Toly's Troubles or the Hurtful Hernia
The Mark Strand Story. Tuesday March 22nd was official Mark Strand Day at Yale. It was celebrated by him giving a Master's Tea, a poetry reading, and embarrassment. The reading was held at St. A's, the first Henry and I were organizing. Made arrangements, poetry postered the colleges, grew excitement. Walked out of perfect Yale blue skies to 4 o'clock high tea at Berkeley to eat little sandwiches with no crusts, cookies engraved with Y's and to listen to the poet. Painter first at Yale graduate school, got his head turned, turned forty and finally admitted he was one because there was nothing else he had done. Years ago, now he's an old man happy to say he spent his life writing poetry. You may think that's silly, he smiled, but I don't think I wasted my life. Enjoyable character if alternately intimate and disdainful. Ecstatic when he recalled whole poem of one of my favorites that ends "I move to keep things whole." Appreciative of talk of writerly anxieties.
A little anxious for the reading, I headed to the Hall early to set up. Arrived to find Anatoly, who was supposed to set up the sound, was in the hospital having hernia surgery. Hysterical crisis. Strand, who refers to himself as Strand, spoke softly and we'd promised a microphone. Minor panic proceeded. Dragged grad white rapper, former member, only other who knew where everything was and how everything worked, from his day job. Rescued reading. Partly. People poured in and we scrambled stairs carrying bar chairs up furiously in front of the entire English department. Soon gave up on seats. At least 100 bodies packed the living room and listened as poet remarked he felt like a rock star. Cringed remembering forgotten mic stand for Strand. More comments conveyed ill ease with light, mic. Sunk into poetry. Reading over, rose slightly humiliated in front of former poet laureate. No one wanted to ask an autograph to go in the bar with other years of posters. In mermaid skirt and sunburn, spotted, streaked like a cheetah, down the steps of St. A's, I caught him. Mumbled humbly part of a poem, apologized and asked a signature, which he conferred on his forehead with a look of something on his face. His face bore permanent wrinkles of flesh fled in fear from his mouth. They'd run behind the tight lines of trenches in his cheeks afraid of his flow of words, as I was. But the face smiled, still holding his lines, and the look became ironic or comic if anything clear.
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A room of one's own. Roommates went home for Easter. Got the place to myself for the weekend. A Good Friday. Laundry day. Washed Europe, the smell of smoke and sweat earned strolling for miles and miles and miles, from my clothes. Shedding socks and shorts, carried overflowing load back up a winding stair not nearly narrow enough to compete with cathedral's. My only religious devotion this holiday, first day of three-day weekend with three papers to write or clean, is to studies. But not fasting, I won't swoon (like someone in a movie at the top of Sagrada Familia) scared by such greats heights of work. Before diving back into the wreck of writing, going to enjoy the depths of Life Aquatic. Date tonight. Off to wash off run and get ready. I lost the game. Seema, stop laughing.
A little anxious for the reading, I headed to the Hall early to set up. Arrived to find Anatoly, who was supposed to set up the sound, was in the hospital having hernia surgery. Hysterical crisis. Strand, who refers to himself as Strand, spoke softly and we'd promised a microphone. Minor panic proceeded. Dragged grad white rapper, former member, only other who knew where everything was and how everything worked, from his day job. Rescued reading. Partly. People poured in and we scrambled stairs carrying bar chairs up furiously in front of the entire English department. Soon gave up on seats. At least 100 bodies packed the living room and listened as poet remarked he felt like a rock star. Cringed remembering forgotten mic stand for Strand. More comments conveyed ill ease with light, mic. Sunk into poetry. Reading over, rose slightly humiliated in front of former poet laureate. No one wanted to ask an autograph to go in the bar with other years of posters. In mermaid skirt and sunburn, spotted, streaked like a cheetah, down the steps of St. A's, I caught him. Mumbled humbly part of a poem, apologized and asked a signature, which he conferred on his forehead with a look of something on his face. His face bore permanent wrinkles of flesh fled in fear from his mouth. They'd run behind the tight lines of trenches in his cheeks afraid of his flow of words, as I was. But the face smiled, still holding his lines, and the look became ironic or comic if anything clear.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
A room of one's own. Roommates went home for Easter. Got the place to myself for the weekend. A Good Friday. Laundry day. Washed Europe, the smell of smoke and sweat earned strolling for miles and miles and miles, from my clothes. Shedding socks and shorts, carried overflowing load back up a winding stair not nearly narrow enough to compete with cathedral's. My only religious devotion this holiday, first day of three-day weekend with three papers to write or clean, is to studies. But not fasting, I won't swoon (like someone in a movie at the top of Sagrada Familia) scared by such greats heights of work. Before diving back into the wreck of writing, going to enjoy the depths of Life Aquatic. Date tonight. Off to wash off run and get ready. I lost the game. Seema, stop laughing.
