Ok I just have to tell you real quick what happened last night. Friend and I went to Saratoga Springs to see a bunch of poets. There's a sign-up sheet at the door, for the open mic portion, and somewhere in the middle of the line-up you get to hear a whole half hour of the featured poet. Caffe Lena is a legendary spot, it has great vibes, and Carol Graser is a great host/poet of the event.
I didn't bring any knitting because I thought I'd be good and I thought Yes I can sit there and actually Not Knit for 2 hours. It's poetry, I might take some notes along the way, and I didn't want to make the poets think I wasn't listening. Besides whoever heard of anybody knitting at a poetry event?
There were about 23 poets in all, quite the list, and as varied as the day is long. I had no trouble whatsoever listening, without my knitting in hand.
The featured reader appeared somewhere in the middle, and I shall not mention her name lest there be any repercussions, after all she is published several times in real volumes with ISBNs on them and all that. She has won awards (though I don't know which, they didn't say). Excitement and expectation grew.
I didn't bring any knitting, and I was OK with it.
The first poem skillfully talked about a certain type of pasta and stood for entangled lovers. No I am not doing this justice here at all because it really was a good poem. The whole thing was read in a type of sing song which matched the cadence of the poem beautifully, it sounded like an Italian folk ballad and was quite charming.
I was OK without my knitting.
The next poem --- oh I forget the title; it doesn't matter. ALL the poems were good. Very well crafted. I was going to lead up to it slowly for you to appreciate the small sense of torture, but I just have to come right out and tell you that ALL the poems were recited in the Italian folk ballad style. Really quite maddening, because none of them were Italian folk ballads.
And I didn't bring my knitting.
I was a bit chilly and draped my jacket around the front of me, which allowed me to wring my hands unbeknownst to others. I couldn't stop thinking about the sock I wasn't knitting at that moment. The drapes which darkend the windows where mauve colored in alternating shiny/matte stripes, and they made me think of knitting patterns. The bit of brick wall off to the side reminded me of knitting patterns. The sing song continued, there was almost no way to listen past it. Metaphors got lost in it, the ear just couldn't get to them.
Some people had to suddenly get up and use the bathroom, Friend across the table gave in to yawning fits. I picked away at imaginary hang nails under my jacket.
She did eventually finish, and I even considered buying that volume of poems, just to be able to read the work over and really see the words. But I know that that voice would come through every time I looked at those poems....which is really too bad. Poet Falls Victim To Own Voice.
And I SWEAR I will never travel without sock knitting in my purse ever again.