The Poetry Reading
Where I gained then quickly lost a friend
I thought bringing my “A” game to the poetry reading would minimize the nervousness I would surely feel as I stood up to read my poems in front of a live audience as a woman with a disability during April, National Poetry Month. So I put on a stylish, flattering suit and makeup before making my way to the library in an older, New Jersey town.
After calling ahead to inquire about the availability of handicapped parking I found the old library with a single reserved space on a side street where someone without a disabled parking tag was parked. When I found another place to park, it was a few blocks away from the handicapped entrance to the library. Happily, it was a true spring day in April with warm temperatures and sunny skies.
I was nervous about standing in front of the group of about 40 people in the small, crowded room of poets gathered for a presentation by a granddaughter of William Carlos Williams taking place as the poets took turns reading their original poems published in the library’s Annual National Poetry Month Celebration Anthology for 2019.
The poem I submitted appeared on page 54. I had brought a second poem to read printed on folded paper which when read, gave the audience a glimpse of my one handed adaptation of using my teeth to hold paper as I unfolded it with with my one functioning hand.
That made me self conscious even after I introduced myself as a stroke survivor. I read the poem from the book first, titled, “The Small of My Back”:
The small of my back somehow harkens back to when I was a slim, lithe, graceful dancer.
Although I am mostly not those things anymore, the small of my back persists at reminding me that in a certain way, I still am all of those things.
It draws my lover in to the same illusions about me, too.
He did not know of me during my days as a dancer, but the small of my back gives him the imagination to see me then.
It pulls him as a magnet would toward loving my body.
It is one of the curviest, slimmest smooth spots of my entire being.
It also is a secret pathway which leads only where he knows.
My poems were well received and several poets approached me at the end of the meeting to say they were inspired by my story of survival. Some said they were impressed by my one handed mastery of paper handling.
One man in particular seemed quite interested in conversation with me. We seemed to be in the same approximate demographic. I flirted a little and we exchanged our contact information and said we’d keep in touch.
Before long, we were texting each other and became friends on Facebook. I was happy to think I had made an intellectual friend.
We arranged to meet for coffee to discuss our writing. It was at this meeting where I learned about his complicated living arrangement with his estranged wife whereby she lived in another state with a man but they weren’t getting divorced for the all-too-common financial reasons and an unwillingness to disturb an otherwise comfortable life.
I had been living a similar unconventional married life separated from my husband, too.
The poet and I bonded over poetry, writing and a shared complicated living arrangement with our respective spouses.
I was looking forward to being good friends, but unfortunately this was the experience that taught me not to write about other people’s lives on the internet.
I foolishly thought he might be flattered to read details he had shared about his life at our meeting for coffee. When I shared the story I had written with him, he threatened to sue me and demanded I take it down. It contained too many identifying specifics, something that was unintentional. I just thought he had an interesting story to tell.
I did remove the story from publication, and never heard from my poet friend again.
© Victoria Ponte, 2022.
