On Saturday night, I went to a poetry reading.
It was hosted at the bottom of a no longer operational grain silo whose thick concrete walls wrapped snug around a cozy group of around 50 that extended straight up to what seemed like the heavens.
There were three finished, connected wooden pallets that served as a humble raised platform where presenters could read. The lighting was dim yet sharp. Words spoken into the microphone echoed off the cylindrical walls for what felt like minutes. And there was a fog that came reaching around small backstage openings that thickened the air that hung in the balance.
…It was a remarkable way to hear carefully chosen words, thoughtfully spoken.
And as if that wasn’t already enough, one presenter in particular added to the dynamics even further. When he was called up to read; as he walked consciously down the narrow isle; as he took his place atop the pallet stage; as he placed his bag down slowly behind; as he adjusted the thin podium, positioned his life’s work, thumbed through the pages and years, found his word collections and composed himself to read…
…He never said a word.
Not one.
It was as though we—everything gracefully mixing within the walls of that silo—were a type of freshly poured concrete and he was the worker who was expertly giving us time to thicken.
Right before he took a soft breath, that is, and cut through the hardening mixture like a type of chainsaw with his pointed, perfectly paced, incoming words. Straight through our dilated pupils and leaned in ears—the soft spot to our ever hardening exteriors—and into our earth.