Poetry is for Everyone
A Review of Off the
Page, Hamilton Gardens
On Saturday I went to
watch Steve Toussaint, Hera Lindsay-Bird and Robert Sullivan read at the “Off
the Page” poetry event. The reading took place in the Japanese Garden, a
peaceful and somewhat intimate space within the larger Hamilton Gardens, and was
emceed by Matthew Harvey.
Harvey, a Yorkshire man by heritage and nature, introduced the event in what could be described as a gregarious variety show style or Michael Parkinson on speed, though he was obviously, and endearingly, nervous too. It was an appealing combination. However, in his paying deference to the poets as he introduced them:
Are modern letters different from the old ones we use?* (To Toussaint)
"The Guardian, ladies and gentlemen" (Re: Lindsay-Bird)
"A proper poet" (Re: Sullivan)
he managed to
simultaneously pay respect and pierce the bubble of pretension that has
developed about their reputations through the various media and review coverage
their works have attracted.
Far from deflating the
event, however, the irreverence set the perfect tone for this public event in
the semi-open air, on a day that was so humid it might otherwise have been
remembered limply as a gathering of sweaty poets. The beers helped too.
Lubricated by Harvey’s
one-style-fits-all introductions, the audience were equally as receptive to Toussaint’s
eloquent, understated political poems and pared-down language as they were to
Lindsay-Bird’s replete-with-expletives past pop-culture cynical skits, and Sullivan’s
wry, perceptive and persistently politically prescient lyricism.
Toussaint’s poetry
contrasted so keenly with his introduction that the audience appeared utterly
stunned by his sombre delivery of what is the most accessible and elegiac of
his poetry I’ve heard to date, poems covering his recent return to his native
Chicago in the days leading up to Donald Trump’s inauguration, to the
linguistic specificity of an Italian word close in meaning to re-vision yet
aeons away in terms of poetics.
Hera, Hera, Hera,
Hera, Hera, the mother of the young girl in next-to-back row might have
uttered, given the content of Lindsay-Bird’s self-titled debut poems. But this
was an event Shakespearian in scope and audience demographics, and far from
clashing, Lindsay Bird’s poems were the best fit with Matthew’s bawdy bier haus
interlude pieces. To recommission a line from his sausage poem, If Lindsay Bird’s
linked the best, his were the wurst.
Sullivan demonstrated
the full spectrum of emotions over the poems he chose to read and recite from
his various collections, and showed the most flexibility to adapt to the audience,
perhaps because as a Māori poet (and probably the only Māori in the event?), he is
the most at ease with the oral tradition and adaptability is a staple of his public
reading survival kit. Indeed, a little resuscitation felt in order as he was
being introduced (“Is that how you pronounce it?”).
The most startling
result of this event was that it showed that much of what one perceives poetry
to be is down to hot air and a lot of waffle, which is to say, it’s whatever
people want it to be. There’s little actual difference between a slim volume
and words spoken at volume to a room of people receptive to poetry.
Whatever I say today
is art (Matthew, on poetry). And so it is.
*Paraphrased
