And so the literary enjoyment – and this afforded me a new charm – became more of a celebration of poems than a spontaneous reading. I was reminded involuntarily of how Verhaeren read his poems – in shirt sleeves, in order the better to mark the rhythm with his vigorous arms, without pomp or staging; or how Rilke occasionally recited a few poems out of a book, simply, clearly, in tranquil service to the word. It was the first “staged” poetry reading that I had ever attended, and in spite of my love for his work I was somewhat distrustful of this cult treatment.
