Meathwoman's Diary: I ranted to a stranger and she wrote me a poem

The Imbolc fair was held in Dublin last week, featuring events and activities in honour of St. Brigid. I signed up to create a 'one-of-a-kind poetic masterpiece' with a poetry oracle. While I didn't know what a poetry oracle was but for €5 I figured it wasn't too hefty price to pay in order to find out.

When I entered the tent, it was exactly how I pictured it to be. Incense. Cushions. A table full of odd trinkets. No crystal ball but then I didn't have much time to look. The oracle was a veiled woman, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She offered me a blanket. Whether it was nerves or the February cold I gladly accepted.

The woman's name was Osaro and she asked for either a funny story or a rant. My sense of humour made sure the funny story was out of the question. So I had no choice but to rant to a complete stranger.

My rant didn't get off to a very good start. I struggled to speak, pausing often while waiting for her to respond in some way. But she just sat there, her veiled face giving no indication as to if she had even heard me. That's when I realised how liberating this entire thing was. There was no judgement. No right or wrong answer. The only voice in that tent was mine as I told her what bothered me. Work, relationships, travel. Every now and again when I was running out of steam she would ask me a question, sparking my rant and rave once more. My childhood, coping mechanisms, struggles with my own writing. This is what I imagined therapy to be like, just without the incense and the dream catchers.

When I had finished my vent she gave me a kalimba, an instrument I had almost bought during the pandemic when I was mindlessly shopping off Amazon. This was where the poetry came in. As I plucked away she wrote with a feathered quill. I felt like a child being distracted with a toy while she worked. "Now continue where I left off," she said and handed me the poem. Mind you, my love for reading poetry trumps my skill at writing it. We took turns until the page was filled.

"And now we read it," she said. For those who've read my poetry (my mum), they would instantly know who wrote what. As expected, her poetry was, well, poetic. But somehow (maybe by some occult power) she made my words sound good. My rant was no longer a rant. Instead, it was a poetic version of my worries which didn't seem so worrying anymore. Maybe it was voicing my struggles aloud or seeing them as a pretty poem but there is truth to feeling better after a good vent. Whether it's done lying on a couch, in an office or seated on a divan in a mystical tent, sometimes you just need to let off some steam. For those wondering what this 'one-of-a-kind poetic masterpiece' looks like, it's bad enough one stranger had to hear it, I won't punish all of Meath too.