Thursday, January 14, 2010

This Heavy Craft - bad and good poetry

Went to a book / poetry reading on Wednesday night. First, there was incense.

A little hole in the wall pub which shall remain nameless, delightful in a "wow-we-are-so BOHO" way, reeked of the stuff.

Second, there was ACDC. I hate ACDC. After a long day of toil, one hopes for calm and tranquility. At least I do. A decent glass of plonk. But this was a "beer" joint, not a plonk joint. I knew it instantly. No good red or white to be had. Affected in its way, of course it served its plonk in grotty looking tumblers. The kind of place that looks better in soft lighting at night.

The poetry was BAD. Laden with texting and un-funny almost unrecognizeable pop culture references. I tried not to nod off and let my head hit the wall behind me. Would have some 'splainin' to do, since it was quiet but for the "poet". And the occasional burst of somewhat forced laughter from the audience.

Apart from my fantastically pithy and erudite husband and the funny friend "released from childcare bondage for the night" Corin, whom I suspect was my brother in another life, since we banter like siblings, but in a much nicer and good non blood-letting familial way - the evening of poetry and prose was not so much fun.

Michael also read from his new book, The Lizard and Other Stories.

We sold 1 book, and gave away 9 Corin bought the book. We had enough from the jar passed around for a cab home. Wuhoo!

Last night though, in the sanctuary of my own home, I drank fine vino blanco. A new one - recommended by another Kathryn....Caliterra 2008 Sauv. Blanc Reserva, Chile. $9.95 @ LCBO.

Tonight we throw some frozen pizzas in the oven [I love those Dr. Oetker cheapies, they are so delish!], open some red, and toss a salad together....with our mates the Dawson Marches.

Hey I might even read some REAL poetry. Here's to you PK Page. Rest in Peace.

This Heavy Craft
P.K. Page

The wax has melted

but the dream of flight


I, Icarus, though grounded

in my flesh

have one bright section in me

where a bird

night after starry night

while I'm asleep

unfolds its phantom wings

and practices.

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