On Humility

Creative Nonfiction

Even poets can lose perspective.

On a small dais at the back of the restaurant, the host for the poetry reading adjusts his horn-rimmed glasses against the glare of the spotlight and raises his note of introduction. As the room lights dim, the patrons settle. A wooden chair scrapes back, and a hulking shadow shoves and elbows his way between the tables to centre front.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” the host announces, “from Woebegone, Ontario, I give you the author of—and I quote from what he’s just handed me—‘more than 537 poems, 23 books (including two Selecteds and a Collected), recipient of a writer’s grant, and long-listed in the 2016 Woebegone Radio Station FXZ Writing Competition,’ Mr. John De Plume. He is here tonight to read from his latest 56-page collection, G(round)Hog: Deconstructive Elegies, published by Poet Beyond Parnassus Press, available after the reading for $30.00.”

Blond beard thrust forward, mane flowing, the red-caped poet steps up to the lectern.

Polite applause.

He pulls himself to his full height. After scanning the darkness, he frowns at the host. “I’ve decided to do something different tonight. My fans out there can read my new book for themselves when they buy a copy,” he gestures, “at that table by the door.”

Somebody in the audience coughs.

While poetry lovers wait, he pulls a hefty wad of paper from under his cape. With a flourish he unfurls the dogeared pages. Flipping them back and forth, he ponders. “Hmm, yes. No.... Read that one,” he mutters. “and those three last Thursday.”

Several listeners shift on their chairs.

The poet half looks up, “Anyone have a favourite you want to hear?”

Silence. To fill the vacuum, a woman near the back clears her throat.

As the poet continues flipping, a few pages waft to the floor. He bends, picks them up, and takes his time carefully resorting their order. “Ah, yes, here is what I was looking for, one of my best, you will agree.” He pauses and arches his eyebrows, “for my dear fellow poet, the internationally famous Pablo Bermuda. Oh, by the way, hold all applause till the end of tonight’s reading. The noise breaks my concentration. Lifting his eyes prophetically toward the back of the room, he begins in a nasal drone—a long poem.

Several minutes later, after a few glugs of water, he moves on. “The next one is for another outstanding poet I intimately relate to, Jorge Luis Gorgeous. I dashed this one off for the Editors’ Prize Competition, where I”—meaningful pause—“placed in the top 40.”

Poem after poem, no setting the scene, no artistic context, no other introduction to engage the listeners’ interest. The list goes on. Next, next, next….

With each round of swigs from his water bottle, the audience straightens. Is it over yet? A few shadows have already slipped out of the room.

Fifteen minutes past a full hour, the lights come up. After waking to clap half-heartedly, numb-rumped the remainders hobble toward the bar for a beer.

The spotlight fades. As the poet descends from the dais, his entourage rushes forward. Two buddies slap his back. “Too cool, too cool, as usual, man! Now let’s all get a drink.” A svelte brunette sidles up and strokes the poet’s arm. “John, darling, ’loved the ironic self-reflexiveness of your text.”

The poet sniffs and swings an arm around her. “Of course you did.” He gives her a squeeze. “Meet me out back in twenty.”

Edging closer, a scrawny high school boy is excited at hearing a writer less than 100 years old and without a British accent. “Oh, gee, Mr. De Plume,” he splutters, “it’s a real thrill to meet a famous Canadian poet in person.”

“Indeed. I see you bought my book already. Now you expect an autograph.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. De Plume. My name is Roger Higgins,” the boy replies. “I have been writing some poems of my own. I hope to have my first chapbook stapled together soon. Maybe one day you could—”

“Really?” the poet snorts and snatches the book. With a grand sweep his pen scrawls across the title page.

“Thank you so much, Mr. De Plume.” The boy clasps the volume and backs away to savour in private the words of the “famous Canadian poet”. He opens the cover and reads: For my devoted admirer, Robert Dickens. Novice, read and learn from the master.

Whatever happened to humility?