The Poet: 1-2 Poetry Fest

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Drawn in by the unique imagery of a poem they found at the Poem Fest, Gina and Kahir feel like they have shared the author's experiences.

Info

Style: No dress-up component Rewards: 3,000 , 600 , 1 , 1 , 1

Dialogue Choices

I don't want to disappoint them, so I think for a moment and choose a theme.

• Home, Sweet Home
• A Faraway Place

The paper slips from my fingers, and the wind lifts it into the air. I stand on my tiptoes, reaching for it.

• Jump to reach it
• Ask Kahir for help

Transcript

Expand for script.

• There's a high platform wrapped in twine positioned in an open space below the shade of a date palm.
• Papyri filled with poems have been hung around the platform. They flutter like flags in the wind.
• A poet stands in the center of the platform reciting his poem with heartfelt emotion.
• Kahir: "Raising his whip, he doth burst into song. The clamorous clouds charge the dunes all along."

• Kahir: He must be a goat herder.

• You: No wonder Sinbad said the festival reveals another side of everyone.

• Kahir: Another side?

• You: You see, these poems reveal aspects of people's lives we don't know about.

• You: These people are usually defined by their trade. They work as goat herders, cloth merchants, or masons.

• You: But today, they're free to be poets.

• Male Stranger: How right you are, my girl!

• A stranger hands me a piece of papyrus and a pen.
• Male Stranger: Perhaps you'd like to compose a poem of your own.

• You: Me?

• Male Stranger: Everyone here's a poet. Look around you...

• I look around and see many people writing on papyrus.
• You: Should I write about a specific theme?

• Male Stranger: No. Write whatever you like.

• You: (This is more casual than I expected.)

• The stranger gives me an enthusiastic look. Kahir's eyes are bright with intrigue.
• I don't want to disappoint them, so I think for a moment and choose a theme.

Home, Sweet Home

• I sift through my memories.
• I grew up poor, but my fiery heart has always belonged to the city on the dunes.
• You: "My heart is like a grain of sand."

• You: "It beats alongside the hearts of many others."

• You: "Together, we are the glittering dunes. United in heart and in hand."

A Faraway Place

• I lift my head and look off into the distance.
• An image comes to mind.
• You: "I dream of a place far from here."

• You: "Where water falls and sweet fruit abounds."

• You: "Where the trees are green, and the land is less sere."

• I mouth the words as I write the verses down
• Male Stranger: I can see you're an amateur poet.

• Male Stranger: But I find the imagery of your words quite striking.

• You: Thank you.

• Even though it's unpolished work, I decide to hang my poem on the twine encircling the platform.
• Kahir: Look at the variety of poems here. This one must have been written by a naughty child.

• You: This one here is sad. The poet must be suffering from unrequited love.

• Kahir and I continue reading poems, enchanted by the vast array of emotions.
• Among the many poems celebrating the greatness of the desert, the sweetness of love, and the hard work of laborers, I come across one that's truly special.
• Both my tongue and my sword are incredibly sharp,
• but my tongue can pierce what my sword cannot harm.
• I can't help but read it aloud.
• You: That's strange... Why is there only one line? Shouldn't there be more?

• I notice there's writing on the other side of the paper.
• The paper slips from my fingers, and the wind lifts it into the air. I stand on my tiptoes, reaching for it.

Jump to reach it

• You: Fortunately, the poem is still hanging on the platform. If I can just steady it...

• I leap, but the papyrus flutters out of reach.
• I stumble and almost fall.
• Kahir: Careful, Gina. This platform seems sturdy, but we can't be sure it is.

Ask Kahir for help

• You: Kahir. I can't reach that poem. Can you help me?

• Kahir: Of course!

• Kahir reaches up and carefully detaches it from the twine.
• Kahir: This poem? It only has one line...

• You: Yes, but look, there's more written on the back.

• Kahir turns it over. His eyes light up with wonder.
• He runs a reverent hand over the paper as he reads.
• You: (Odd. This poem has nothing to do with the line written on the other side.)

• You: (What a beautiful poem, though!)

• Kahir continues reading aloud in his warm, pleasant voice. Lovely images take shape in my mind.
• Sand dunes, lakes, fires, snowfields...
• At first, the images seem unrelated, but in time they're woven together into a tapestry made of lyrical words.
• Kahir: This poem is exquisite!

• Kahir: It's much livelier and imaginative than what I usually find at the festival.

• Kahir: And the language is exotic. It reminds me of a piece of foreign literature I once read.

