Alabama Book Festival

I spent a few hours yesterday at the Alabama Book Festival in Montgomery.

Four books were featured this year, and three hadn't even been colored in yet.

A little self-deprecating Alabama humor there...

Actually, the festival was well-done, as usual, thanks to the hard work of Jeannie Thompson and all the good folks from the Alabama Writers' Forum. A very nice crowd turned out, this in spite of the fact that the night before a large portion of the state was in peril of being destroyed by a line of storms that dropped tornadoes willy-nilly across the countryside.

The festival always offers something for anyone who loves books. High culture mixed with a festive spirit. Happy children with armloads of new treasures, and blue-haired old ladies browsing through the stacks of some of the best of Alabama literature. Several different venues scattered across Old Alabama Town that allow patrons and aspiring writers to listen to readings and question some of their favorite authors from a variety of genres.

I have a confession to make--one that will no doubt draw contempt from some of my writer friends and confirm my true hillbilly nature. I skipped the poetry tent. This in spite of the fact that there were some very fine poets in attendance this year.

Now don't get me wrong. I love poetry. I try to read a poem each day, and I have great respect for the craft--a deep admiration for writers who have the ability to arrange words so sparsely and yet so beautifully. I even try to write some poems occasionally, but quickly find that I'm a rank amateur with little hope of ever writing anything really good.

But there is something in me that does not enjoy hearing poetry read by the author. It always seems a little pretentious and awkward. Something about the medium to me is intensely private. I feel as though I'm listening to a love letter, or eavesdropping on a private conversation. I am fidgety and unsure of how I should react. Should I stare unblinking at the poet? Should I look at my shoes? Should I smile or try to maintain a countenance that bespeaks deep concentration?

Perhaps I just need to be properly trained.

It reminds me of my early college days, when I took a public speaking course that required dramatic readings. On poetry day, I read a well-known poem that I liked a lot, only to be publicly humiliated by the linguistics professor.

"You have the rhythm and cadence all wrong!" His face was red, and he looked as if I had just strangled a puppy.

"Who on earth taught you that poem? Where did you hear it read that way?"

"Well, sir," I replied as I looked at my shoes, "it was the poetry professor right down the hall."

Poets are a passionate lot. I think I'll stick with blogging. There's little chance anyone will ever ask me to read this stuff out loud.