Last weekend’s big activity, for me, was attending a poetry reading hosted by one of my foreign colleagues at the university. Since his first reading, last December, I had hoped that he would have another one and had even brought back from America my pocket edition of Jack Kerouac’s Pomes All Sizes, just in case. With this now in hand, I knocked on his apartment door and was welcomed into a low-lit living room comfortably full of students and a handful of foreigners. Entering, I had completely disrupted a reading, but nobody seemed to mind, passively waiting for the noise associated with greeting new guests to subside. I sat near the door on a toy-like, very unsafe looking folding chair and saw a muted Casablanca (with Chinese subtitles) on the TV across the room as jazz tunes streamed sporadically through computer speakers connected to a Net station. Wine was offered and poured into paper cups. Hors d’ oeuvres (peanuts, dried apricot slices, and fried banana slices which I, at first, thought were potato chips) were served. Students dutifully eyed their selections, sometimes leaning towards a foreigner for help with hard-to-pronounce words. A poem would be read. And then the quiet murmur of private conversations and recitations would begin again until the next selection was ready to go. William Shakespeare, Li Bai, Pablo Neruda, Allen Ginsberg, and Kerouac all made appearances. Champagne was opened. Long Island Iced Tea was poured from a small pitcher. Despite the host’s insistence that it wasn’t that powerfully mixed, I demurred. The fresh-faced first year student, who in December had read her own composition urging everyone to be happy, didn’t. Every now and then, I’d glance over to see her taking a casual gulp as she looked to see what the person next to her was reading. She left under her own power later on, which I found commendable, especially since she’d been sitting in the same kind of chair as I had. A Shel Silverstein poem was brought out. I know him from Where The Sidewalk Ends, given to me one Christmas many years ago, but I’d never heard this. Hamlet…As Told On The Street is a very long, modernized, satirical take on The Indecisive One, and on society, and as everyone took a turn reading, I admired, with not a little amusement, the élan with which it was delivered. When I had finished reading my stanza I handed it up to my colleague, who, sitting in a regular chair, I’d been having a pleasant conversation with throughout the evening about her family, traveling woes, and an assortment of other things. When she had finished, she handed it over to the girl sitting next to her, who took up where she had left off. And then stopped. I looked up and listened, at first closely, to try to catch what was being said.

“Excuse me.” The girl almost whispered to my colleague as she leaned towards her and pointed at a word, “How do you say this?”
“Hold on. Let me put my glasses on.” Now holding the poem once again and following the girl’s pointing finger, “Ohhhh!!!!! That’s shithead!” and handing back the poem.
“Thank you.” She picked up where she had left off, doing quite well.

The poem, and soon enough the evening, drew to a close. I found myself getting up more frequently to allow people to open the door to leave, until I saw that most of the seats were now empty. It was still quite early, but there was a curfew to be dealt with. The group who lived in the more distant dormitories had left first, followed about fifteen minutes later by the rest. All very politely bid good night to those of us left behind.