For those who think of me as exclusively a science fiction and gaming geek, I would politely remind them that no life is simply quantified and labeled. When I was a sophomore in college, I wanted to change my major from Electrical Engineering to Humanities. By then, I had been exposed to two inspired professors in that department at FIT, Drs. Patterson and Haberhern. Then as now, I had a passion for writing, literature and history, and had developed an appreciation for art, at least to some degree. But it all came down to an issue of parental prerogative, which, for those who don't know, translates to money.
I remember a conversation with my father around that time arguing there were many forms of entertainment that didn't require money. One of the perks of living near a major university is that they open events to the public as outreach. Where else would you get to hear a three-time US Poet Laureate read his work for free? Of course, my father wouldn't be caught live or dead at such an event, even if they had an open bar and let you smoke. Though, oddly, he has an interesting memory from when he was in college of a talk given by Robert Frost back in the 50's. As I said, no life fits neatly into those tidy, little boxes we all admire.
Last night, we drove over to the main campus of USF to see and hear Robert Pinsky read in a hall in the Alumni Center to a full house of about 250 people. Behind the podium glass doors led out to a courtyard lawn surrounded by spreading, southern oaks draped with Spanish moss before a silver sky and the setting sun. Like the scenery in a play, it formed perfect backdrop for the evening. Mr. Pinsky had no trouble keeping our attention focused in the room.
When he entered, he looked familiar to me, perhaps from one of the many programs we've seen on PBS about the Dodge Poetry Festival. During his introduction, I recognized the phrase "The People's Poet" and could hear Bill Moyers' voice saying it. He struck me as a deliberate man, both in his demeanor and delivery, and in repeating back each question asked for the audience to hear. We were in the second row, close enough to see the movements of his mouth as he purposefully formed each word.
Robert Pinsky is a man who knows words, knows the way they sound. He knows voiced and unvoiced consonants. He knows not only the difference between the sound of the "th" in "these" and "thick" but also where each hits in your mouth and throat as you make it. The same with the initial "s" and the ones following in "scissors." He says he's been thinking about the sound of words for as long as he can remember. I believe him.
To him, poetry is a vocal not a performative art, a mixture of the music and the message of words. The medium of a poem is the voice and breath of the reader for the body of the audience.
At one point, he recounted hearing another poet read a poem about 9/11 at the Dodge Poetry Festival and catching a line about all the Jews getting out of the towers. He heard the crowd cheer, and thought: They aren't anti-Semitic, they just aren't listening.
When he reads, you have to listen. Even when I became transfixed by the music of his work, a line or phrase would grab and shake me, and send my brain scrambling to review what had come just before. There were times when the audience reacted to a line, usually with knowing laughter, and the next would snap me back to see that laughter might have been premature as his words and direction turned.
He read his own work and a few works of others. He read several poems, paused to take questions, then read several more. Some were as long as 3-4 pages, one was only two lines, another only 26 words. He read some twice in succession, the first time noting certain features as he read it, the second straight through to let it sink in. He read "Samurai Song" twice as well, once near the beginning of the program, and again at the end to fulfill a request. As someone in the audience noted, the inspiration and focus for each poem remains off the page though you can see it plainly if you know where to look. My favorites were the ones about ordinary items, "Shirt," "Book" and "Other Hand."
His answers to the questions were as fascinating as his poems. Like many writers, he wanted to be a musician when he was young. Not a rock-star but a jazz great. After a particularly uninspired clarinet performance with his band one night, he decided that he was using music to avoid words. He said words were his destiny and couldn't be avoided.
He was asked how he knew when a poem was finished. For him, it's a physical sensation, like sanding a piece of wood, at some point after you've sanded with the very finest sandpaper, you run your hand across the surface and you know it's done. Or you repeat it to yourself as you fall asleep at night. Or, you ask your friends.
He was asked if he set out to memorize his poems. No, but sometimes it just happened. Did he practice his delivery by recording himself as he read? Never. Like most people, he doesn't like the sound of his own recorded voice. When we speak, our voice resonates through the bones of our skull, so when we hear a recording of it, it sounds higher than it should, like all the bass is missing.
His advice to would-be poets: Listen to words like a cook tastes food.
While his delivery was more polished than I will ever be, it was not perfect. He tripped over a word in one of his own poems, and stumbled once in reciting a poem by Ben Jonson from memory off the cuff. I don't say that as critique. I say it because it warmed me, because it gave me hope. It also made him human.
I plan to add the books of his own works from which he read (Jersey Rain, Gulf Music and The Figured Wheel) to our poetry collection, as well as the anthology of other people's poems in his collection titled Essential Pleasures which includes a CD of him reading each aloud. All poetry is meant to be heard rather than read silently. It's more engaging that way.
In a literate society, I think we should open our Congresses and Legislatures and commencement ceremonies with a poem rather than a prayer. Last night reminded me that, at their best, one is not vastly different than the other.
© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III
