Today Versefest bursts out all over the downtown with venues in the Byword Market at the Mercury Lounge and family and youth poetry workshops, and back at Arts Court and over at Ottawa U. Some events are competing time slots. There’ll be 10 readers or workshops leaders plus the after party of social. Although, after party or no, it does continue tomorrow with some more excellent programming too.
Last night was at the Arts Court with a pretty full room, too big for the reception room that seats about 50 – events went into the auditorium. It was a warm friendly crowd. Familiar faces to cheer on were greatly appreciate. There was a characteristic of Versefest mix of demographics, and of new and familiar faces. Good to see. Doors open about half hour before the show so people come early to browse books and see who comes to catch up with or talk shop.
I’ve mentioned before. It was a pleasure to hear him read them again. There’s such a musicality to them. There are thoroughly thought thru in order of reveal, sound, and concept yet come back to playful rather than tight. Nothing half-assed. His poems do depth and humour.
Each person has their own music, and this Versefest is a tower of song, but still while Taylor orchestrates some complex patterning within line of the brass section, I’m more kettledrum with a Snare kit. However, we’re all where we’re at.
And to perilously extend this metaphor, Susan is one-man orchestra since she did pieces solo that her troupe, Geode, did with instruments and chorally.
Susan McMaster shared a secret. Did you hear it?
She did a retrospective of works from the last 25-odd years. Her selected came out from Black Moss 2 years ago. Her “Crossing Arcs: Alzheimer’s, My Mother, and Me” is looking at a 3rd printing. It excerpts verbatim quotes from her mom and charts that challenging territory.
For my part, I timed out all my material so I’d know how long it would take to read and match it to the slot. The more scripted I am, to the word, the more room there is for improv, and reading the audience.
I read some poems from Between Stations, some from Thirsts and some new poems.
New poems I shared were love poems, mentioning hubby and I would have our 242nd month anniversary tomorrow. And what goes better with that than bubbles?
Hubby was so kind as to take photos. (Do I look like Stuart Ross here?) I’m instructing to cross out the poem on page 18 if you have the book and email me for an errata because the poem as it stands there is dead, dead, dead.
My new version:
refilling, after Lao Tzu
a jug is made from clay
but made by
the space it contains
and made by the time
in the hand-memory
of those who have been
holding it so long.
It is from Kay Ryan poem and thisLao Tzu parable.
Ryan’s poem is from The Niagara River, p. 50
A pitcher molds
the air in it, dividing
from the air beyond
the air it holds. And
should the pitcher
vanish, something
would take a minute
to escape, a gradually
diminishing integrity,
a thinning pitcherful
of pitcher shape.
After that came Capital Slam, but with 5 hours sleep and no food since a salad breakfast, it was time to go be Lady and the Tramp over some stringy poutine.
Bet you can’t guess what the title of tomorrow’s post will be…