On September 18th, twenty-four poets joined David Lehman at the New School for what has become an annual fall rite: the launch of the year’s The Best American Poetry. Each of the poets shared the honor of having guest editor Terrence Hayes select their poem for inclusion in the volume and the excitement in the crowded auditorium was palpable. The audience erupted into cheers and applause as the poets took their seats on the stage, then fell silent in order to hear the poets lift their poems off the page.
David Lehman, the creator and series editor of the Best American Poetry, opened the program. Terrence Hayes was unable to attend. There were more cheers, this time from the stage as well as the audience, when Lehman shared that, as new recipient of a prestigious MacArthur fellowship, Hayes had “just been declared a genius. . . But we already knew that.”
Lehman let the audience in on a little known fact about Hayes: On his basketball team in high school, Hayes guarded Ray Allen, who became one of the greatest three-point shooters in the history of the NBA. In the spirit of basketball, Lehman once asked Hayes what he thought was the poetry equivalent of a “fast break.”
“Syntax,” Hayes answered, considering poetry’s relationship to the sport. “The way a sentence adjusts its rhythm and angles as it moves across line breaks is surely akin to the way a body or bodies adjust speed and direction in a fast break.”
Of the Best American Poetry series, Hayes notes in his introduction that Jorie Graham’s 1990 edition became his first contemporary poetry teacher. “I am a proud mutt of poetic influences, having been reared by seventy-five parents.” He ownes every volume.
Following Lehman’s introduction, the poets read in alphabetical order, beginning with Lucie Brock-Broido and concluding, roughly ninety minutes later, with Rachel Zucker. Of the arrangement, Lehman cited Adrienne Rich’s introduction to the 1996 edition for which she served as guest editor: “The alphabetical order of poets, a convention of this series,” Rich had written, “creates a structure of its own.”
The audience certainly felt each rhythm change and mood shift as each poet read his or her contribution. In a moment, a new line would move the audience from hearty laughter to quiet hums of melancholia. It was easy to be seduced into the world of each poem and the mind of its narrator, as the poets spoke.
Among the first to take the podium was Cornelius Eady, who remarked, “I ran into Terrance [Hayes] the night before he won the MacArthur. He looked absolutely normal.” Many of the poets who followed offered up their congratulations to Hayes.
Ross Gay provided an element of surprise that delighted the audience. Before taking the podium to read “To the Fig Tree on 9th and Christian,” he bounded off the stage and into the audience to distribute fresh figs because so often when he reads his poem he is surprised to learn that many have never experienced the taste of a fresh fig.
Major Jackson’s “OK Cupid,” a provocative list poem in which every line is a variation on “Dating an “x” is like dating a “y,” and dating a “y” is like dating a “z” aroused knowing laughter as the comparisons became more daring. Mid-way through, Jackson laughed along with the audience, “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wrote this a long time ago. I’m married now.”
“Obituaries for poetry are perishable,” said Lehman in his opening remarks. This year’s book launch proves that arguments over poetry’s demise are largely irrelevant. The poets on the stage were treated like rock stars. Whether it is on paper or recited, poetry strikes a chord on the imaginations of those open to it.
Even after Rachel Zucker closed the reading with her energetic “Mindfulness,” the event continued on the stage and in the aisles as fans, students, friends, and family members joined the poets to give praise, ask for autographs or photographs, and converse. When most of the fans had left, savoring the aftertaste of The Best American Poetry 2014, many of the poets, some of whom had not met until the event, remained behind to forge new friendships.
If poetry is a “dead art,” then I sure would like to make my grave next to it, for I am certain it will never leave me lonely.