An ordinary thing at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival: you will be blindsided by a poem of formidable beauty whilst you wait for something else to occur. Two moments like this last year, both left me close to tears. The first: Don Patterson’s close reading of Frost’s West Running Brook, the sequence of his analysis now forms part of set of easily accessible memories to which I return often when quiet and alone on trains in the morning or whilst tending to a flock of small white milk jugs in the pantry at work. The second: Marie Howe’s reading of After the Movie, which lead me to ravenously re-examine Wittgenstein. Of course, I was very excited by Campbell’s reading and it was nothing but a pleasure to hear Fergus Allen’s poetry and my beautiful friends were with me. But last weekend I was really waiting to hear Hass’ lecture on Czesław Miłosz and then really just waiting for his reading on the Sunday evening. I could barely sit still through Maurice Riordan’s elegant poetry: waiting at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival is magnificent. But then two readings caught me by surprise and I am all the happier for having heard them. The first was Oliver Reynolds on Friday night. The second was Emily Berry on Saturday afternoon. Emily Berry later. Oliver Reynolds this evening.
Monday, November 14, 2011
An ordinary thing at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival: you will be blindsided by a poem of formidable beauty whilst you wait for something else to occur. Two moments like this last year, both left me close to tears. The first: Don Patterson’s close reading of Frost’s West Running Brook, the sequence of his analysis now forms part of set of easily accessible memories to which I return often when quiet and alone on trains in the morning or whilst tending to a flock of small white milk jugs in the pantry at work. The second: Marie Howe’s reading of After the Movie, which lead me to ravenously re-examine Wittgenstein. Of course, I was very excited by Campbell’s reading and it was nothing but a pleasure to hear Fergus Allen’s poetry and my beautiful friends were with me. But last weekend I was really waiting to hear Hass’ lecture on Czesław Miłosz and then really just waiting for his reading on the Sunday evening. I could barely sit still through Maurice Riordan’s elegant poetry: waiting at the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival is magnificent. But then two readings caught me by surprise and I am all the happier for having heard them. The first was Oliver Reynolds on Friday night. The second was Emily Berry on Saturday afternoon. Emily Berry later. Oliver Reynolds this evening.