at
the Getty.
in conjunction with the exhibition
Nadar/Warhol: Paris/New York
An Evening Poetry Reading
We boarded onto the clean-white tram
cutting through mountainsides and the evening air
midweek
hastily leaving our offices
hectic driving down the 405
and suddenly there felt both without weight or care
The room was spacious
the stage set
a bare rug with a chair in center
a podium off to the side
seats filled with an expectant air
We were about to be read
from the work of Charles Baudelaire
By a contemporary poet, perhaps even literary figure
who dramatically spoke
with knowledgeable references
about this verse, its history, 'territory' and allegory
As I turn to this man
his hand in mine
poetry
fingers stroking skin
lyrics
No words or sounds set to mouth
could accurately articulate
I searched his profile
hoping to find
the answers
within lined skin and eyes
of what this offered, to be, mine
A second poet now arrived
from New York
and took center stage
and with photographs above
spoke of his soul's wanderings
for truth and love
leading up stairwells and downtown
so many journeys
he looked down
and read from his page
Over now and we exit
I to the ladies room to regain my composure
as I linger with another
taps spilling water across from the mirror
we're reminded
the journey's far from over
He seeking solace
with a security guard
offering tips for future intended trips
kind smile and lips
then offering his card
We go now to the garden
so close and opposed to these walls structure and lines
wild and welcoming
we walk, turn to unexpected paths
in rhythm sometimes
not knowing
how much longer open
our evening will last
by Stephanie J. Gaines