Recently, I heard from an friend that in-person events are back with full force. My friend L. is an editor and lives in São Paulo, but I see the same phenomenon happening here in Rio. Among the various cultural activities that are currently (re-)flourishing, poetry reading soirées seem to be multiplying with particular rapidity.

It is amazing how the written word attracts people of all types and backgrounds! At a literary gathering with audience participation you will inevitably encounter at least of of the following: a student in a top hat who would put the rabbit in the story of Alice to shame, a handful of shy poets who refuse to succumb to the current rule of full exposure in socials, but are comfortable behind the open mic, as well as people who have experienced hard times and managed to repurpose their pain through words.

I write poems since… well, I have the impression that since I was literate and such meetings are not unfamiliar to me, either as a watcher or an active participant, singing or reciting. It is always a nice experience, but… There is something about poetry readings that make me feel, well, uncomfortable. I do not quite know how to explain it, but it is as if some very intimate sphere has been crossed.

And what would that sphere be? There is something very personal about reading and listening to a poem. I am not referring here to a specific need. honestly, I do not think there is a “correct” setting for enjoying poems. There are words to be recited screaming, others more suited to whispering in the ear, in short, there is poetry for the most diverse situations.

My discomfort at poetry soirees is the same I feel at restaurants with live music performances. Someone performing while other people are distracted is not an image I like very much. I am aware that the fields of gastronomy and entertainment are intertwined: we want gigs and venue owners want to sell their products. And you know what? For the sake of our gigs, we wish them and their business well. We all need to live in harmony, for the sake of the scene.

Things kind of take car eof themselves when gigs take place in theaters or concert halls that really understand what they are doing and suspend services during the musical performances. However, this is not the reality in poetry soirées, which are characterized by a climate of, shall we say, healthy chaos, meaning that while some pour their souls into the open microphone in front, others pour out the news of the week in loud shouts at the side tables and counters in the back.

On the one hand, I find some comfort in knowing that my discomfort is not shared by many and that soirées will live long and propsper. On the other hand, I would like my confession to serve as a wake-up call to the fact that maybe, just maybe, we are just too loud. Everywhere, not just at concerts. And speaking loudly is a feature that is usually part of a package that includes, among other unpleasant things, the inability to hear.

My impression is that despite (or perhaps precisely because of ) the frenetic production of words and sounds, our capacity for assimilation has greatly diminished. I do not have the solution for what might be a twentty-first century sindrom, but I am sure that it does not lie in our ability to make eye-catching videos of up to three seconds.

We worship speed since the beginning of the nineteenth century and it is simply not working: we do not work less because of computers os smart phones, neither faster cars have solved traffic problems. Speed is definitely not the answer to our growing lack of attention. Are we really going to keep insisting?

We can do better than that.

Be seeing you,

G.F.