I spent St. Patrick’s evening at a poetry reading. The last time I’d been to one I was still in college, where—for a grade—I’d been forced to go to such events and keep a poetry journal of my own.

I say “forced” because every other poetry reading I’ve ever been to was maddeningly dull. The readers take themselves really seriously, and they let their voices, the perfect cure for insomnia, drone on and on until I’m a blank stare with a faint heartbeat. Not only that, but the poetry is usually so-so at best, all mostly free verse—and I generally can’t stand free verse.

Tonight was different. H.E. and I aren’t really into poetry (boy, are we ever not), but we went to see Margery Snyder and Whitman McGowan perform at the Ugly Mug, and I am SO glad we went. She was seriously good, and he was entertainingly funny, and together they made me forget about the open reading I had to sit through before they finally came on.

[Flashback of Asian poet with a severe accent, haltingly reading his English poetry, and of middle-aged female poet, introducing her poetry with “Bear with me; I just wrote this, and it’s not finished yet,” causes a brief epileptic seizure.]

Well, okay. Almost forget.

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