On a November night . . .
I’m here at a poetry festival. My husband’s sold it to me as a World Poetry Festival. It isn’t.
It’s in my home city, and it’s cold and wet and windy outside.
Can you sense I didn’t want to come?
But my beloved has bought 2 tickets and he’s been excited about it for days, and I can’t bear to dampen his enthusiasm too much – that would be cruel on a November Saturday night when I could have been in, sitting on my sofa, fire on, watching a (any) celebrity talent programme.
So, I’m sitting pondering on what the night might have to offer, and dreaming of what could have been, and I’m here, and it’s the intermission, and I’m making sure my husband can’t see what I’m writing because ….
this poetry festival is … fantastic!
If you’re a regular reader, you’ll recognise this as one of my Andy moments (“Being Andy” 01 November 2015):
don’t like live poetry readings, don’t like live poetry readings … like live poetry readings.
And why am I liking it? Oh, for so many reasons.
The poets are, variously, angry, nervous, funny, shy, challenging, humble, talented, articulate, creative, surprising, shocking, delightful. I wish I had their skills to be able to articulate just how wonderful their work is.
They’re showing a range of emotions that give a glimpse into who they are. They can’t hide their rage at journalist trolls, or their sadness at the plight of Syrian refugees, or their anguish of not being able easily to say, “I love you.”
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It’s their ability to flaunt their emotional repertoire in front of me that’s making me love what they’re doing.
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It’s their ability to share their emotions that’s impressing me.
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It’s their honesty and passion that’s simply shining through.
ChristineWilkinsonCoaching 