The poems are just excuses to sound out syllables
The poet is incapable of reading his poems... he DELIVERS them, hitting the notes, riding the crest of each waving stanza, going quiet, loud, soft, hard, following some invisible, unwritten score, and god help you if you get up and try to read his poem, you'll miss all the marks. Each inflection and stress only compounds the poem, redefines the poem, reinvents the poem, taking what is merely laid out on the page and animating it more than any god or Frankenstein could hope to. The poet turn his work from an arrangement of words in to a performance, each word going from marinated in emotion to soaked in it, to dripping with it, to swimming in savory greasy pools of it.
Whatever meaning you might have drawn from the words, laid out in black and white, unmoving and untouched on the page, is lost in the earnestness of the poet's reading.
Whatever meaning you might have drawn from the words, laid out in black and white, unmoving and untouched on the page, is lost in the earnestness of the poet's reading.