To clearly yet cognitively disseminate your thoughts of anything takes effort, but less endeavor, if witnessed with your presence. This is my visual understanding of my junket to a poetry reading.
As I enter an art gallery of Florida Southern College, where the Poetry reading would take place, I am greeted with deluded and abstract works of Asian art. Some of these artworks are quite abhorring, while others are self-righteous, displaying the hopelessness mixed with sordid resonance for all to see. One, which stood out in my mind the most, was a photograph of a guy, head first in the ground, with his legs sticking straight up in the air. What the heck? In the central area displays a massive book (dictionary/encyclopedia no doubt) with no pages, for the pages are intertwined, interlaced into an article of clothing above, with a ball of paper from the book, lazily laying near it. I touch it, making sure it’s real. At once one of the ushers comes to me, stating I should not touch anything. (What…ever)
An announcer comes, some plump lady with an over obsessive love for poetry no doubt, telling us to take seats, for the readings are about to commence. The spotlight itself was quite bright, with the picture behind appalling to my eyes; some wide, cross eye lady with way too much yellow makeup, an eyesore if you ask me. There was placed a microphone on the stand for all to project their luscious and endearing words, from what I heard as random thoughts strewn together, as a stream flows on air. I watched in utter gaiety as the novices would recite their relish works, barely audible, intent on staring down as they read. I was even asked to deliver something of my own, which I insightfully refused, clarifying I was here for strict observation, discerning all verbal thoughts that forecast the scene. I heard the timid and the bold, the old and the young, the debuts and the veterans, the lovers and the loveless, the introverts the extroverts; all with sincerity in their prattle, all wanting to be heard, with all their arranged, and rearranged words of elocution. I was taken aback by some of the things said, realizing the thoughts they write defines who they are as an individual, and this one guy talking of pussies and vaginas, that’s taking it a little to far, considering the diverse and heavily female presence among us.
We took an intermission, where we were invited the luxury of subs and drinks for all in another room. For awhile I pleasantly discoursed with my peers, acknowledging the past poets gone of how well they had done. (This was done with careful intent you see, for if anything, an inspiring poet is dying to be admonished for the great exposure he/she has just been through.) Back in the morbid art gallery I witnessed some more ambitious poets, writers, even storytellers relaying of their past, making known to us, whether we liked it or not. Two of my professors from Southeastern even came up, one still flirting with his wife after who knows how many years of marriage, and the other speaking of religion, with a dog and his shoe, leaving us dumbfounded by such an analogy. As the readings drew to a close I become mesmerized with all the talent which surrounds me. What a life to have to just write about whatever you feel like. As we take our leave I look for the girl who invested the time to invite me to such an eventful night; and find her, drawn to a Chinese dress made of blue satin glass. I tell her its time and we elusively leave, touching on the memories gone of my first poetry reading.
note: next time I will add some pic’s, how stupid of I to forget…
