While I missed out on Crimenotes' rawkin' good evening, I was lucky enough last night to attend the poetry reading of a good friend who happens to be uncommonly talented.
Especially not after the reading, which served as a reminder why poetry is best experienced when read aloud. I forgot how much I enjoy that sort of thing. And yes, I speak from experience. Although my adventures in poesy these days are limited to the repurposing of John Denver songs and bawdy tales of plummy vacation spots, I do speak with some authority on the subject. I won a poetry contest some years back, utterly obliterating at least five or six other 15-year olds and taking home a coveted hat from the rain-soaked awards ceremony at the zoo. I also perform a widely acclaimed Yeats reading at Crimenotes' annual St. Patrick's day celebrations.
My credentials thus established, I hope I won't damage my friend's reputation and credibility too much to say that her work was, in a word, luminous. For those who missed out, she'll be reading at a bookshop in Brooklyn next month. And though I can't speak for her, I also imagine she'll at least be the equal of Nic Armstrong and his larcenous crew as far as post-performance socializing is concerned.
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