The poetry reading started not with
a bang or a murmur, but with well-maintained introductions. I arrived just as
the first reader was introduced – Blake something – or something Blake. I had
biked here and was in all likelihood not the best smelling human being in the
room, so I was a little distracted when they announced his name. He is an
established author who has been published a number of times. He is known for
his humor, and he writes prose. Tonight, Blake will be reading his short story “The
Best Man,” which he admits to the audience is about his brother. It is
hilarious. Irreverent and mundane, the story details the narrator and his
brother’s trip to a tailor to get their tuxedos fitted. The story seems to me
to be an expose of the relationship dynamics between the narrator (who, under
first impression, appears to be a pretty solid reflection of Blake) and his
brother. The short piece details exactly how the narrator feels about his
brother and life in general. The whole thing was a surprisingly realistic and
uncensored (at one point the narrator ponders “rubbing one out” to a Victoria’s
Secret catalogue) portrayal of what goes on inside a man’s head. I thought it
was wonderful.
Following the reading I take a look
around the room. There is wine and cheese in the corner. Pretentious? Yes. Delicious
looking? Of course. Do I want some? Most definitely. Unfortunately I can’t
reach the wine and cheese due to the massive crowd guarding the concessions.
That’s when I notice that the room is full of people from my class who, like
me, had waited till the last possible reading to attend. It’s always nice to
know you’re not alone. Yay for procrastination. The next reader comes up, a man named Tommy
who will be reading us a few of his poems. Now until three months ago I had
never really appreciated poetry. And while this quarter has changed my
impression quite a bit, I was still shocked at how much I liked this guy’s poetry.
He writes about the most profound things – the imprisoning feeling of small
towns or the ubiquity of love in all aspects of life – and the most commonplace
– masturbation and the sadness of losing your favorite chicken and waffles
restaurant. His work truly showcased the potential for story and poetry in
every moment.
Tommy was soon replaced by prose
writer Kendra Fish. I definitely caught her name because I thought Tommy had
said ‘Fitch’ in his introduction of her. He did not. He said Fish. She was also
very impressive. She read excerpts from a story entitled “Both, Sister, mother,
More.” The narrative was difficult to follow because of how much she jumped
around during her reading, but from what I gathered, the story was about a
gypsy woman and her daughter trying to live a normal life in Belgium. The story
dealt with heavy issues like self-identity and sexuality extremely well, never
trivializing or demonizing them. It is a story that I can see coming together
to be a masterpiece examination of character growth and the mother-daughter
relationship.
At this point my back was beginning
to get tired from standing in the same position for an hour. But luckily the
last person, a woman named Megan, began reading her poetry just as I was
becoming uncomfortable. I did not like Megan’s poetry. Perhaps my mind was
tainted with the pain in my back and odd smells emanating from my dried sweat,
but I found very little intriguing or strictly poetic about her writing. To be
fair to Megan, she is a phenomenal writer; she handles imagery better than most I've read. However, I found her poetry to be lacking in any strictly poetic
qualities beyond vivid description, which should be a quality of all good
writing. I thought her descriptions were beautiful and well-conceived – I just wouldn't call them poetry.
And thusly the night ended. My
classmates and I ushered up to the front to get Tommy and Megan’s signatures
and we were off for long bike rides home and whatever else awaited us in the
night outside – now armed with the knowledge that beauty and more can be found
in every second we are living.
