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Friday, October 29, 2010
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 This is a friendly group, but me being me, I'm still withdrawn.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.
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.
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1 comments:
"The heat on my face almost burns... I imagine they can see the red flush as my pulse shakes my body."
So many times in my life have I felt that exact same way. And now, knowing for once that I was on the outside of that feeling looking in, it makes me feel a little guilty that I didn't even notice it. Not that I can think of anything different that I would have done if I had known. After all, the last thing you want when you feel that way is any sort of attention or recognition.
Then again, there are only two ways to lay that particular anxiety to rest. One (and this was my go-to method for years and years and years) is to escape from and avoid whenever possible the social situations that give rise to that feeling. The other is to push forward, go through the fear rather than around it. Do the things that a part of you believes will earn the scorn, reprobation, or disdain of those observing you, and discover in doing so that the fear was irrational, was wrong.
"I'm just the biggest introvert in this party."
It felt weird to read this. The crown, the title, the championship belt I had worn for so long that it felt like an essential part of my identity, was pilfered from me so quietly and subtlely that I didn't even realize it was gone until it was pointed out to me.
There have only been four Poetry Club meetings so far this year. I've attended all of them, but did I speak at all at the first one? I certainly didn't share a poem, or even an opinion on someone else's poem I don't think. At the second meeting I brought the courage to share with the club a poem I liked, and for the third and fourth meetings you all made me write my own poems to share. Scary, but I'm glad I did it.
I liked reading this review. I hope Kristen attends again.
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