Weekend arts

At the party last night celebrating the new book by the woman Buddhist poet, someone called me an asshole.

It was strangely liberating. Hearing those words I realized once again that I liked being who I am, particularly considering the source, a bitter old magazine editor whose behavior's have become delusional since retirement.

Earlier I'd spoken with the poetess herself, after thumbing through her beautiful new book and giving a deep reading to many of the poems at a glance, possible because of their Buddhist nature.

One of the poems made reference to a "mop stick."

"I was reminded of Yeats' poem" I said, "the one about old age with the image of the tattered coat on a stick."

She said she loved Yeats and knew the image, but hadn't been conscious of it while writing the poem I'd referenced. Who knows how many influences, voices, images swirl around in the writer's mind, far too many to be conscious of, especially to a writer who is also a reader.

I made reference to Harold Bloom and the anxiety of influence, that strong writers emerge from either challenging or trying to surpass other strong writers. She dismissed Bloom as too male and as Freudian, while acknowledging that he was onto something with his thinking.

We chitchatted some more about my small press--IF SF--her upbringing in New York City, formative books we'd both read. She said she'd never write her memoir and I said that I never say never.

Then it was time for her to read her poems from her new book.

I stood in the back of the room listening to her read while looking at the feet of other people who were listening to her read. The man who called me an asshole earlier stood on the other side of the room, listening too. I felt nothing but compassion for him.