matrix reference, I gathered. Did that mean that I was in reality, and she was simulated? But of course, there couldn’t – really – be a poet in residence. The idea of it was absurd. She was given a year to write at Balliol without any obligations. The money arrived in her bank account each month like magic, and in return she could talk to students if she felt like it, or perhaps write something, like a poem, if she felt like it. But there was no real restriction. The job was such an absurdity that I could only gawk at her when she explained the details, muttering this or that, and handing over a cupcake and a cup of tea.

“Is it strange being back in Oxford?” I asked, idly. 

“A bit strange. But not too much,” she said. 

“Surreal?” I asked, sitting forward in my chair. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said, reclining back, “It’s nice meeting the different students, everyone from different backgrounds, but it’s even better knowing that this time I’m not the one competing with them.”

She emitted a loud, rolling laugh, high in pitch that made her jawline tighten.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t say that to you. Of course these days, I’m too old to compete with anyone but myself. You learn that – you really do, that there’s no one else to compete with but you.”

I nodded, warily. 

“I came to Oxford at eighteen knowing nothing of what I wanted to do with my life,” she continued, “I studied media back then, everyone wanted to get into television. This was before the internet, youtube or tiktok. I dreamed of the silver screen at night, like everyone, and in the darkness, I could almost touch it. And you, what do you study?”

“I’m doing a masters in literature, focusing on artificial intelligence in Sci Fi novels,” I said. 

“Fascinating,” she said, staring at me, “So… what college are you at then?”

I took a long time to reply, while her eyes bore into my skull. It was difficult to think of a way of explaining it to someone like her, someone in her position, with all that she had. Could she really relate to me anymore?

“New,” I said, quietly, the lie hidden in my tone, soft and deferential. 

“New College, you say? Yes, yes, my brother went to New. Astrophysicist, dreadfully boring fellow. Sad to say. Not that everyone who goes there is exciting but you’d expect a little something, wouldn’t you? A little panache. That’s just what I recall… looking back, you know, the panache.”

“Sorry, the panache?”

“Yes.”

“Huh?” I ask. 

“I studied at Oxford in the ’90s, but it doesn’t change much, you know? It is in a permanent state of stasis, this place.”

I stared at her, and blinked. I’d been thinking of the idea of stasis all morning. 

“So… what can I do for you, Josh?” she asked. 

“I want to be a writer,” I said, seriously, trying to maintain eye contact, “But I’m struggling to balance the two – writing and academic work. I’m worried that I’m tearing myself in two.”

“You probably are,” she said, laughing, “You see it’s the nature of the thing, isn’t it. Over-achievers, always running from the black eye of burnout. When I was your age… I had just started working in television. I would get up early every morning to write before work. It’s best to do that, to give all your energy to writing, the energy you have when the sun rises, when the thoughts are fresh, when the gears are turning. If you leave it till the end of the day, then nothing is left.”

“Really?” 

“In my experience, yes.”

The thought concerned me, that nothing would be left. I was beginning to think that there was already nothing left, that I had burnt it all out on an early draft of my novel and now, the feeling, the passion, the intuition – the right word, phrase or tone – was gone, vanished like a balloon into the morning sky. The last time I had sat in front of an empty word document, nothing had come out. 

“It’s hard to balance work with writing – especially if writing is your calling. Are you working on something right now?” she asked, sipping her tea. 

“A novel,” I said. 

“That’s great. Truly. On artificial intelligence?”

“No, not at all.”

She blinked. 

“Oh.”

“Do you think it’s better to write something smaller, like a poem, because I’d have more time for that -” I began. 

She was smiling, so I stopped myself, then started again. 

“It’s ridiculous sounding, even as I’m saying it.”

“It is,” she said, “Writing concisely takes more work, not less. But you know that already. You’re smart.”

“Thanks.”

“When it really comes down to it Josh, you can tease out the perfect work arrangement, the right desk, the right pen and set up, but when it really comes down to it, what really matters is that you concentrate on happiness.” 

“Happiness?” I asked. 

The thought depressed me. 

“When a writer is happy, they produce their best work. That’s how I wrote my poetry collection. By making myself wondrously, gloriously happy.”

“Oh.”

She looked down and away, at the clock on the wall, and I was reminded of my doctor. 

“I’m afraid we’ve run out of time,” she said. 

That reminded me of my doctor too. I thanked her and walked cautiously back toward the oak-paneled door, passed the photos of Bogart and Elvis hanging on the walls, the old records and piles of leather-bound books, the leather armchairs and crystal candelabra, but right before I got to the door, she tapped me on my shoulder. 

“You’ll get there, I really think so,” she said, smiling, “It was lovely meeting you.”

“I’ll see you around,” I said, knowing I would never see her again in my life. 

Outside, the first yellow buds of spring were coming into bloom, popping out of the grass in explosions of life and colour. Students were walking quietly between neatly trimmed hedges, under the sandstone arches, their footfalls fading and leaving me entirely alone. Under an old oak tree, I sat amidst the blooms and scribbled down a few lines in my notebook – on happiness and love and all that I wanted to be. I took one last glance back up at her window, and could have sworn that I saw a bobbing grey head, and bespectacled eyes staring back at me. But no, looking again, I couldn’t see anyone there. There was so much left to do, I thought to myself. My fridge was empty and I needed groceries.

@JoshKrook