She was not yet really 'known' - <br />but asked to read by this small group <br />of older Jewish refugees and eager youngsters, <br />talent destined for a fame, <br />at the tiny Gaberbocchus Press <br /> <br />which did not affect at all <br />the self-contained aloneness <br />that walked up the aisle from door to barely stage <br /> <br />and in a clear dry voice neither apology nor hope <br />read her poems that gave a meaning <br />to the new word 'throwaway' - they were her, <br />she read them, threw the invisible sheets away, <br />and if you caught them as you laughed <br />which was easier than crying tears, <br />so be it. <br /> <br />Her voice at the poems' end <br />was herself: as if, not waving, no, but drowning, neatly, <br />with a certain acceptance, <br />in the incomprehensibility of life; she read <br />as if when the poem ended <br />you might quickly but quietly rise from your seat <br />and leave, not rudely but because <br />there was nothing more to say<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stevie-smith-reading-her-poems/
