Monday, August 02, 2004
Scene II: (five years later)
So I met my friend Dr. Freud out for a drink last night.
He invited me to a bar where someone he knew was to read some poetry. I guess my culture vulture reputation proceeds me enough so that when people hear "Poetry Read" their next thought is to give me a call. And that's fine by me.
The poet slid in toward the front of the room and sat, buddha-like, next to a boom mike and a keyboard. He began playing atmospheric chords and when he spoke he spoke in breathy measurements. Occasionally, he took careful sips from a clear glass. The scene seemed to me to be very much like something from Music From The Hearts of Space, the syndicated program of new-age "ambient" music you sometimes hear late at night on local college radio stations.
I'll attempt to reproduce one of the poems here (apologies to the poet!):
We stayed for the whole reading. Afterwards, the poet stopped to thank Dr. F for coming and I'm afraid I scared the poor thing. I torpedoed him with questions: Where do you go to read your poetry? How long have you been doing this? Where did you start? Do you go to any workshops?
"I don't know," the poet said, and looking as though he was beginning to sweat.
And the subject of your poems -- how did you come across them? Do you keep a journal?
"I just kinda made it all up," the poet said. "If you'll excuse me."
Oops!
Good thing I didn't ask for his number!
Lesson I already know: Sometimes I can overwhelm folks.
Lesson I already know: Just do it anyway...
He invited me to a bar where someone he knew was to read some poetry. I guess my culture vulture reputation proceeds me enough so that when people hear "Poetry Read" their next thought is to give me a call. And that's fine by me.
- "What is this poet like?" I asked Dr. F. "What kind of poetry does he write?"
"I don't know," said Dr. F, slouching over his corona-and-lime. "I met him a couple of weeks ago at a dinner party."
"Oh well, whether it sounds like Dr. Seuss or Kafka, I'm up for finding out."
"I thought you'd say something like that."
The poet slid in toward the front of the room and sat, buddha-like, next to a boom mike and a keyboard. He began playing atmospheric chords and when he spoke he spoke in breathy measurements. Occasionally, he took careful sips from a clear glass. The scene seemed to me to be very much like something from Music From The Hearts of Space, the syndicated program of new-age "ambient" music you sometimes hear late at night on local college radio stations.
I'll attempt to reproduce one of the poems here (apologies to the poet!):
I dreamed I was on a highway.Any copyright laws broken? Pretty good stuff, I thought.
And everyone around me was me.
There was a young me, driving a beetle.
There was an old me, driving a Lincoln.
There was a rich me, driving a Mercedes.
And there was a poor me, driving a Chevette.
Each face was slightly different.
Each wearing an experience unique to that me.
But the eyes.
The eyes were all the same.
Each captured the exact same
Core of me.
We were not just all driving along.
We were all moving outward.
We stayed for the whole reading. Afterwards, the poet stopped to thank Dr. F for coming and I'm afraid I scared the poor thing. I torpedoed him with questions: Where do you go to read your poetry? How long have you been doing this? Where did you start? Do you go to any workshops?
"I don't know," the poet said, and looking as though he was beginning to sweat.
And the subject of your poems -- how did you come across them? Do you keep a journal?
"I just kinda made it all up," the poet said. "If you'll excuse me."
Oops!
Good thing I didn't ask for his number!
Lesson I already know: Sometimes I can overwhelm folks.
Lesson I already know: Just do it anyway...