Читать книгу Repetition Nineteen - Mónica de la Torre - Страница 14

It dawned on me, the other day, at the launch

of a former colleague’s book, that if I ever

was a funny poet, I no longer was one.

I’d picked something amusing to read since

the party would be at a bar, and people wouldn’t

want to stay still and listen to us drone on

but instead would be there to drink and celebrate

their friend’s accomplishment, no matter what

they actually thought of his poems; they

were good poems, don’t get me wrong. Alright,

they were somewhat sincere, a bit saccharine,

but that’s beside the point, and, anyway, who cares.

During my reading no one chuckled loud enough

to let me know that my humor had landed.

Granted, it was subtle. My poem had to do

with the people you encounter in hotels when,

if you think about it, you’re doing some of the most

intimate things you could possibly do, except

die, in the company of strangers, always

perfect. As I was saying, I was up on stage,

and couldn’t see anyone. The mic was too big, right

in my face, and when I read in settings like these

all I hear is the distortion of my amplified

voice, which makes me jumble lines and garble

words I have no difficulty pronouncing otherwise.

Automobile, for example, which I can say easily

in Spanish and from now on will always be vehicle.

I was done and the crowd applauded, sort of.

It was the next poet’s turn and everyone around me

started cheering and slapping their thighs,

and then the next poet went up, and told

hysterical jokes about Trump and Ted Cruz

as he read poems that were even wittier.

Everyone was in stitches. That’s when it dawned

on me that perhaps I’m not funny anymore, but what

the hell, how’s that the marker of a work’s ability

to move its audience, I mean, what if Emily Dickinson

were at an open mic delivering the poem about feeling

like a nobody talking to other nobodies and everyone

cracked up, or what if it was Baudelaire,

for that matter, who had to pause up there while reading

the sonnet about nature being a temple sending people

mixed messages, because of the audience’s hoots,

or better yet, imagine Catullus, reluctantly playing

to the crowd with his I love my hate and hate my love.

Why? you ask. All I know is the feeling’s back

again, and it torments me. But, wait, let’s circle back

to Baudelaire. What if he called out the phonies

at a gig and people misheard and exploded

with laughter, thinking he’d said funnies even after

he doubled down and said he wasn’t kidding.