Entrances and Exits and the Moments Between Raindrops

Group: Richard, Heather, Rachel

Tonight I attended a poetry reading at Barnes and Noble at Coronado Mall. The poet who headlined was Constance Hester, an older woman who had a flair for wit and experience-inspired proverbs. After Constance read, open mic began. It was fascinating for me to hear the different voices and genres of the poets. Whether they were reading e.e. cummings, Langston Hughes, or their own musings on being a bookmark or losing their hearing, they all had extremely different methods of delivery.

I was probably the only audience member under the age of 45 and the theme of the reading was very “growing old” oriented. Even still, while the theme and age of the poetry was similar, each person had very individualized modes of delivery: sitting, standing, reciting from memory, reading from a book, reading from a hand-written paper, assuming a character's voice, performing, reading. I found certain modes of delivery more effective for certain genres. For example, the deliveries in which the poet was standing and reciting from memory was more effective for the more humorous pieces; the deliveries in which the poet was seated and reading her poetry was more effective for the more casual, nostalgic pieces.

Inspired by what I heard, I put together my own musing on saying “Farewell” to a good friend, another common theme amongst the poets this even (though their Farewells were slightly more permanent than the one I am referring to in this).

Entrances and Exits

I told you that life

is like a Charlie Chaplin film.

While it may not be black and white

or silent,

some things are best left unsaid.

I said that life

is all about entrances and exits.

Whether Chaplin entered stage left

or stage right

his audience's eyes never left

his mischievous grin.

And as you exit,

my eyes never leave you.

We may spit dust

and two-step around goodbyes

and feel like there could be

light years between our deserts,

but amongst all that flat

I remember that we are bound

by more than distance,

more than space.

We are bound by the scent of juniper,

by flannel, by grass between our toes, by twang,

by moments between raindrops.

After all, you don't read books

or write poetry

but you know

the stain of red wine on my lips,

the flush of my skin after desert rain,

the canon of my youth,

the promise of my future,

the cadence of my heart.

You shake me to the catacombs of my chest.

I came here chasing mountains

and found myself chasing you.

Desperate, like the last flight

of the gypsy moth

as she tries to go

where she cannot follow.

I told you that life

is like a Charlie Chaplin film

but you insisted that nothing be left unsaid.

And so you exited,

stage right,

pantomiming “I love you” as you went,

promising, with your mischievous grin,

that, despite this exit,

you'd make your entrance again.

--Rachel Gearhart