Poetry, poetry readings, and poetry writing.

I did in fact go to the reading last night, at one of our local arts centers. I've been plenty of times before. Most of the readings happen in a little arboretum-ish building outside the main building. Depending on the size of the crowd, the mood, and the poet's skill at putting over his/her work, readings there are either like a great low-key party or like the Bataan death march.

There were two readers, the first fairly staid, the second lively. The former has several books to his credit; the latter edits a local poetry magazine and until recently taught where I do. I would have gladly listened to the second guy the whole night; he made a conscious effort to connect.

It is an unavoidable truth: some poets just do not read well, even if they're brilliant. There's nothing that pisses me off more than a poet who only reads, who has no sense of theatrics or public speaking. (Actually, the first guy was much more entertaining in between his poems, refusing to apologize for writing in meter and taking to task poets who write exclusively in first person.)

All in all, a decent night spent. I hung out a little with a colleague and a few others I always see at the readings.

And then home to confront anew my lack of poetic inspiration the past year. And my more-than-occasional feelings of anger and frustration and hopelessness, that I've gotten myself into a rut and there's no way out. That I teach not at a college but a glorified high school. That I'm avoiding doing the hard work. That even if I do work hard or make an effort, it doesn't really matter.

In the past I've called it anxiety; sometimes I suspect it's depression. From my amateur understanding, the two are often intertwined.

And then again, maybe I'm ready for the end of the semester.