A collection of poetry-ridden books live with me. I hoard them and read them occassionally. But the best way to enjoy them is really, to read them loud and right.

Unfortunately, I don’t have that much time for this (time mismanagement). And when I do, I end up reading my favourites. This leaves me with a lot of un-read stuff.

To make do, I bring them a lot. I bring my poetry books, graphic novels and all-text novels at work. And then I get too busy to enjoy them. In short, my strategy is not working. Despite that and their sheer size in my bag (not to mention their weight), I continue to bring them around.

Surprises at the new office

In a recent workday, there wasn’t that much work. Ironical it is, but we just transferred into the nearby edifice, our computers yet to be assembled, as was our internet connection. And man, we don’t work without those.

To fight the impending boredom, I resorted to bring out my book of local poetry and short fiction. And unlike the usual, I didn’t just sulk in the corner to enjoy it; I showed it to a fellow worker, and had her read it.

Since there was really nothing much to do (and she seemed curious), she agreed to read it loud and proud. I could see her trepidation, that expression in one’s face when reading something for the very first time. And she…

read it. The book was passed from one workmate to another, until it went to the hands of a garish coworker. He was this huge balding man, a father and a husband. I knew him to be loud (and kind of aggresive), but he did it — read like he feels it. He sporadically cusses (as his response for difficult-to-read words), but he beats it. He reads it with a voice carried out from the depths of his diaphragm. He points at one or all of us, and create gestures that suggests what is to come in each verse.

It was a total surprise for me, really. He was the least fellow worker that I could have imagined to read poems this good, as grand as those in the stage, but as close to the audience as a shoulder’s tap-away.

Of equal wonder is the enjoyment for the audience. We (and not just me) were eager to hear from him. We enjoyed the spoken poetry, the delivery, and shared emotions it incited from us.

Perhaps, we were just bored.

I think, it doesn’t matter. I, with my love for the written texts, aren’t on the same page as other bibliophiles out there. I don’t intend to shove my stuff just because it’s a classic.

For really, what is the point of reading stories and poems? I read them. I enjoy them. But at the very core, these free verses, and rhymes — they are meant to be shared.

They don’t have to mark sophistication. Nor does it have to make me look like some smarty pants. Spoken poetry rocks and the best ones rocks for a lot.