369) the sexiness of poetry

poetry & food 10/14/2012

Saturday night I went to the California Festival of Poets at the Hammer.  Dana Goodyear read from the work of Thomas Gunn, and the line, "What crowds, what jostling mobs inside of me" struck a chord. I felt this sudden spell of calmness.  I felt a sense of romance take ahold.  There were moons hovering under the ceiling suddenly, and I felt my love for Los Angeles and the written word.  This past month, I've been attending readings and film screenings.  I've been interrogating my values, forging connections with friends, past and present, and dodging the impulse to hit the floor.  Irony of ironies, my ex-husband has called seeking relationship advice, and we've laughed over the phone about the sitcom moments from our marriage.  A year ago I never dreamed such a talk could seem natural.  Some days I've stared into the abyss of my existence and found this bouquet of tulips staring back.  What I'm getting at is despite the growing strangeness of each vertiginous day, I'm beginning to think that being alive on this planet can be good.  Even when things go quiet, someone is playing the piano next door.  And maybe like Rilke said, the quest for answers is premature.  Sometimes we have to "love the questions" themselves and give in to the mystery when we're craving more.  So Saturday night I was grateful for poems that quelled "the jostling mobs inside of me."  I wanted it to rain.  I wanted to pretend I was hipster enough get the world map tattooed on my back.  One night, years ago, I got turned on to the sexiness of poetry.  I'd had a day so cacophonous even sleep seemed a noisy thought.  So I opened my anthology of immortal verse, a high school graduation gift from a friend, and lay on my bed for two hours to peruse the dusty pages.  Each time I came across a line that struck, it felt like a kiss.  Those of us who inhabit the numinous world of poetry know how flirtatious a taut metaphor can be.  Sometimes when I read too much, my head goes dizzy.  I miss the noise of ordinary thinking, the puns of my inner antagonist.  So now I take poetry in small doses.  When the jostling mobs begin to settle, I close my book, wonder how long it would take for the wounds to heal if I braved a tattoo.