Inside The Hearts' Walls

Another review is written of the Poetry Club meeting:

This one is from Kristen --

Quiet chatter amongst two men fill the gap that is normally known as silence. When I came into the library, I wasn't expecting to be semi-eavesdropping on a conversation; I was expecting there to be nobody in the Reading Room. I wanted some alone time before - I am actually nervous. I'm wondering if they're here for the club meeting or not. This is the first club meeting I've been to in awhile - to be honest every club I've been in I've half-assed them all. Attended a few meetings but never have been involved. I see another person come in and find a place and as another group of people if they're here for poetry club.

And then the dance of tables and chairs begin, as two staff members arrive. Awkwardly at first but assembled with ease. A familiar face appears though I've never personally talked to him. I'm the shy, quiet observer, so this is going to be difficult, I can tell already. I'm attempting to type quietly.. I don't want my thoughts to disappear into the black abyss that I envision my mind to be, but I don't want to disturb the listeners, nor the narrators.

As there is the new kid in the group (which I always seem to be) a round of introductions takes place. I say hi to everyone, personally, so as not to seem rude. It feels redundant, but necessary at the same time. I quickly absorb the faces into my mind's eye; I now have a photograph of everyone tucked away. This is a friendly group, but me being me, I'm still withdrawn.

Happy poems, heavy poems, humorous poems that get to the gut and the heart of everyone in the three dimensional shape. Chris reads the above post to the group, I've already heard it. Hearing it again reiterates to me that the familiar face is brilliant with his words and how he strings ideas together; an intricate web has been woven. It's so great it's intimidating and inspiring. The more I listen and observe to everyone, the more I learn, the more I feel for them. My heart breaks, my chest physically hurts, but I don't want to expose myself just yet. The heat on my face almost burns... I imagine they can see the red flush as my pulse shakes my body. I can't speak (not that I had intended on speaking much in the first place) - my mouth has been stilled (zing, allusion). These poems got me good. Unexpected. Wonderful--

Thought train interrupted. Someone is eating what sounds like chips and isn't in the circle. At first it strikes me as rude.. it's distracting me. But then maybe he just wants to listen to the crazy people jibber jabber. I like it though.. Listening to the individual diction of these individual humans.

The other young lady speaks - I've seen her once in the cafe.. I think. I would have never imagined the power of her voice; the emotion, I can feel it in the way she reads, how her voice quivers. Eye contact happens a few times, and I feel as though she might expect me to speak.. maybe everyone does as I remain silent, recording my reactions for only a few to see. I hope I am not withholding, I'm just the biggest introvert in this party.

My name is said and my stomach drops. I'm getting called on. Terrifying. Exciting. I don't have to say a word; the group keeps talking which voids whatever it was that was going to occur.

The silence after everyone leaves is somber... eerie. Their words and sheer presence leave an imprint - I feel like there are ghosts here. Even if the chip guy with the book is still sitting here.

A maintenance man comes in and complains about the tables and chairs not being in the right place. "They've got them all screwed up... they don't know how to do anything right around here."

A part of me feels like saying: "Excuse me, but art has just transpired here, and you missed it." But he might bitch at me, too.

I figure this: http://lbcommuter.com/2010/10/16/meet-lbccs-new-poet-laureate/ article deserves a link from here.  It's an article on LBCC's new Poet Laureate for the year, Whitney Smith, that appeared in the October 16, 2010 issue of The Commuter.  The Poetry Club itself recieved some small mention as well.

London Calling said...
   As I sit waiting in the back reading section of the library for the
poetry club to start, there is a fatigued but quiet anticipation in the
air. Next to me sits a staff member taking count of the back of her eye
lids. Another patron sits quietly pondering the magazine in her lap
while unconsciously nibbling at the tip of her thumb nail. Furiously
pounding away at his keyboard like it has caused a personal
unforgivable offense, a man works on a paper. There are a few others.
Some are working on homework; others flaunt the movie they watch on a
tiny phone in obliviousness. Meanwhile the girl sitting next to him is
yearning to see what’s more interesting than her as she is draped over
his arm. They quickly leave as they learn what is about to transpire.
Personally, I don’t know what to expect. When I think of poetry clubs,
I think of movies like “The Dead Poets Society” or “So I Married an
Axe Murderer”. There is a small dread in the pit of my stomach.
   As Chreece, the man who invited me, enters with two unknown guests,
they quickly expunge the other occupants with questions of, “Would you
like to join our poetry club meeting today?” Moving aside the tables
and arranging the chairs into a circle, Chreece injures a participant
that dreads the stay. As the nine people gather, filling in the spots of
the newly minted but well remembered circle, Candace shares a poem to
start. “Limelight”. It expresses how being in the open and
unadulterated sunlight is better than that of the reflected or unnatural
light. A small discussion goes on about the beauty of being in the
natural light.
   L’gordonwe takes the stage. Somber in attitude he gently and
quietly starts off reading with his head down. His body language shows
that he is closed off, but the words he expresses are his soul laid
bare. The choices that he wishes could be made over again. His piece
that I titled “Next time” stills all mouths as he increases his
cadence and volume.
   Expressing slight timidity, Margaret follows up with the thought of
listening. As we listen to her, I hear a curtain that lightly flutters
between her deeper understanding of the words that flow forth, and the
images that grow in my own remembrances of when I have failed to
listen.
   Chreece now shares. There is a minor quiver in his voice as he
reads the words which recall the memories that make his emotions swell.
Though he keeps on with a smooth staccato that brings forth the very
winter; we feel the crisp air and the bitter chill. The very elements he
experienced out in wild mountains. Surviving by the very wood he hand
chopped and carried to keep his family warm. We all remember to breathe
when spring comes.
   Getting up to leave early so I can keep my next deadline, I feel a
sense of regret. What is the next person going to share? What vivid
landscape of emotions and thoughts am I now going to miss? This was
nothing like what I had in mind. As I sit here typing this, I can’t
help but think that these few are true wordsmiths. They don’t just
scribble down ink. They put immense thought and effort into each
sentence, each word, and each mark on the paper. It is felt. I don’t
know if I’ll be attending their next meeting, but I know that I
won’t think of poetry clubs the same way anymore. And if I’m ever
invited to another meeting, it won’t be with thoughts of dread.

Another excellent meeting of the Poetry Club at LBCC happened on Tuesday October 26.


We read our poems related to the assignment: Friends.


Next week's assignment is: First Lesson.


We meet at 3:00pm each Tuesday in the Hot Shot Cafe.