Iraqi Poetry Reading

One thing I love about being an organist is the community of organists of which I have become a part. Helen calls them my “organ posse”. It’s a group that I can call upon if I have questions about music, instruments, professional concerns, etc. One of these organists is also a very good friend of ours. I admire him because he pieces together his living solely from music, which is quite a feat in New England. Besides two church jobs, he is also a piano teacher, a community chorus conductor, an Arabic musician and a member of an alternative band. Last spring, our friend invited us to a reading by an Iraqi poet, in English, which he was accompanying on the oud and the nye. Following is a description of my experience at that event.

We arrived right on time, but the room in the small art gallery where the performance was being held was full of people sitting on an assortment of folding chairs and stools. So we chose seats on the wide window sill, which was lined with quilts. Throughout the reading, the audience was quiet and attentive, except for an old Iraqi woman sitting in the front row wearing traditional clothing. Every so often, she would comment loudly in Arabic. The poet finally explained that she had recently arrived in this country.

After the reading, which lasted less than a hour, Helen and I wandered around the gallery, examining the works of art that were displayed and sampling the amazing Middle Eastern food, which had been catered. We were waiting our turn to talk to our organist friend, who was being congratulated by the Iraqi community, friends, and fellow musicians.  When we finally had an opportunity to speak to him, we told him that it was an amazing event and that the food was fabulous. Then we moved on to “How are you?” and “How was your day?” It felt good to be real.

Helen and I walked around a bit more, back to the room with the chairs and stools—which was now mostly empty of people. We looked at the large paintings which had been created by the poet; they contained bright colors and lots of eyes and other body parts. We didn’t want to leave before saying goodbye to our friend, but he was engaged in another conversation. We finally headed toward the door and got his attention.  I went to give him a hug; he kissed my cheek and I kissed him back. The old Iraqi woman saw us, and came toward me with her arms open and a huge smile on her face.  She somehow communicated that she also wanted a hug—so I hugged and kissed her.  Then she stepped back and started speaking passionately in Arabic. Our friend was trying to translate, but was struggling. So another woman rushed over to help. The old woman was saying to me, “You are so beautiful!”

For a brief moment in time, I forgot that we were almost late to the poetry reading. That we actually WERE late because the poet had started early. That we had struggled to find parking and had parked in an empty lot which had a sign promising to tow any car without a permit. That I had put a headband on at the last minute to make my hair semi-presentable after not liking what I saw in the mirror. For a brief moment in time, I felt beautiful, full of light, divine.