Paul Muldoon's Poetry Reading

An unseasonal, yet common warm winter night graced us all as we filed into a chill room. Chairs anchored to each other filled the space; chairs turned intently towards a podium in the front. Time stood indecisively wondering whether to rush past or stagger along. The wait, oh the wait, until the moment when all would sit in splendid enchantment teased us all with its moments of haste and yet the time seemed so far away.

More and more people wandered into the room, laughter shrieking in high-pitched he he’s and deep ha ha’s. Soon the influx of stragglers dwindled down to one or two persons trying to slip in unnoticed, quite an easy feat to begin with. Chaos ruled the remaining wait. Exchanging of seats, secrets and salutations crashed in space furthering the cacophonous ensemble. Finally came order through a resonant voice firmly requesting silence.

Lightly fumbled words and awkward jokes echoed from the man responsible for the semblance of silence, an English professor. Out from the podium comes a small wooden box and from the box comes a metal disk. An oration detailing the crafters of both case and treasure as well as the many accomplishments of one man ensues. The man we have all come to see. Curious eyes meander about the room pondering over each unfamiliar face. Introduction over, a small man steps forth to receive his prize.

Yes, this man of course had to be him. Untamed graying hair curls spasmodically about the Irishman’s face with eyes framed by glasses vaguely reminiscent of Elvis Costello’s. A bright orange tie livens the otherwise somber ensemble he dons. Yes, his work actively reflects his outer appearance. All of us, students and faculty alike, carefully observe him as he takes his place behind the podium, as he delicately handles the award. Two words, a name, bounces about the room: Paul Muldoon.

From the small man came a soft voice hinting at his Irish roots. A story, an explanation, an introduction for each poem, each lyric preceded every reading. The cries of a thousand English teachers pounded my mind with every overly dramatic pause in Muldoon’s reading. “Just because the line ends does not mean the sentence ends. Read until you reach the appropriate punctuation,” they protested. But what do they know that the artist of the poems does not?

Distractions: not-so-quiet whispers, shuffling of unmarked papers and vibrating cell phones loomed in the back. An unfortunate decision on my part placed my roommate and me amidst the buzz. One ‘lady’ twisted and turned about her seat, torn between which companions to bother: those sitting in front or behind her. They were an absolute insult to both their parents and to the college. Surely at some point in time someone taught them how to behave.

Such a pity that those rude people drowned out the quirky, yet serious words of Muldoon’s poetry. Perhaps next time I will take this lesson learned and not sit in the back row.

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Made an A on this one. Professor said there's some overwriting and that sometimes the playing with words "results in a lack of clarity," but he also found it "vivid and interesting." So, any thoughts on fixing clarity and overwriting?