• You: It's signed by someone named... Idris?

• Kahir: That's a common name for men in the Full Moon Kingdom.

• You: So maybe it's not a foreign poet.

• Kahir: If the poet lived here all his life, perhaps he's well versed in foreign literature.

• You: Or maybe he's in the same trade as Sinbad. Perhaps he travels around with a caravan.

• A Poet: Excuse me.

• Kahir and I are speculating about the poet's identity when a folk poet shoulders his way between us.
• He hangs his poem on the twine where Idris's poem previously hung.
• You: Excuse me, do you know the poet Idris?

• I hold the poem out, and the folk poet takes it from my hand.
• A Poet: This poem is rather intriguing...

• A Poet: But it could be structured better, and the rhythm needs work. It must be the work of a novice.

• You: Is there a place where folk poets gather to get to know each other?

• A Poet: Most of us are too busy earning a living to gather and socialize like that.

• A Poet: Only during the Manna Festival do we stop and call ourselves poets.

• You: All we know is the poet's name. That's not much to go on. Finding him will be as difficult as finding a specific grain of sand in the desert.

• A Poet: Find him by name alone? That's impossible.

• A Poet: And don't assume everyone signs their real name here.

• A Poet: I've hung twenty poems under twelve different pseudonyms already.

• You: I hadn't thought of that...

• The day reaches its end, and the sun begins to set. The audible recitation of poetry wanes with the fading light.
• The poets leave one by one. Kahir and I reluctantly depart as well.

• Sinbad: So, Gina, you found yourself a guide for the Manna Festival.

• Kahir escorted me back to the mansion, and now Sinbad's taking the liberty of teasing me.
• Sinbad: How was it? Did you enjoy the festival?

• You: We found many enjoyable poems at the Poetry Fest. It was definitely worth the trip.

• You: One poem in particular enchanted both of us. When Kahir read it aloud, I felt as if I'd been transported to a different land.

• Sinbad: Sounds like I missed a good time. Too bad I was so busy with the inventory.

• Sinbad: Who wrote this masterpiece?

• You: We're not sure, but I do wish we'd found more of his poems.

• You: The poem was signed with the name Idris. That's a common name.

• Sinbad: Did you say Idris? What a coincidence.

• You: Why? Do you know a poet by that name?

• Kahir leans forward, waiting for Sinbad's answer with equal anticipation.
• Sinbad: There are many talented people living on the outskirts of the Full Moon Kingdom. I often visit them.

• Sinbad: One such person is named Idris. He lives near the west gate of the capital. I've helped him in the past, financially.

• You: So that's why you're always going to the slums. And you say there are many talented people living there?

• You: Could it be...

• Sinbad: Yes, but Idris might be the most talented of them all.

• Sinbad sighs.
• Sinbad: Unfortunately, poetry doesn't fill one's stomach. Idris is struggling. His roof leaks, and he's sick.

• Sinbad: For a time, he was just skin and bones. So frail a gust of wind could carry him off.

• Sinbad: I offered to give him some money, so he could continue writing poetry without worrying about how he'll buy food.

• You: And how is his condition now? Is he better?

• And how is his condition now? Is he better?
• Sinbad: At first, he rejected my offer. He said he couldn't accept charity.

• Sinbad: I told him it wasn't charity, just a favor between friends.

• Sinbad: He finally accepted and wrote a poem for me in exchange.

• You: Even now, he's barely getting by, but he hasn't given up on writing poems.

• You: What a resilient person

• Kahir: I had no idea there were talented artists living in the slums.

• Kahir: As a prince, I'm out of touch with most of the people who live in the capital.

• Sinbad: You learn more from going to places rather than reading about them in books. We never stop making discoveries on our travels.

• Sinbad: Even people and things you might be familiar with have another side yet undiscovered.

• Kahir: The royal family is recruiting court poets.

• Kahir: Idris is a brilliant poet. His writing is lyrical, and his imagery has an exotic quality.

• Kahir: I think he's the right person for the job.

• You: What a great idea!

• You: If Idris is hired as a court poet, he'll finally earn a proper living as an artist.

• Kahir: Yes.

• Kahir: Sinbad, will you tell me where to find Idris? I'd like to visit him.

• Sinbad: Hmm...

• Sinbad: He might not want to work amid the glory and riches of the palace.

• Kahir: Don't worry, I won't force him.

• Sinbad looks troubled, but he relents and tells Kahir where Idris lives.