For this edition of PP, we served cheese, bread, hummus, crisps and olives. Clover put a block of butter on a blue plate.
Each poet read two poems. One of their own and one by someone else. We got to hear about poets that they loved and stories about themselves and then afterwards while we drank wine and diet soda, we got to talk more to one another. D was supposed to work late and he wasn’t going to come, but at one point, the doorbell rang and all these people came in and he was one of them! I was so surprised.
I don’t know if there is a difference between a salon and a poetry party. The hard thing to do is to decide on who to invite. There’s a lack of space and you want to give the invited poets a chance to invite their own friends, so you don’t really spread the word. I guess what happens is that it becomes intimate. It becomes a little party that happens inside a plastic Easter egg that someone has overlooked. Maybe that’s what happens in all of our houses whether we’re there or not. I think whatever is going on inside of ourselves is overlooked. We don’t mean for it to be private. We want to be cracked open. But at the same time we don’t, of course. At a poetry party, you get a light shined on you and everyone wants to see you crack a little bit, even if it is scary. It’s okay.