Due to my recent adoration for Anne Carson I believe my last day dedicated to Poetry started with viewing her, walking hand in hand with her husband. Certainly happy with the lack of recognition that London mostly gives. It is incredible how these poets let themselves go by the river and it is even funnier how someone from yesterday’s panel saying ‘we do not arrived here floating in the river Thames’ can be found contemplating it as if it was a mirror of the soul.
My thoughts are gathered. One of the poets recognises me, I can see it in her face. She is one of my favourites too, for her wonderful readings. Her published book is designed in a way that looks exactly like the traces of the personality she gives away. It is in fact a mirror. In a silvery physical sense, in a inner and metaphorical way. Today, her poem talks about big themes: war, migration, family. It was a continuous narrative of ‘My mother said…’, ‘my father said…’, ‘my brother said…’ and ‘my grandmother said’. I struggled with it. It was poetical, but one could easily give away his own attention to the green jeans of the poet beside her. Mine drifted to the youngest poet trying not to burst into laugh. Fo that reason only, I looked away. It is his turn after. He asks for a moment before he starts. ‘I am very touched’, but still he wanted to laugh. And I with him. Not because the theme was funny, not because it was said with a Mexican accent. Only because it was contagious. It was poetry without words.
It is said that the biggest problem of our society is the human ming and ignorance. Which to a certain extent everyone should agree. Entering someone’s mind, poetry and literature in general are changing it, influencing it, developing it. Acknowledging this ignorance and this “treatment” could be the reason why we love reading. But it is not. In fact, the reader believes in the timelessness of poetry because he strives towards timelessness himself. In fact, we, readers, follow the poetical lines of words steadier than a train in its track because in other place, some other time another mind is describing what we feel, as a character, as a person. Sometimes even better than if we wrote it ourselves. And without saying a word, we find comfort from words. We fit in to a world that only writers talk about.
There is a big discussion in the room, this time about collective emotions, a poet relate it to propaganda. The filthiest word of the last seminars. Of the world really. While another one believes that collective emotions should exist. Both are right. Not only because a single truth does not exist, but also because it is easily understandable that both feel the expression in different ways. And for that, I’m grateful. Because I agree with both. The session finishes with an interesting and powerful point, ‘all kinds of language are a potential work material, it depends how it is used’. To which the last poet simple replies ‘No’.
We finally allow ourselves to freely laugh.