Tuesday, February 22, 2011
We began class by listening to Sylvia Plath and Etheridge Knight read their work—tape recordings from years ago played out loud to a quiet room so that we might understand long lines, short lines, loud inside soft, the daring image inside the purposefully mundane, the right repetition, the empowered list. We had listened to that, and then we had read out loud. We had dreamed about our memoirs, closed with lines from Lia Purpura, packed our things; we were almost gone. Except that B was still there, his laptop open. You were speaking of poetry, he said. You should hear this.
I have watched and listened to this three times now. I share it with you. A former Penn student in a scream sing from the very top, as he says, of his fingertips, while President Obama looks admiringly on.
Thank you, B.