Poem. Poetry Reading

Poetry Reading

All I could see after my attention was directed were the tight, black curls on the woman in front of me.

All I could hear for the first ten minutes was the sound of the microphone banging against the podium and the screams of the sound system.

After the first “poet” read, I thought my version of a memoir would go like this: The quaint, noble villagers wore crisp, white shebatis and the soft, leather merkibas so popular with the upper class while they shot songbirds in the garden.

And I would add something about the sun. The sun is always relentless when it is a story-tellers sun.

After a half hour of the work read by the missionary’s daughter , I didn’t hear a thing I hadn’t heard or read before, and I didn’t learn anything new.

I was validated. A mediocre writer throws a lot of sadness and death at their audience for affect and if animals are killed or if water or someone’s life is poisoned, they do their best to show emotion, to apologize, or to censure.