“When there is poetry,
it is Orpheus singing. He lightly comes and goes.”
- Rainer Maria Rilke
Poetry reading is one of the most enriching of all social activities. And it is an activity uniquely human. Despite the myriads of ways a nightingale or a skylark sings to the fading night or the rising morn, they do not indulge in anything that could be called the chanting of poems, those sweetest songs of humanity that often “tell of saddest thought”.
The allure of poetry reading lies in its ability to unite and to enchant, to reconjure what is beautiful collectively. A group of people assemble around the table, like in an ancient Greek symposium. Together or one by one, they chant poems about death, love, war and peace, allowing the music of words to pierce the guarded wit and pass into the panting heart beneath. Poetry reading does not commence from a fixed point, and no one anticipates where the flow of verses might lead as it weaves and dances, ignites or simply glows. The foe of a captivating poetry reading is the individual who insists on deciphering every single line. Poetry reading is not about solving a complex puzzle; it is like diving into a lake, with an aim not to “immediately swim to the shore”, but to “luxuriate in the sensation of water”. There is no intellectual victory or defeat in poetry reading. In truth, the finest participants are those willing to embrace endless ambiguities and succumb to the musical flow of sounds. Just when people think they have grasped the essence of a stanza or made acquittance with a poem, the next rereading unfolds, adding a brand new layer of meaning and possibilities. They are ready to start anew.
Perhaps it is owing to my experiences in intimate bookshop gatherings that I find poetry readings possess a unique charm. The fellow attendees are not deeply entwined in each other’s personal narratives. Instead, they choose to completely immerse in the world of poetry, to give those mending hearts, unspoken fears, burning desires and hidden vulnerabilities a local habitation and a name. Together, they chant poems; together, they chant their souls. No more words are needed; silence can tend to the rest. This is the unutterable bliss of poetry reading.
附：小诗一首 —— 《门》
她静静地走向那扇门。
那扇孤寂的、长满青苔的铁的造物，
上面突兀地镌刻着“Amor Fati”。
于她而言，
那无疑是冰冷的，以至于封隔世界的存在。
第一次叩响。无言。
指节与金属相撞的声音，不断震荡在门的身躯里。
回环的、扩散的音波，却只被沉寂回应，
一如她被尘压在门后的记忆。
第二次叩响。微弱的、颤动的“啊”
扭动着如蛆虫从门后传来，
似哀鸣，似长叹，
似被黑夜升起的浓烟遮掩的呼吸。
第三次叩响。沉重的、斥责的“莫”
夹杂着拒绝与死的威严，
似警戒，似劝言，
似被晨雾包裹的一瞬的露珠。
第四次叩响。腾跃的、自由的“法”
直行着、坚决地穿透了钢铁，
似抚慰，似告诫，
似被正午的太阳许诺的追逐。
第五次叩响。终结的、延续的“啼”
回转着、围绕了全世界，
似轻语，似梦呓，
似被黄昏念想晕染的霞与月。
即将叩响的手指悬停。
门静伫依然。