Reading

Poetry Reading 1

I never know what to expect when attending an anthology reading. Diversity is something that anthology’s don’t usually or holistically address. Typically, I have found that they encompass a group of stylistically similar writers or some other unifying signifier.  So at the Late Peaches: An Anthology of Sacramento Poets 2012 book lanch and reading, I was more than curious if the city that Time Magazine named the most diverse city in 2002 would represent that diversity.

            The reading was on a Saturday night in an old remolded antique store turned venue location. There were pictures of BB King and Lady Day painted in electric blues and yellows on the brick walls, I was too early for the other poets to arrive. Later, the seats filled with overwhelming middle aged, mostly white people, or that is what I saw looking back form the front row, so I was surprised as the reading began to see more poets of color and young poets that I had anticipated from my repeated glances around that packed room. It was a significant improvement from the anthology reading ten years ago, and even from the local poetry center’s Monday night reading series. I wouldn’t call the say the reading met with my personal expectations of diversity or Time Magazines, yet there was diversity that night the Sacramento poetry world. Thankfully things seem to be shifting.

            One of my favorite readings of the night was from Juan. He wasn’t the loudest poet or the quietest, but there was something in the way his words came of the page that captivated me.  He read three poems that were featured in the Late Peaches and I was impressed with his range. One poem (below) addressed his racial identity and his struggle as a second-generation American living between languages; however, his other two poems were different from identity narratives and reminded me a bit of Jennifer Chang’s work.

Jaun Espinoza’s poem

The Gardener

He rakes up the oak leaves

that fall like second hands on

the grass that will always be green,

piles them into bags in the back of his truck

and drives away,

counting the little handfuls that jump

out of the bed.

He wakes his youngest son,

the one still too young

to speak two languages like his brothers.

He carefully slits the bags over the dead

lawn and smiles, his son’s smile

peeking out from between the leaves.