4 Aprilie 2016 Lasă un comentariu
What I’ve learned reciting poems in the street by Gary Dexter
It was past midnight in Norwich. There was a keen wind rifling up London Street. It was dark and it was January. I was hoarse, my feet hurt and, more to the point, I was cold. I had been punishing myself for four-and-a-half hours reciting poems by Eliot, Larkin, Wordsworth and Whitman.
I stopped a pretty Hungarian girl and her boyfriend to ask for their favourite poem. ‘Anything by Pablo Neruda,’ she said. I told her I would recite some Neruda and offer my hat for a donation if they enjoyed it. It began well enough (‘Yo te he nombrado reina…’) but I can’t speak Spanish so I got stuck pronouncing the verbs in the third verse. The girl laughed and squirmed. I came to a halt. They backed away, saying thank you. I was left alone, shouting to myself. I felt like a mad tramp.