A Poetry Reading!

Many  responses to Ava-doting yesterday! Pleased! Surprised! You betcha!

One person asked if I contemplated making Badgerdrift into a collection site for the anthology named Ava Belle Badger. 

SO  WE ARE TWO WEEKS PAST THOSE LINES!

To paraphrase an old adage, “Into every agenda a little life must fall!” Duty held all the trump cards for over a week.

I realize that if I desire faithful readers, I MUST be a faithful writer. So before I begin my posting for April 26, let my ask you to respond to this question -- do you wish to both read and write your own comments on Ava Belle Badger’s growth? I know I will.

Now, for today.

Yesterday, April 25th, I attended a poetry reading at our Douglasville Cultural Arts Council. The featured poet, Alice Shapiro, currently lives in the Douglasville area and has published one book of poetry, Cracked, with a second due out in June and a third next year.  The second, Alice Lovelace from Atlanta (co-editor of an anthology entitled Crux)-- a more mature poet and the better reader.

In glancing through the volumes each poet brought for sale, I was amazed at the number of poems they had produced. While I obviously did not give any work a careful reading, I did notice that Ms Shapiro’s was much more free verse while Ms Lovelace’s made more use of traditional poetics. Also, Ms Lovelace’s works had a power, a depth, a range of knowledge with which I identified -- I felt as though I were with a kindred spirit.

The attendance was small -- a total of 20 including the poets -- but quite enthusiastic. Again I saw that writers desire an audience, desire readers, crave response and reaction. And I also felt the vapidness of our traditional replies -- "That was a great poem, I loved it." Even my response, “Your poetry is very strong. Thank you for sharing.” seems empty. The poem said something specific; the reply said nothing specific.

While I felt more akin to Lovelace, I had more interaction with Shapiro. She wishes, I think, to be innovative and to involve her audience. But I can’t, no I shan’t criticize one who has accomplished what I aspire to accomplish -- to have readers hear and respond to what I write. So here is my Easter poem.

                 At the Tomb

Standing at the empty tomb looking

For the crucified, surprised the stone was

Rolled away, that angels sat atop and

To the side, the women, Peter, even

John Beloved could not believe their eyes.

Can I go to that empty tomb to see

The truth myself? To verify the tale?

Traverse the centuries, span the miles, to stand

Bereft of faith before a holy shrine

To see a truth more credulous today?

Mary, Mary Magdalene and other

Women wept with fear to hear the angels

Proclamations. “Seek you Jesus? He is

Risen! Gone to Galilee. He’ll meet you 

There!” Incredulous disciples can’t believe.

Should I in new Jerusalem before

The tomb behold again an empty crypt

With mobs of tourists pressing close, with stone
Removed, with shriveled guides in monologue

Instead of angels, earthquake, napkins folded --

Angels speak again to Peter: “He’s not here!”

Mary meets the risen Jesus, knows his voice 

Not his visage. Peter, Andrew fished and 

Ate before they knew, while others walked the

Road Emmaus listening to the resurrected.

-- I leave that conjured tomb whose emptiness 

Cannot confirm a risen Christ. If not 

The tomb, then where’s that self-revealing Lord?

I hear His voice most clear on dirty streets
When passing beggars, widows, sick and maimed.