Yesterday, after having researched poetry spots in London, I resolved to make my way over to the Poetry Café in Covent Garden to crack open my book on Romanticism for class, as well as peruse entertainment options, see what other readings I could enjoy, or acquaintances of like interests I could make. Poetry, is a very accessible avenue for uniting diverse groups of people under a like appreciation. I find its influence pervasive and thrives in friendly spheres of intelligent people who have not only a lot to offer, but a sincere willingness to listen to and meet with new people.
As I sat by the coffee bar, at a table for four, leafing through the section on Wordsworth in my Anthology, I was approached by an older man in a suit and tie with a red felt scarf. "This seat taken?" he asked with a hopeful smile. I politely told him "No, not at all," inviting him to a chair and consequently another chance at conversation- which he took, and I did not decline as I quickly became tired of the lengthy verse amidst the public distractions, a growing buzz of chatter, and the Cold Play record that sounded just a little too loud winning my attention over the natural images of the romantic poets. Better in silence, I thought, and better even outdoors. Instead I randomly selected one of the many books on the shelf of poetry to sample- see what contemporaries I'm working with. The barista set down the man's coffee and separated the tables adjoined between us- I'm not sure for his sake, or for mine? Either way, that didn't stop him.
"Are you a poet? Is that your work?" he asked.
"Well no... I write but I'm not published or anything." (I didn't know what to say!)
"Are you a teacher?"
"No, I'm a student"
"Oh I see."
(pause) (sips of coffee)
"What do you do?" I asked
"Oh, I do nothing, and I am nothing. Nothing." the man said. He looked down and modestly shook his head, so I followed the obvious course of the conversation.
"That just can't be true." I insisted.
He went on to answer my questions, telling me he's originally from Iraq, though he's lived most of his life in London through and now after a career with the BBC. Turns out he's a successful writers of several books, widely known in the Arab world, and works as a translator- currently translating Ulysses. My proving a willing listener, he talked without hesitation on whatever subject that seemed to crop up in his head. Told me how the British differed in their silence and privacy, from the Americans in their openness, and he discussed the Spanish and their eyes; how everything they created was imbued with color and visual attractiveness. He asked if I knew who was the poet on this evening, when I confessed I did not but showed him the February schedule of events I had picked up which said 'Sebastian Hayes.' He said he was there to meet Sebastian, a friend of his, and he told me he'd introduce me. I was confused as to why he would ask me the name of the poet for that night's event when here he was guest to the man himself- who shortly arrived and amicably joined our parted table of four we pushed back together, and Sebastian's old lady friend June sat by my side- and told me of her life in London.
Sebastian looked a bit like Smeagal would as a hobbit before he turned into the sea creature Gollum. He had very animated features, in addition to his dress. June was clearly aged, but still showcased her marks of beauty with wide cast pale blue eyes and sleek coiffed white hair, and most importantly a very sweet, inviting smile. She, an image of composure in contrast to the disheveled Sebastian.
Having lived in London her whole life, I asked June if she liked it. She said yes but shared how much it's changed through her life's course, pointing out that she's very old. Then she said, "My favorite part of London is the river. Have you seen it? The river Thames. I like to walk along the river, and in all my years in the city, the water has not changed. One thing that is unchanging." A very nice reflection I thought.
My new friends, all coincidentally a skip of a generation or two behind myself, invited me to stay for the event in which people came to read 'memorable poems that have changed their lives.' I volunteered to partake as a mere listener since I was not prepared to share any of my favorites- though I was severely pressed for participation regardless. About 7 or 8 people shared poems and revealed the authors at the end. The conductor himself read this short poem I've included below- and it reminded me of my strongest reason for being here in London.
Sebastian shared this poem, by Edna St. Vincent Millay, entitled, "Travel":
The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn’t a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I’ll not be knowing, Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
I recall in making my decision as to where to go, that I concluded it didn't really matter. It's not the destination that matters, but the travel, for its own sake. I can't help but juxtapose this idea with that obsessive mind set I'd been in about extracting meaning from my experiences. I can even lace this into the aesthetic movement I'm studying now in modernism with Walter Pater and Oscar Wilde among it's prominent figures- the movement was a reaction to the moral preoccupations of the Victorian era; the philosophy argues that it's the moments themselves; the sight, the feeling, the initial impact, the people you meet once that you won't again; the risk, the rush, the beauty- the travel, not the destination.
Of course, I have had my problems with this ideology; but this poem helped me to realize something so natural in myself that I was in danger of rationalizing out of existence- my love of travel, primarily for the sake of it.
I left yesterday evening with a few business cards in my wallet, and a commitment upon handshake to attend and participate in the next reading.
There are varying degrees of wander lust in people. One man at the meeting discussed a stranger he knew who traveled so much around the world alone that he became obsessed with doing everything for the best bargain. He would spend hours buying tickets, and he was distrustful of everyone. He traveled everywhere alone and became close with no one- the reaction of a broken heart he recounted to us. Though there is a tendency among people to become addicted to travel, the highs. the detachment, and the freedom; I do not believe the above poem describes such a compulsion, but rather, it denotes something innate in human beings, a kind of wander lust.
Just because things don't have to mean more does not mean they do not mean at all.
When the meeting had ended and I said my goodbyes, and headed for the door, June reached for my hand and looked in my eyes saying in her frail, gentle voice,
"I will remember you."
I think after my last post especially, I'd been seeking a genuine connection with all the strangeness I've been encountering. I'm glad I've trusted my instincts to do differently, and stumbled upon something very familiar in the process.
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