THE POETRY READING

And this is the way it had been done for years in the

provinces

With a nice young assistant decked out in tweed and

denim

Standing up at the beginning to evoke some rusty

quiddity

Or baroque valentine of the curriculum vitae

To tweak the vanity of the esteemed visitor,

Who would just then be wringing from a backpack

A handful of faded books and the new precious one,

That had just from the soul been freshly delivered

And pressed in the black binder, from which

The torqued syllables would soon come springing.

And this would be as a wonder to some:

Four who had already heard what was to be spoken

And loved or dismissed it; twelve who had dreamed

Of the ones they had heard of attending,

Who would take off their clothes for anyone;

Five who knew the name, but not the work

They had characterized often as promising or

derivative;

And two, who had blundered into the wrong room,

Thinking to learn of crocodile habitats

Or occult heresies of the Spanish inquisition.

And still others would be here except that tomorrow

They would be called on to name the elements,

Trample a sonata, or defend a thesis;

If it did not happen on the night of the tournament,

Or on a day when debaters were flapping like

puppets

From our greediest and most altruistic intentions;

Or at an hour when Christian body builders

Had donned crucifixes and greased pectorals

To mount scaffolds at the center of the coliseum

And hunch in such oddly hopeful positions.

But perhaps the university is not the place for poetry.

Picture our venerable line of shamans, bards,

And nervous wrecks, pulling themselves up

From the sticky kitchens of Bohemia

To ascend the rungs of respectability,

And now one drones, or whinges, or signals with a

fist.

Oh it is especially icky when the poet's

More virile in his photograph, the African's

Too pale, the lesbian is insufficiently militant,

Or the lights make that noise of frying fish.

After all, not much happens in this lounge

Or small auditorium under the library,

And yet those who are here hear, don't they,

Among these lubricated delicacies for the auditory

senses,

A thing that is right and singular to the heart?

Oh it does not always have to issue from guilt

Or some lingering inferiority to the British.

It can be done plainly or in elaborate meters.

Afterwards, someone still unheard from

May actually go into a room alone and read it.