Quick Notes on the Writing Versus
the Performance of Poetry
Padma Jared Thornlyre
It's the voice in my head, not
the voice on my tongue (a mere
approximation, that) I care for
most. Performing means asking
How do I look? Am I too cavalier
in denims, too elitist in this hat,
or that, too nonchalant, too
stiff? And How do I sound?
And Can I hold it in, this gas
percolating in the cauldron of my
bowels, lentil-fed and nervous?
On the page, I have no importance,
and that is most comfortable; let
thesis candidates debate Homer,
I'll read the Odyssey; give me
The Tempest, Shakespeare's bio
means nothing. I am not
them, of course. On stage, I'd
rather not matter, but I must.
On stage, it's a matter of volume,
apparently, the number of obscenities
well-shouted in the shortest timespan;
on stage, there's no time for the subtle
witcheries of cadence, those reverberations,
to sink in, for double-or-more-entendres,
for mulling or chewing or the slow
sucking of marrow for all it's worth.
