oh wond'rous day

words fail me, but here i am stammering on the page. just in from gazing at the constellation of new jersey poets which i am so enthralled by. i am not a woman who is easily impressed, nor do i like the popular, just because it is.

when the final poet read and it was all over, i leaned to my friend and said,

that was a buzz kill.

there is a difference, methinks, between the institution of poet and the great poet. some are merely ubiquitous. some are truly gifted. the two are not invariably bound. as was evidenced today. my opinions were met with favor, which pleased me, because the crowd i've fallen in with are heavy hitters.

the thing that strikes me is that we're all so fucked up.

the big deal poet who coughed during my poem a couple weeks ago came up to me and i said,

i am trying not to like you, but you're damn good.

thanks.

he said.
.

you coughed during my reading bastard.

.

sorry.

but i have to give him props for being a fine fucking poet. though, unless your eyes launch out of your head and the cough escapes that way, there is no fucking excuse for coughing at a poetry read. can it. squelch it. explode if you have to, but get out of the room and cough your lungs up. just shut the hell up while someone is reading.

i had bronchitis,

he said,

i wished i didn't cough during your poem, i like you. i'll make it up to you.

.

right.

then i directed his attention to the line that was forming of people wanting him to sign books and talk to him.

your public waits.

and i took my leave. i don't like clamoring for attention, from anyone.

so i went and retrieved my book and gave it to him when he was less engaged, or at least engaged with the matriarch, who loves me and i love, and understands.

i held the book out to him,

it's beautiful,

he said.
.

thanks.

i'll review it on my show.

great.

and i walked away going,

oh shit.

.
what can i say. i was asked,

when is your next reading?

i don't know. i'm in the winging it phase of my career.

it was nice to be asked by a big deal poet. nice to be on the radar.

i don't need to be famous, i don't need to be published in their ways by their standards (whomever they are). i just need to do what i must and make my own way.

and so i shall. too wired now to rest, so maybe i'll edit some more, but it was nice to see him pouring out his guts to me, backing slight steps as he talked. a true poet. doesn't know when to shut up or what tmi means.

and we sat around the table at dinner and asked each other,

where does your therapist live?

laughing and having the most dysfunctional conversation possible. fragments all.

it was delightful, but i'm home now. and i need to remind myself, they are home too, we're back in our worlds.

and i remember the hands of the poet who had just read, he held it out for me to see, quivering ever so slightly. (he's amazing, i don't know how such a one could be nervioso. and this, my dear friend, coughed after a poem finished, while the rounds of clapping were drowning the noise, and i whispered in his ear,

good man for not coughing during her poem.

.

you bet.

he said.)

i offered to punch him before he went up so he wouldn't be nervous, but he didn't answer, so i let him go unaccosted. though i wanted to.

it was a good, very good day indeed.

intensive soon, and these, my friends will be there, i can't wait...

one woman said,

you have done as much for me as the matriarch

(which was the highest praise i've ever received). she's pouring out the poems and letting herself write because i told her the bad poems need to be written just as much as the good ones do.

and this pleases me, that in my own little obscure quirky way, i'm making a difference. this is all that i've wanted. and i'm grateful.