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| 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.
