I met him at an open reading
in the basement of a church in Greenwich Village.
He stood to read—curly blond hair to shoulders
granny glasses, slight body in cotton turtleneck and jeans
baritone voice with arrogant edge and upper crust enunciation.
I heard his poems and wilted
like a plant dried up by blazing sun—
his grasp of life art literature far beyond his twenty years
a gift with words and range
to match his subtle thought.
At a table extra long—probably for pot-luck meals—
most of us with poems like scraps of bread
he spread a feast like the finest chef.
My eyes found Ree—with genius herself
whose look in reply said 'Isn't he something? '
I looked to others round the table
expecting other mouths agape at this display.
But they were absently shuffling papers and looking away.
Glen, this is an absolutely captivating scene that you have unfolded, releasing inner contemplations from my mind like candle balloons set adrift as I work through the narrative and experience the range of emotions touched upon. Excellently rendered. Bravo! ! :) S
thank you! glad you found this one- the first to comment! i like this one because it describes something all too common at open poetry readings- we poets not listening to the others but, instead, distracted, thinking about our turn, our poems... -glen
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
At a table extra long—probably for pot-luck meals— most of us with poems like scraps of bread he spread a feast like the finest chef LOVE this poem. well written and you set the stage so very, very well for that stinger last line-which, of course IS the poem and what I so love about prose poetry. That line would have gotten lost in a short story, instead of taking center stage. Where it belongs. Thanks...S.
Glad you like it, Sandra. Thanks for your strong affirmation. And if you've been at open poetry readings you recognize the all too typical behavior of readers. -Glen