Brilliant Poetry Bash

7:50 p.m.  Ten minutes to show time.  I haven't spotted a single person I know.  Significance?  ( - ).  Spot Elizabeth Bachinsky.  Know her less than slightly from a brief period where we shared a common employer.  Notice she's in a dress, and has changed her hair.

Have never been to a Poetry Bash.  Haven't been to a poetry reading in what feels like a very long time, excepting two days ago.  I think that counts, bro.  Poetry=Poetry.  Bash=Party.  The bar is open and I do have a drink in hand.

These are the poetry people.  Quick run of observations.  They're mostly white, middle-class (does that expression mean anything anymore?), predominantly middle-aged with a few younger, and a few older.  Dress is casual, dark, autumny, lots of coats and scarves as befits the cooler weather.  There isn't a tie in the house.  The event is sold out.

Spot Robert Bringhurst standing up near the stage.  Haven't spoken to him in nearly two decades but that's him all right.  I'd recognize that aura of brains anywhere.

8:05.  Down go the lights.  Up comes Clea Young, host for the evening.  She is the Writer Services Co-ordinator for the festival, she explains.

"Relative newcomer" (according to the writer's festival event guide) Elizabeth Bachinsky comes to the stage but what's this?  Four other women precede her.  It's a celebration of heritage.  It's a Ukrainian choral group.  They sing a song.  It's all in Ukrainian.  I don't understand a word but it sounds good. The choral group leaves the stage and Elizabeth gives us some poems from her latest book "The God of Missed Connections" which is indeed an exploration of her Ukrainian roots.  They've been around a long time and these are poems of discovery.

Xi Chuan followed.  He is a poet, scholar and translator best known for his long prose-poems.  He speaks quite good English.  He recited a short poem in English then repeated it in Mandarin.  The rest of his reading was in English that had been translated, as he told the audience, by Lucas Klein.  He read excerpts from "In The Darkroom" and "Song Of No Matter", serious works with comic or absurdist flashes.  A line I was able to scribble down from "Darkroom":  "An ascetic after a brush with death becomes a philanderer".  From "No Matter":  "That a fly has chosen to lead an exemplary life matters not.  That a kite is hung up on a telephone line matters not."  Unfortunately Xi Chuan's work is not available for sale at the festival but some poems can be tracked down on the Internet.

Seattle based Heather McHugh brings to the stage something of the ambience of a fifties-ish school teacher but that may have been the cardigan more than anything.  She opened with "Hackers Can Sidejack Cookies", an arcane, jargon-festooned poem about programming that appeared this spring in the New Yorker.  A poem about programming.  Hmn.  What a heck of an idea.  Other poems were from her latest work "Upgraded To Serious", the first of her thirteen books to be published in the U.S. and Canada at the same time.  These are powerful, riveting, astonishing poems.  I can't get the image of that poor, tormented Kathmandu monkey and his beastly handler out of my mind.

The man who wrote the Bible.  Here he is.  Robert Bringhurst.  The Elements of Typographic Style, the standard on the subject by which all others are judged.  Translated into ten languages, Clea Young told us.  I did not know that.  Back home later I pull down my copy and see that it is signed for me in pen by R.B. himself.  I did not remember this.  If Robert Bringhurst had published nothing else his immortality would be assured, but he does poetry too, you know?  He read from his "Selected Poems", published this year by Gaspereau Press.  My immediate reaction:  buy this immediately.  He's got a marvelous voice, a deep, rich, even "imperial" voice is not quite the word I'm looking for.  An actor's voice.  We're talking about that ability to project, people.  That aura of learning, of erudition don't quite approach it, the thing that was going on.

I was floored by Gregory Scofield's performance.  I'd just climbed back onto my chair after being floored by Robert Bringhurst's performance and down I go again.  It's a pretty clean floor too.  I have heard of this poet.  I haven't read this poet.  He's a "leading aboriginal poet" according to somebody.  Well, he's more than that, I was thinking.  He's a P-O-E-T.  Don't need no qualifying.  The man emanates a profound gentleness, kindness, steadiness.  He said inspiration can come from the strangest places.  When not singing in Cree he loves reading Country Living magazine.  He read a slightly ironic poem inspired by an article on Beacon "Indian" blankets in Country Living.  "Because an Indian's nothing without his blanket," he said.  He read a poem in the voice of his "auntie", a woman who helped raise him, complete with that classic sort of inflection or accent some First Nation's people have when speaking English.  It was hilarious and very moving.

Carol Ann Duffy wanted to go first, she tells us, and now, reading last, fully understands why.  "Such wonderful poets.  There are so many wonderful poets in this country, and so many awards.  I'm going to move".  She's Britain's poet laureate, the first woman to have the honour since the birth of the concept three hundred and thirty-one years ago.  The twenty-first century was about time, I'd say.  As the "royal bard" she looked kind of regal too wearing a richly dark something like velour gown and sparkling necklace.  Among others she read three poems on a common theme, marital discord, from the point of view of the wives and these not just any wives but - "Mrs Midas" - "Mrs Tiresias"  - "Mrs Faust.  The audience was eating it like stand-up.  Waves of laughter rolled across Performance Works.  The gentleman sitting to my right couldn't hack it.  He was bent over with his head down just trying to hang on.

An absolutely brilliant evening.  Exceptional.  Inspiring.  A sensory trip I'm looking forward to re-living with a visit to the bookstore.