The reading on Monday night, a public recitation previously referenced, was a dream framed and kept. And there was wine and lush foodstuffs==no strangers to poets.
So it was me, Margo Berdeshevsky and Joannie Stangeland at the Cornelia St. Cafe. I've done enough readings I don't have much of anything to write here PER SE that wouldn't sound precious, not that precious doesn't have its place somewhere or other.
It might be the friend factor that moved this reading ahead in the pantheon of readings, pals who showed up. One is just beginning to understand I'm a poet (there is at least one dimension of my life that doesn't intersect with stanzas and line breaks). Three great friends I met in group formation a few years ago appeared, smiling and brilliant. One friend who knows most portions of my life and for that is highly treasured (and for wit and artistic perspective) watched. One new friend who may always be just out of reach but visible showed to support and/or out of curiosity. So nice very really very nice. One who'd published me.
& of course my co-readers had their fireflies and moths so by the end of the reading it was as if I had been heard, something I long for in some sense of needing completion or a sense donut-holeness from early years.
I have assembled a second poetry collection, and in reading some of those poems, it became real, viable, something to place in the world.
Two glasses of Riesling and a French rendering of lamb. New stories from new people. A little post-dinner idiocy on my part (I was born with Ginsberg ennui). The evening was textured, Rembrandt rich with a whole lot of stuff going on. Once more I became a poet. Once more.
No comments:
Post a Comment