Poetry reading is one of the most enriching of all social activities. And it is an activity uniquely human. Despite the myriads of ways a nightingale or a skylark sings to the fading night or the rising morn, they do not indulge in anything that could be called the chanting of poems, those sweetest songs of humanity that often “tell of saddest thought”.
The allure of poetry reading lies in its ability to unite and to enchant, to reconjure what is beautiful collectively. A group of people assemble around the table, like in an ancient Greek symposium. Together or one by one, they chant poems about death, love, war and peace, allowing the music of words to pierce the guarded wit and pass into the panting heart beneath. Poetry reading does not commence from a fixed point, and no one anticipates where the flow of verses might lead as it weaves and dances, ignites or simply glows. The foe of a captivating poetry reading is the individual who insists on deciphering every single line. Poetry reading is not about solving a complex puzzle; it is like diving into a lake, with an aim not to “immediately swim to the shore”, but to “luxuriate in the sensation of water”. There is no intellectual victory or defeat in poetry reading. In truth, the finest participants are those willing to embrace endless ambiguities and succumb to the musical flow of sounds. Just when people think they have grasped the essence of a stanza or made acquittance with a poem, the next rereading unfolds, adding a brand new layer of meaning and possibilities. They are ready to start anew.
Perhaps it is owing to my experiences in intimate bookshop gatherings that I find poetry readings possess a unique charm. The fellow attendees are not deeply entwined in each other’s personal narratives. Instead, they choose to completely immerse in the world of poetry, to give those mending hearts, unspoken fears, burning desires and hidden vulnerabilities a local habitation and a name. Together, they chant poems; together, they chant their souls. No more words are needed; silence can tend to the rest. This is the unutterable bliss of poetry reading.