On Meeting a Famous Poet

It may look like I don't update my blog, but really what happens is this:

1.) I have an idea, a good one, for an article
2.) I write
3.) I edit
4.) Doubt and worry sets in that my article is a piece of trash
5.) I revert to draft, or permanently save as draft, until I have edited it to perfect perfectness

OR

1.) I have an idea
2.) I start to write
3.) Too long, I never finish

Edgar Allan Poe said something about this: write only short stories so you don't bore the reader and also don't bore yourself. I've already said too much in this introduction, so here's what I really wanted to write about: meeting Eavan Boland.

A long time ago, my mom's college class was going to a poetry reading, and she invited me to go because I was into poetry and writing and stuff. I was super excited, because I had imagined it would be a seedy underground place, filled with smoke, with hipsters and cool people snapping their fingers and saying things like "jive" and "groove." Something like this, with less music.

Anyhow, when we got the address, I was surprised to figure out it was at a tiny little arts theatre, dedicated to some famous writer or something. A well-known hole in the wall.

I instantly felt underdressed when a man in a tuxedo opened the door for us, only to feel relieved when he told us we were at the wrong side of the building. The real theater was very small, with two stages, and delicate, deatailed architecture and ceiling decor that made you look up so high you'd almost snap your neck trying to see it all. There were people in informal outfits milling around; my mother got our tickets and joined her teacher, a jolly woman with a PhD who insisted on my calling her by her first name. The classmates trickled in. The doors opened, and we were shown into the theater.

It was actually rather small, if I remember correctly, for a theater: about the size of an elementary school gym. The stage had three women seated behind a pulpit. We took our seats. I realized that there was a mural on the ceiling and that above us there were balcony seats! People hidden in the shadows! They murmured softly as everyone began to fill in.

I remember someone shoving papers into everyone's hands; they were all identical, with a poem on them written in someone's scrawly, looping handwriting. I tried to read it, but I didn't really get it; poetry is difficult enough without having to decipher the hieroglyphics it's written in.

People around me shushed each other, and a spotlight snapped on, highlighting the pulpit. A woman introduced the poet and their program, comparing her to the famous women of Shakespeare's time, and announced that the reading would begin.

The poet was an Irish woman, Eavan Boland. She didn't sound Irish at all. Rather, she sounded like an Englishwoman; she reminded me of a gentle mother or grandmother, and she had a warm and friendly laugh and a good sense of humor. She sat down, adjusted her glasses, remarked on her lack of an accent (to people's amusement), and began to read.

Ms. Boland began by explaining her poems and her background. I can't remember everything, but I do remember most of what she said. I remember that she spoke of her people, and their struggle for freedom, and to define themselves and to keep their language, long dead, alive.

She spoke of the fighting, and starvation, and love. She talked of a couple who died together, and were found, frozen to death, the man's stiff body warming the woman's feet even after death. She spoke of a little Irish girl burying her identity to become English (that explained the accent). She read a simple narrative and talked about books, shelves of them, and we smiled with her.

And then I heard a sea of crumpling noises all around me, and saw people unfolding their papers. I did the same with mine, because she was about to read the poem written on it. But I didn't end up reading along with her as she spoke. Instead, my eyes were focused on her, and they were full of tears.

Why was I so moved?

Because I felt the force that flowed underneath her words that night. When she talked about her childhood, she wasn't just talking about the loss of an accent - I felt her pain at the loss of a language, the same pain that worries me daily as a first-generation child of immigrants.

And when she talked about the starvation of her people, my mind wandered to a place I'd heard stories of long ago, when my mother would comb my hair and sing to me before bed.

I was teary because her pride for her people's history, and for their culture, and their triumphs, was my pride in my own, and her every word was resonating with me. This woman, whom I'd never heard of before tonight, had showed me everything I'd always felt before, in words.

Later, when she said she'd be selling her book, I stood in line and silently grabbed a copy. I shuffled forward, my brain full of the things she'd said and the way she'd said them.

And when it was my turn to meet her, I stood there for what seemed like an eternity.

There she was, in front of me. So much to say, so little time.

I wanted to ask, can you speak the language of your forefathers? Does it hurt you that you can't? Do you weep when you think of the lost deeds and songs, the stories and smiles, the pain and the pride and the essence of your ancestors, lost?

