A few weeks ago I gave a poetry reading at the library in Brookline, NH as part of a poetry slam – a “nonviolent poetry slam” as we came to call it. And truer words were never spoken because the “combatants” in this slam included approximately 10 people, three of them children under seven years old.
I think the kind-hearted organizer was concerned that the tiny crowd (can we still call this a crowd?) might cause me dismay. And believe me, I would love to read my poems to an audience of hundreds one day. But on this drizzly April night, it seemed perfect to sit in this comfortable library room with other people, old and young, who love poetry with all its possibilities and pleasures. I read my poems and then sat down to listen. A young man in his early 20’s rose and read poems that showed both great sensitivity to language and sound, and also an impressive political and social consciousness. After him, we heard a little girl read a few of her favorite Shel Silverstein poems, all with verve and panache. The organizer shared one of her lover’s poems, and another librarian read a few by Jane Kenyon until we prevailed on her to read a funny one of her own, which she did, and we loved it. By that time, the little girls had all caught poem-fever and were eager to stand up and read more by Shel, and one of them shyly read a poem she’d written herself.
The whole event just felt warm and real, and left me more than ever glad to be leading a poetry life of listening, writing and reading. I felt that we truly celebrated poetry that night, and that National Poetry Month was duly honored.
Afterwards, we sat for a quarter hour or so talking about the way poetry helps you to pay attention to the world, to connect with other people through shared experiences and the fun and delight of language and music, and all the places you can travel in poems without leaving your chair. The librarians needed to close up for the night, so a few of us stood outside in the misty rain still talking, reluctant to part after the beautiful evening.
And then one of our party excused herself to go help a friend rescue frogs and turtles trying to cross the road on the wet April night.
And the young man returned to the house where he serves as a poem-writing nanny.
And I went home to write a poem, and to count my lucky stars.
