A Frog and a Summer Breeze

A Frog and a Summer Breeze

By Andre Ricardo

The great machine was situated at the end of the room. It was a horrible yet wonderful contraption with a myriad of different cogs and wheels and gears and motors and knobs. In front of this great machine was an ornate wooden table with a pen and pad of paper resting on it. Beside the table was a similarly decorated wooden chair. Antique floral patterns were meticulously carved into every curve and contour of these pieces of furniture. A velvet cushion eased my descent into the chair. The rich amber hues of the glass oil lamp complimented the dark varnished table well. I looked briefly into the dancing flame of the oil lamp before I picked up the pen and began to write on the paper.

            Describe a summer breeze.

I ripped the paper from the pad, pushed the seat back, and approached the great machine. As I looked at it it seemed to have a certain readiness. Though there was a twinge of fear. Perhaps I was just overthinking things. It was just a machine. I fed the paper into the great machine’s brass input slot. For a moment there was silence before a gust of steam erupted from the machine. The gears turned. The motors whirred. The cogs groaned. The knobs jutted outward and inward. Pistons collapsed up and down. More steam. More activity. At last, out came a piece of paper from the output slot.

            A description of a summer breeze depends on several factors, including but not limited to location, time of day or night, and whether there are any substantial obstacles like trees, rocks, mountains, or artificial structures. Furthermore, a summer breeze is perceived differently by every person, so there is no real way of describing a summer breeze that can be applied in a universal manner.

I crumpled up this pedantry and tossed it over my shoulder. The machine had not stopped whirring. The great machine ejected another page of paper.

            A summer breeze is a calming, refreshing feeling on an otherwise swelteringly hot day that can elevate one’s mood.

I pocketed that one for later.

            A summer breeze? You are asking me to describe a summer breeze? Don’t you know already? Do you have any idea what I am?

I gave the great machine a light kick to remind it who was in charge.

            A summer breeze is wind.

            A summer breeze is a breeze that occurs during summer.

             Love is a summer breeze.

             Death is a summer breeze.

            A summer breeze carries one’s dreams from one hilltop to another.

I grew tired of these mediocre responses, so I decided to just work with what I had already gotten. Clearly, the great machine was just rambling at this point. I gave it a firmer kick this time and pressed the stylized “stop” button. After a final gust of steam, the great machine fell silent again. I approached the table and chair again and sat back down. I played with the gilded pen against my lower lip for a moment before I placed its tip back down to write a new command for the great machine.

            Write a poem about a frog.

I returned to the great machine but paused before inserting my request. It seemed displeased as if it somehow knew my lack of concern for it. Like it knew I used it as just a tool for my amusement. It felt abused. It felt like a machine denied its purpose or more that its purpose is denied by reality.

            A frog

 

            At noon I spotted a frog

            Which sat upon a log

            This frog was green and proud

            And produced a croak most loud

           

            The frog was not alone

            For there beside a stone

            Sat a fat brown spider

            With lots of grass beside her

           

            The frog looked up at the sky

            Sure enough, he saw a fly

            He lashed his tongue up straight

            But alas, he was too late

 

            The fly had a terrible fright

            And was careless with his flight

            He

            And right into spider’s web

Damn thing couldn’t get the last rhyme. I guess I can’t blame the great machine, there really aren’t that many things that rhyme with web.

            A frog sat still and true

            Amidst a lake most blue

            And in the sun he had his fun

            Until the day was done

 

            And then

 

            He croaked

I can’t help but feel like I have read something like this before. Does the great machine know not to plagiarize? Or maybe I am just remembering wrong. Either way, this isn’t very good.

            A frog decided to write a poem

            But he didn’t have hands

            Or a pen

            Or any paper

            And he didn’t know how to read

 

            I hate poetry

I could recognize now the great machine was tired. The steam came out thick and warm. The gears clanged angrily against each other. One of the knobs sprung from the face of the machine. A few drops of dark liquid seeped from the wound. I pressed the “stop” button once more, but this time the machine kept going. It gave its indifferent master one more creation.

            The frog sat on a log

            He waited for a fly to seize

            And as I feel I shall lose another cog

            A buzzing insect drifts along a summer breeze

I carried this poor attempt at art back to the table. I sat down and carefully studied each loop and turn that made up the letters of the words that made up this poem. I held it over the oil lamp and watched the paper be alight. The fire spread from the center of the paper and across the words the great machine had written until none were left.

Photo: Pixabay