The Performance

He was channeling his poems

 Image by Martin Sercombe, story by Simon Sonnenblume

He started speaking too softly

The poet had been writing for decades in his small city. He was not only a poet. He was a painter and a writer as well. He used to read his poetry to his wife, the love of his life, during their evenings in the garden. No one else really knew about his poetry work. Until his old school friend, the mayor, and his wife came to see them for a small dinner party.

Before dinner, the poet and the mayor sat outside in the garden. There were still poetry papers on the table from the previous night. "What is this then?" the mayor asked, "are you going to write a book again?"
"No, no, that’s just..." the poet started to say. "Oh, it is poetry, isn't it?" And before the poet could stop his old friend, the mayor had already started reading. Much to the poet's surprise, the mayor did not stop reading. So he relaxed and leaned in more to the back of his chair.

After a while, the mayor put the papers down. "This is very good, you know. You should do something with this. Are you going to publish them, my dear friend?" "Oh, I do not know," hesitated the poet. "I just write this for fun and read them to Julia when we sit here during the evenings."

During dinner, the mayor suggested that the poet should recite his poems at the municipal theater. "Let me pull some strings. I know some people." he smiled.

A week later, the poet received a formal invitation by mail. "It is official now." the poet sighed. "Hard to back out at this point." The poet looked around in his atelier. He glanced over his paintings, his photographs, and the travel-story books he wrote. "Why the poetry?' he asked himself out loud. "Of all the things I created, they want the poetry. Surely they know I have done more than that." But his paintings were exhibited many years ago at some galleries in the capital, and he sold more than he owned now. Even the local museum had three of his paintings on display.

His travel-story books were translated into multiple languages. His friend Luiz, the local bookshop owner, said his books are still in high demand by tourists. Especially the book about his travels through the desert.

"Well, I have to go now." the poet said while putting on his coat. "I will see you after the recitation then." His wife, Julia, took his head in her small hands, pulled him closer, and kissed his forehead." "Yes, our son will pick me up. You will do wonderfully. You always do, my love. Do not worry about it." "Easier said than done." the poet chuckled. "I am sure you will manage," Julia said while she placed her hand over his head.

"Ah, there you are, right on time," the stage manager said. The poet got some makeup on, and the stage manager showed him around.
He let the poet peek through a hole in the wall. The theater was sold out
The poet noticed everyone in his family was there. Three generations.
His wife, Julia, had managed to get every family member there. Even those who lived far away. It made him more nervous than he already was.

Time ticked away. The moment to enter the stage came closer and closer. The poet noticed the sweat on his hands. He never had sweaty hands, did he? He breathed more shallowly, and unconsciously he swallowed quite a lot.

He heard the voice of this friend, the mayor, announce him. He felt the hand of the stage manager on his back. "This is you now."
The poet could not utter a word, so he just nodded. He walked past the curtain and stepped into the bright light.

He walked a little uncertainly. As if his legs were made out of rubber.
The stage looked bigger in the bright lights. Apart from a slim lectern, there was nothing else on stage. He placed his papers on top of it.
He grabbed the lectern with both hands. It was wobbly!
He quickly pulled his hands back. He organized his papers.
He did not dare to look up at the audience. He saw the sweat stains appear on the paper. Thank God there was a glass of water on the lectern.
But not now, not now. No drinking now, he calmed himself. He tried to focus on the text, and for the first time in his life, he felt that he needed reading glasses. What was on the paper looked blurry to him. He swallowed a few times, and then he started to speak.

He started speaking too softly. He heard some murmur from the audience. So he raised his volume. His dictation was stiff. It lacked rhythm and flow. He rushed the first poem to its end and rushed on to the next. He tried to turn the page, but by accident, he dropped all his papers onto the floor. A few even sailed into the audience. The people made an ooh-sound, and papers were placed back on stage.

The poet looked at the mess of papers on the floor for a moment. I can do this without the papers, he thought. I have read them out loud so many times for my Julia.

The poet wandered over the stage, and he slowly started to recite the second poem. The audience became quiet. The poet moved around all over the stage like he had done in his garden when reading his poetry for his wife, Julia.

It was one of his best lengthy poems, and he got lost in reciting it.
The poet mimicked the emotions with his face, hand gestures, and body poses. He put all of himself into the words that he spoke out loud.
The audience started to get mesmerized by the performance.

The light engineer of the theater, who was leaning back all the time, noticed the change in the performance and the reaction of the audience.
The light engineer started to play with the lights. He followed the poet with a spotlight and used different colors to emphasize the mood on stage.

The poet recited poem after poem. The applause got louder and louder after every poem, and there were even some cheers. After a while, the poet no longer recited his work. He was channeling his poems. He had become the experience. It was the performance of a lifetime.

The poet moved all over the stage, using his voice in all possible ways to convey the meaning of his words.  The poet felt his body was getting warm. A glowing sensation ran up his spine.

The poet spoke the last words of his final poem. The audience rose to give him a standing ovation. This was something they had never experienced in the municipal theater. There were loud cheers and whistles.

The poet did not know whether he should bow. Do poets bow? He did not know. So he just said a polite thank you and left the stage.

The poet stepped off the stage and felt like he was walking on air.
The mayor rushed over to meet him. "That was an absolutely stunning performance!"

"That wasn't me speaking." the poet said.