Poetry Reading

Tsvetan would moderate the event
I sat with Charles
in a little café, in silence, a bit
uneasy before a public reading
of our poems, which always seem
defenseless at such moments—you never know,
would listeners, if any came, be ready
to forget about themselves

And would we two ignite
that rivalry the ancients
so loftily called agon,
although it’s rarely noble
nowadays, in recent times
(and likely wasn’t even then)

We said nothing, glanced at our watches;
each lost in a different city,
a different childhood, a different family
Just then a speaker started playing
the songs of Billie Holiday—she sang
from immortality, without fear
But no, not quite, her fear was now
perfectly formed, refined

It’s January here, the wet snow falls
It muffles sounds and colors
It masks the imperfections
of yet another city, hides its pettiness—

Both of you are long since gone

I turn back to that moment years ago
not from nostalgia, but because
I’ve only now begun to see
that this was an instant of brotherhood
Silent brotherhood, which survives
in spite of all

As per the fixed program
and the accepted protocol
we stood before the small crowd
We started reading
and strength returned
and we became servants of poetry,
older than us and younger,
omnipotent and helpless