I saw Albert Goldbarth read tonight as part of the Seattle Arts and Lectures Poetry Series. He was superb. In general the quality of the series is very high--Robert Haas, Sharon Olds, Yusef Komenyaka. . . that high. Several times I have had ecstatic experiences at these readings. This was one of them.

I am not a Goldbarth come lately fan. In 1989 my mentor brought his poem "Gallery" to class, and I fell in love with the frank tone, the sense of immortal wisdom underlying the humor. Regular readers of my holiday gift "Poems I Like And Why I Like Them" might remember that I featured his poem, "Library" several years ago. Here's a little excerpt:

Library

This book saved my life.
This book takes place on one of the two small tagalong moons of Mars.
This book requests its author's absolution, centuries after his death.
This book required two of the sultan's largest royal elephants to bear it;
this other book fit in a gourd.
This book reveals The Secret Name of God, and so its author is on a death
list.
This is the book I lifted high over my head, intending to smash a roach in
my girlfriend's bedroom; instead, my back unsprung, and I toppled
painfully into her bed, where I stayed motionless for eight days.
This is a "book." That is, an audio cassette. This other "book" is a screen
and a microchip. This other "book," the sky.
In chapter three of this book, a woman tries explaining her husband's
tragically humiliating death to their daughter: reading it is like walking
through a wall of setting cement.
This book taught me everything about sex.
This book is plagiarized.
This book is transparent; this book is a codex in Aztec; this book, written
by a prisoner, in dung; the wind is turning the leaves of this book: a
hill-top olive as thick as a Russian novel.
This book is a vivisected frog, and ova its text.


It goes on like this for pages and pages. He read six poems tonight. Three of them were at least 10 minutes long. I didn't really notice because I was dancing in my seat waiting for the next brilliant and/or hilarious turn.

I knew the poetry would be good. I didn't know the reading would be so good. His performance reminded me of Spaulding Gray. Not the sardonic moroseness, but the actor's skill with delivery and the way he used humor to deliver great truths. He acted his reading, even to the point of taking on different voices. It was great theater as much as great poetry. It was great.