In a large garage in St. Petersburg, poets, musicians and a small crowd likewise come together to unlock the secrets of what it means to be human.
It all happened in a spacious, perhaps ten-car garage divided into a 'stage' and spectator areas. A few couches were put together. Many people sat on the floor or stood. Some stayed out of the garage, or in the gravel-floored patio out back under the open sky. In the back you can see the projector that threw images over everyone onstage.
In the interests of full disclosure, I admit there's no way to do this justice in a review. I took copious notes in the darkness, and they look like the nonsensical scrawlings of a madman. I should have made movies, but like most of the audience, I was too spellbound to think clearly.
|Poet Wayne S. Williams|
What happened on that Saturday evening was extraordinary. Some times art dazzles, rarely, it is far greater than the sum of its parts, but here it transcended all that. Energy flowed unimpeded, resonating between the walls, poets, musicians and audience in a way seldom seen.
I remember a line from Wayne's reading on a poem about Africa: "A trail of wet sorrow..."
Christian read next. One poem about Florida and the Caribbean, had in it the lines: "Blurred menagerie"..."Shell mound ghosts"...
The trail of greed, madness and pain of the colonial period in a way no history class lecture could approach.
Barry Moses asked in a poem, "Who's Crazy?".
The synergy between the musicians was exquisite and varied. Some passages were hard and throbby, others subtle. All electrifying.
I want to thank the poets, musicians, the hosts and Malcom for an extraordinary evening.