I wanted to tell her that she'd almost made me cry, but the only words that came out were, "It's a pleasure to meet you, and I really enjoyed your reading."

On the car ride home, I held a copy of her book to my heart; it was inscribed with her blessings for me and my sister - short, sweet, and impersonal.

The book is still with me, but the feelings have somewhat faded because my mind is always clouded with a thousand things, especially now that I'm entering the busiest years of my life.

However, occasionally I will reach up to my closet's highest shelf and dust off the cover, attempting to recapture the raw emotion and spiritual connection that I felt that night when Ms. Eavan Boland performed her ode to her people.

One day, I hope to perform my own.

Summer

      How can I tell that it's summer rather than spring?

      I can tell when I can hear the buzzing hum of a lawnmower far away in the distance. I can tell when the sun envelops me with a warm glow that makes me feel like a lightbulb in a blanket, but in contrast, the wind blows soft and cool, slipping by, caressing me with airy kisses as it goes.

      It is summer when, after the dull gray skies of winter, all the colors burst exceptionally vivid. As I look outside, the grass is a fresh green, bushes with sharp yellow leaves grow in the backyard - cherry blossoms shed milky white petals on the cobbled stone steps leading down our porch and past the white picket fence.
To the right, trees line the street with every color imaginable: pink, mauve, crisp granny-smith-apple and deep forest green. To the left, an American flag snaps in the wind, a wind catcher's silver tinkling accompanies the breeze, and stone rabbits peep out from behind bushes in the neighbor's garden.

      Children are laughing and playing by the pond, and adults walk their dogs or push strollers along or pull red rumbling wagons, bulky with babies and toys. You can find teenagers, cellphones in hand, ambling near the pond, having been lured away from their computers by the joy they hear outside their windows.

      Summer is a time for porch swings to creak, doorbells to ring, scooters to unfold and flip-flops to appear. The pool will open and school will close, sending home legions of kids. Soon, you will be able to hear the chatter of crowds, splashing and whistles, the music-box jingles from the ice cream man and one night, the hiss crackle popping of fireworks and soda cans as we gather to watch the sky light up with patriotism.

      The sun, like a magnet, draws us outdoors to meet our neighbors and friends. We exhale the stale air from indoors, replacing it with the fresh oxygenated knowledge that we are alive.

      Sometimes we overheat, and flock to fill up stadiums, theaters, and the mall, where we wander aimlessly, blasted with icy jets from air conditioners, until it's time to step out into the heat again.

      Summer is the barbecue smoke that means charred meat. It's the kids poking bugs with sticks, their clothes covered in soil, heads bowed together, one ear pricked to listen for the sound of their mother's voice.

      Summer is when memories are made and filed away so that in the chill of winter, when each breath manifests as a puff, we can close our eyes and feel the sun on our skin again. Summer is what we count down to, and hold onto, and the time of the year when flowers, trees, birds, bees, the wind, the water, and everything else is at its liveliest.

      I can tell it's summer when I smile upon waking up, and smile upon closing my eyes. Summer warms my heart and lightens my spirit, and I hope it does the same for everyone else, too.

     Happy early summer to you all, and many more.

Books Are My Best Friends

I make lists when I'm bored, so I made one mentally the other day, of all my close friends.

And I realised something. No matter how long I've known them, how many secrets we've shared, or how much I like them, not one of my friends has come close to Books.

Books are my best friends.

Books make me laugh. When I'm with Books I forget everything and just enjoy our time together.

Books are honest with me, and tell me the truth. When I want to know something, I turn to Books. Lately I've been looking more to the Internet, but Books have been there for me longer.

Sometimes Books make me mad or upset, but I always get over it. I've never fought with Books (have you?)

I have my favorite Books in my room with me, the pages all worn and dog-eared, and when I want to I just flip to my favorite pages and read my favorite scenes and passages, over and over. I've memorised all the words.

My friends sometimes borrow Books from me, and I miss them badly until they return.

Books are kind to me, and take me to faraway places. We travel everywhere, through time and space and reality. Books are silly, serious, and strange at the same time.

Books are diverse, and beautiful. Sometimes Books can be vulgar or disgusting or rude, but I love them all the same.

Books will always be there for me. People change, the times change, but Books will never change.

Wouldn't it be great if people could be like Books?