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Last night F and I went to see Albert Goldbarth give a reading at Swarthmore. It was rainy, and we were tired from our busy weekend, but we went anyway! And we were very glad we did. Besides, it gave me a chance to wear my new raincoat and wellies.
It was a smaller reading than Rita Dove's last week--hers was sponsored by several campus organizations, while Goldbarth was just sponsored by the English department. But the smaller crowd was nice.
I really liked Goldbarth very much. He's the kind of poet who's old enough to have really grown into himself--he takes risks in his poems that I wouldn't dream of, and that pay off amazingly. He's confident and cantankerous and really a lot of fun. I enjoyed his reading so much.
My favorite poem he read was the long three-part poem that he closed with, but I don't remember the title of it, only that it was about his wife's 30-year high school reunion and that it absolutely blew my mind. I did, however, really like his other poems too, one of which I actually remembered the title of and have looked up to post here for you:
Shawl
Eight hours by bus, and night
was on them. He could see himself now
in the window, see his head there with the country
running through it like a long thought made of steel and wheat.
Darkness outside; darkness in the bus—as if the sea
were dark and the belly of the whale were dark to match it.
He was twenty: of course his eyes returned, repeatedly,
to the knee of the woman two rows up: positioned so
occasional headlights struck it into life.
But more reliable was the book; he was discovering himself
to be among the tribe that reads. Now his, the only
overhead turned on. Now nothing else existed:
only him, and the book, and the light thrown over his shoulders
as luxuriously as a cashmere shawl.
Found via Poets.org.
Also of interest: we bought a copy of Goldbarth's book The Kitchen Sink: New and Selected Poems 1972-2007, and he signed it for us. For US. It's the first book signed to the two of us. Awwwww.
It was a smaller reading than Rita Dove's last week--hers was sponsored by several campus organizations, while Goldbarth was just sponsored by the English department. But the smaller crowd was nice.
I really liked Goldbarth very much. He's the kind of poet who's old enough to have really grown into himself--he takes risks in his poems that I wouldn't dream of, and that pay off amazingly. He's confident and cantankerous and really a lot of fun. I enjoyed his reading so much.
My favorite poem he read was the long three-part poem that he closed with, but I don't remember the title of it, only that it was about his wife's 30-year high school reunion and that it absolutely blew my mind. I did, however, really like his other poems too, one of which I actually remembered the title of and have looked up to post here for you:
Shawl
Eight hours by bus, and night
was on them. He could see himself now
in the window, see his head there with the country
running through it like a long thought made of steel and wheat.
Darkness outside; darkness in the bus—as if the sea
were dark and the belly of the whale were dark to match it.
He was twenty: of course his eyes returned, repeatedly,
to the knee of the woman two rows up: positioned so
occasional headlights struck it into life.
But more reliable was the book; he was discovering himself
to be among the tribe that reads. Now his, the only
overhead turned on. Now nothing else existed:
only him, and the book, and the light thrown over his shoulders
as luxuriously as a cashmere shawl.
Found via Poets.org.
Also of interest: we bought a copy of Goldbarth's book The Kitchen Sink: New and Selected Poems 1972-2007, and he signed it for us. For US. It's the first book signed to the two of us. Awwwww.
