I’m awash and spinning in feelings of gratitude and wonder, complexity and joy. I’m in the midst of one of those moments or days or half-days (half-daze) when the words seem inadequate or too abundant or too slow to keep up with the pace of thinking in order for me to wrangle them into any sort of shape or coherence. I’m thinking about the meaning of poetry and community and connection. I’m thinking about my personal journey, my ongoing journey, my inadequacies, and my minor desires that, at times, feel entirely unburdened by desperation. I want to experience so many things and I want more out of life, but in the sense of being deeply appreciative of everything that is already within reach.
Last night, I attended a conversation with the poet Ada Limón. It was, as I heard one woman describe it to her friend afterwards, delightful. Light full. Full of light and lightness. Limón has a presence that radiates joy and humor, quirkiness and kindness – most of all, generosity of spirit. To the woman’s description as delightful, I would add intimate. This is why I’m thinking about the intersection of poetry and community and connection – it fosters intimacy, or at the very least has the ability to unveil intimacies that we didn’t know existed. On my about page here, I hint at this as one of the reasons I write and some of the things we demand from writing and art and poetry: show me something new, show me something familiar, show me a part of myself. On more than one occasion I found myself nodding in agreement with Limón. I, too, am at the age when I find myself increasingly fascinated by birds and nature. I, too, am finding beauty in “the mutilated world.” I, too, begin many of my writing sessions by first turning to the words of poets I admire and trying to let those words flow through me. I, too, find value and peace in the small life, the life of quiet observation.
The host of the conversation structured it in a way that had Limón read a section of her book, answer a question or two about that section, and then read a poem or two that the host felt connected to the section she had read. I recognized most of the poems, and one poem, “Salvage,” was one of those poems I had turned to for inspiration for my own writing. Because Limón’s poems often have endings that “deliver,” the hushed and attentive audience always let out a sigh of gratitude and recognition at the end of each poem. It was nice to be in community with an auditorium full of people who see value in poetry.
That being said, I’d be dishonest if I didn’t say that mixed in with the feelings of gratitude and appreciation, I felt hints of inadequacy, jealousy, and something that approached shame. It made me wish I were a better writer. It made me wish I had re-discovered writing years earlier than I did. It made me wish I wish I had never let it go in the first place. I sometimes wonder if I’d have more to show for my writing had I stuck with it after college. It made me wish I moved in different circles – made me want to spend more time with artistic, smart, and thoughtful people. Some of those people were in the audience. Seated two rows ahead of me was the author Daniel Handler (most famous for the Lemony Snicket series) and on the other side of the auditorium I saw Rebecca Solnit, an extremely talented writer, activist, and thinker.
A social media post from another poet who attended showed that Limón and Handler, and I assume other literary folks, went to a nearby bar after the reading. There was a time in my life when I might have been on the outer rings of those circles (once had drinks with the poet Billy Collins, and spent years working with literary critic Harold Bloom). I’d like to find my way back to those circles – and not because these are famous writers, but because they seem like genuinely good and thoughtful human beings.
I usually leave these types of events thinking I need to “get more serious” or I need to cultivate more friendships and connections… thinking I want more of this in my life. Those two things can be a bit of a chicken and egg scenario. Being more serious (or accomplished) leads to cultivating new connections, and having new connections can lead to getting good feedback or being inspired. I distinctly remember the last time I saw Limón speak, when she was in conversation with the poet Matthew Zapruder. I was struck by the fact that they send poems to each other for feedback. It’s something that’s lacking in my current efforts – I operate, mostly, in a vacuum and I’m not sure how to go about changing that.
The other strange and intrusive thought that formed during and after the reading was about partnerships – both past and potential future ones. I kept thinking about how a lot of the artists I admire or encounter have a loving and complicated view of the world. They seem to have a deep understanding of how joy disappointment, wonder, and loss are intricately and inextricably interwoven. Limón talked about living the small life, the life that notices things – and I thought, yes, that’s where joy resides. I felt an appreciation for past partners who had that warmth of presence. I also felt a sense of validation in my desire (perhaps requirement) for any future partners to have a similar warmth, a similar presence. I think that’s what I find so off-putting about many of the dating profiles I see. Many people seem to define “living life to the fullest” as checking off a number of countries to visit and having instagram-worthy experiences which makes them seem incapable of extracting a full life from being present and observant.
I left last night’s reading feeling deeply contemplative. I left feeling connected to the abundance of culture and thinking that exists here in the Bay Area. I left feeling stuck on how to proceed: with the immediacy of the walk home, but also where and how to reflect. What to do next to get more of this in my life. I started to put my earbuds in for the walk home, and decided that I wanted to be fully present in the world. I wrote a few notes in my phone: the sight of a crumpled and disheveled person sleeping on the sidewalk and the sound of two men shouting at each other at the bus stop juxtaposed to having attended such an erudite and cultured event; the tulips taped to the glass walls of an entryway to a store – how I love the orange-red ones; the sleek designs of the cars in a car museum – classic cars, concept futuristic cars; the sight of a woman practicing her cello, visible through an upstairs window.
Instead of going straight home, I went to the bar – my local bar, a different type of community. A guy I know asked me what I had been up to during the day. When I told him I was just coming back from a poetry reading, he insisted I tell him more. How did I get into poetry? Did I write? He shared that one of his relatives (perhaps a grandfather) was once the president/owner of one of the major publishing houses. He said he never got poetry (the guy, not his grandfather). I shared what Limón said during the reading: that it’s probably the only art form where people experience it once and write it off. It’s like saying I heard one song, didn’t like it, I guess I just don’t like music. I suggested that maybe he hasn’t come across the right poem. But more than anything he wasn’t looking to talk about poetry or even literature, he was looking for a way to connect and talk about his life. Bar banter is a different type of sharing and a different type of poetry – the bullshitting, the debates, the tipsy conversations that spill into the philosophical. A different friend came in, followed by a few others. We hung out. Eventually, I went home.
I have no grand takeaways other than a sense of fullness and connection. I needed to write it out to understand it. I needed to sit with it to know I want more of it.