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I'm ten years old. Sitting quietly in church with my mother and sister. I might be dressed up; or, my family might have abandoned that practice by then. Sitting quietly. I've practiced all week. The hymns are finishing, and it's time for me to read the first lesson.
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To be selected to read in church is a signal of inclusion in the group. We had been going to the Anglican church near our house for a year or two, having arrived in the city just before I turned nine. I immediately joined the junior choir. Rehearsals every week, singing on Sunday. My attendance, as in all other matters of punctuality in my life, was excellent. There were no issues with, or whispers about, my family. It would be inevitable that I'd be selected to read.
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Reading silently from the page, as in a book or a gemtext such as this, is, for me anyway, a quick thing. Finding the speed at which I can scan and tokenize and understand the text without skips. I can read pretty quickly, and always have. I started reading probably in grade one - pretty average, as I wasn't an early reader like my partner - and picked up a voracious appetite for text. Library visits, books that my mother had when she was young, lots of little presents at birthdays and Christmas. But reading out loud, reading off the page, is different. You need to slow down, enunciate clearly, pause briefly where it's appropriate. Recitation is performance, delivery the most important thing.
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I practiced with my mother all week: took a deep breath, named the book, chapter and verse; practiced reading slowly (though not too slowly), figuring out the patterns and cadences that I'd carry forward into every reading thereafter. Did it again. Again. Any too-pregnant pause, any "umm" or "uhh": back to the beginning. Practice makes perfect. Start again.
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Paul Vermeersch: Do you read your poetry in the "Poet Voice"?
I mention this because on Twitter, poet Paul Vermeersch notes that it's the fifth anniversary of an Atlas Obscura article on the Poet Voice, and in particular an investigation done into its dynamic range, its tendencies. If you've heard this in person, it's distinctive. You might find it excruciating. Personally, I can't stand it. But it's immediately identifiable: pauses in unexpected locations, a narrowing of tonal range, lines that often end dowwwwwn on falling, long-held syllables. I've rarely encountered this in the wild, myself. Maybe it's a function of living in the poetic hinterlands, a large city which is nonetheless a long ways north of the epicentres of American poetry. When I took creative writing courses in high school and university, my instructors read expressively, passionately, clearly. These days, when I run into Poet Voice, it's usually from recordings on YouTube.
Louise Glück reads "A Village Life"
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In my uninformed opinion, Poet Voice (the particular tics, the particular cadences) is a recent development, and one that won't last in its current state. Recall the readings of Yeats, of Pound, of Thomas. They have their own music, their own style. They're not speech. They're not Poet Voice, either, closer to chant in some senses. Capital-P Poetry. It's a choice. It's practiced. I love it, but I get that others don't.
Ezra Pound reading Canto LXXXI
Dylan Thomas reads "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"
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In my earliest creative writing classes, in high school, we practiced reading from the start. Our teacher, a lover of poetry but not (to my understanding) a poet herself, told us that if we wanted to be writers, we had to practice reading our own work. To be comfortable doing so. Her intention was clear: to teach us that readings formed an inextricable part of poetry and being a poet.
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I mentioned earlier I learned to read the lessons from my mother. But this isn't entirely true. I also learned by listening to everyone else every Sunday.
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I took creative writing in high school. I also took it as an elective as an undergrad. I remember our teacher talking about watching his own teacher, Patrick Lane, read. Lane was one of those extremely masculine poets: he'd worked in logging camps in his youth, and my instructor told stories about how when he read, he'd prowl back and forth, spitting out the words, a lit cigarette in hand. Soon, he said, rolling his eyes, there were many such imitators among his classmates.
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We learn from our mentors. Implicitly and explicitly. What we call "Poet Voice" is not a fixed thing, and a recent development, perhaps an outgrowth of incandescent incantors such as Thomas and Yeats. Is it a regional thing? I haven't really heard it up here, though in the age of the internet, of easy access to recorded readings, perhaps that will soon change. Or maybe not. But perhaps we could stop arguing about this. Give people their space. In an age of unkindness, it costs nothing to be good.
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In my mind, the best poet I've ever heard read live is George Amabile. He has an easy physical presence: tall, broad, with a rich baritone that fills the room. There was nothing about his reading that wasn't perfectly rehearsed, each word in its place, each intonation carefully chosen. A model for how I'd like to read. He didn't fall back on anything.
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I vividly remember the nervousness of my first reading from the pulpit, but strangely, not what I was reading. I had practiced it over and over. My usual performance anxiety didn't get the best of me. It must've went well, because I don't remember it going poorly. I got up, read it the way I was taught, and went back to my seat. I remember feeling pride and belonging. That wouldn't last. I left the church half a decade later. Atheism and a creeping sense that the world resisted easy explanations. But it was good. For a while, I felt as if I belonged.