Dream: The Poetry Festival

This dream was lost, and then recovered with some effort. It was from last night.


The pandemic was over. People were happy to go "back to normal," but for many, that wasn't enough. We were having blowouts, making up for lost time, doing the things we hadn't been able to do during however long the pandemic had lasted, but doing them bigger.

One of those things was a poetry festival. It had started out as a poetry reading, but that wasn't enough. The members of the poetry community of Northeastern Pennsylvania had set aside their differences long enough to create a big community event: poetry readings, poetry open mics, seminars, workshops, q&a sessions, special events for kids, all of it held in the Hoyt Library in Kingston, PA.

I have been to the Hoyt Library in real life exactly once, on November 18, 2013, for a poetry reading (with open mic to follow.) I went there with a friend whose mother was in the hospital - dying of cancer, though we didn't know that yet. We stopped at the hospital so my friend could see her mom before we went out for the night, and so she could drop off some clothes. It was just going to be a quick visit, unlike the long visits we had been making every other afternoon. Parking outside of the hospital was difficult, so I dropped her off and waited in the car. After a reasonable amount of time had passed - maybe 15 minutes - I began to get antsy. After a few more minutes, I realized we were losing our safety margin for getting to the poetry reading early. Several minutes later, I realized we were losing our safety margin for getting there late. I parked the car and went inside.

I found my friend in her mother's room, recovering from a panic attack. I was able to ease her out of the attack, and then out of the room. I confirmed that she still wanted to go to the reading - it was featuring a poet we both liked and admired, even though it was being hosted by someone who had a well-earned reputation for being a dick. She did. The reading would be starting in less than five minutes. It would take at least twenty-five minutes to navigate out of Scranton, get on the highway, and get to Kingston and the Hoyt Library. Then we would need to find parking, figure out where in the library the reading was, and hope to slip in before the reading was over. If there was time, we might even read at the open mic.

I drove there at ludicrous speed, holding her hand the whole way.

We got there twenty minutes late. Poetry readings always start late. We knew the featured poet had a lot of material he could choose from, and we hoped he went long. When we got to the library we were greeted by their amazing second-hand book area, as well-stocked as many bookstores. We found the reading in a side room, where the excited babble of many people talking at once suggested to us that it hadn't yet started.

It was over. The featured poet had completed his set. There was no open mic. This was the after-chatter. 

We met up with the featured poet and apologized for missing his performance. I told his son how his father was one of the only poets who had made me cry. We made small talk with other people we knew. I approached the host and expressed regret at having missed the reading, and surprise that everything had ended so quickly. True to form, he snubbed me, not only refusing to respond, but refusing to acknowledge that he had even heard me.

After a side trip to Wilkes-Barre, I drove my friend home, getting lost along the way. At least I got a poem out of that night.

Back to the dream. The poetry event was being held throughout the library. I wandered through and saw many people I knew. I planned to take part in the open mic, and a workshop run by someone I knew, and a seminar or two. I walked past a room and saw a poet friend I have't seen in real life in over a year, doing a reading for a crowd of children. They sat cross-legged on the floor and looked up at her in rapt attention.

People were all crowded together. Talking, laughing, hugging. Reading poetry out loud, in person, for an audience. No masks. No lingering fear of COVID-19.

Just a dream, for now.

The last poetry event I was to: The final edition of The Writers' Showcase, held in the parking lot of the Old Brick Theatre, Scranton PA, the night of February 22, 2020, under the stars, and in freezing temperatures.