I’ve never seen Vincent miss a single poetry night since I started attending the events, albeit on and off, over the last two years. He comes in with a notebook, sits by himself and starts writing words that catch his fancy. It could be discussions taking place around him or headlines of the day that have public panties in a twist. When called upon to perform, he refers to these words and strings them into verses that rhyme, at times including some nonsense words just to rhyme for the sake of rhyming.
I don’t quite get his poetry but the regulars look forward to his performances tremendously. But while I’ve gotten used to him now, I still find it difficult to appreciate him. But then again, I never quite appreciated ee cummings. Criticised for his non-sense verse, cummings was an annoying poet who refused write requisite format expected of poetry as an art and good grammar in general. Here’s an example:
Buffalo Bill by ee cummings
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
After having met Vincent – rhyme, thyme, fine, grind – I really think I need to give cummings too another chance. You see, poetry is like that curious mole that grows on you and when it’s done looking cute, sexy and becoming, it starts to sprout little hairs that make you want to scratch it off with a knife. But if you just let it be and get used to the sight of it, sooner or later you don’t mind it so much. If you’re a bit of a bold one, appreciative of the unconventional idea of beauty, you might even fall in love with its imperfection.
In other news: Our very own Reshma Krishnan also read at the poetry night. She recited The Honeycomb World inspired by John Connoly's novel, The Killing Kind and she's written a brand new poem that'll be published tomorrow on condition that you call her a freakshow. True story.