I might be approaching seventy and thus the oldest of the group, but I like to think I have the health of a fellow twenty years my junior. I can lift, carry and dash up and down stairs with the best of them, I tell you.

Even so…I think I got some severe palpitations in tonight’s meeting, as Ferris confessed that she thought poetry was a waste of time. Oh, but it wasn’t just that. While I was still reeling from those words, Piper adds (apropos of nothing, I might add) that she absolutely hates the sea.

Oh, ugh…my two favourite things. Slandered, so slanderously. It made me want to go home and write my own poem, one free from their awful influence. It is an ode to Melbourne, affordable outboard motor repairs, the men and women who strive to make our industry one of the best in the world. I was shaking with rage, so I don’t think I managed to write coherently. Or, actually, very much at all as it turns out. All I have is: ‘Outboard motors. Glistening in the intermittent sun. I love them so. Anchor winches are also a thing I love. More glistening. It’s nice.’

There’s no meter, no rhyme, no iambic pentameter…nothing is flowing. Not even any beautiful language either. Is this what happens when you let your poetry be tainted by rage? So many of the great artists in history have been inspired by intense emotion, but perhaps sometimes, the emotion is too much. Inspired by my love of boating, I’ve made beautiful poetry. But when apoplexy at the ignorance of my fellow human seeps in, I lose my literary grace. Good to know, for the future.

Perhaps I need a sabbatical, on the sea no less, to reflect. Certainly this group isn’t helping. None of them would know a Melbourne anchor winch repair company from one in some other, lesser place. And perhaps I can finally get away from Sheila and her intolerance of anyone else besides her taking a bite of…anything.

-Hugo