a life creative
On the weekend I headed South to Launceston for the Tasmanian Poetry Festival, and I have a confession to make: while I’ve dabbled in poetry and even had a handful of poems published in various places, I always seem to um and ah when asked to recall a poet’s name, and I’m not an avid reader of poetry…and yet I love poetry.
A poem, for me, is something best performed (more than half of a poem’s meaning or sense is located in the voice of the poet, in his or her actions, facial expressions, and in the pauses and silences. Imagery is found behind each listener’s eyes. If a poem is a tapestry, the poetry spoken aloud is the loom, the poet the weft and the listener the warp).
And performed to I was, amongst a warm and receptive group of people. The guest poets treated the audience to readings of their works at various venues throughout the city – including an evening cruise on the Tamar – and the Saturday night poetry cup readings, by both the guest poets and members of the audience, sparked with talent, intelligence and humour.
I was sorry to have missed the final readings on Sunday afternoon, but I’ve been steeped in the festival just long enough to return to NSW tired and inspired, with an armful of poetry books and a sleepless muse.
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