I went to hear a Guatemalan poet named Fernando read at Cafe No Se (Cafe I don't know) last night. Ten of us sat in chairs too small for our butts, surrounded by books...books that had all been published years ago, read and re-read and probably passed through innumerable hands, hearts and countries before gathering in this little room. We bask in candle light.
Fernando is 20 and tiny. He cluthches his tiny volume of poetry to his chest while the Jon, the American owner of the cafe, describes Fernando and the rest of the "tea boys" sipping from mugs and scribbling in journals in the back of the restaurant in between waiting on tables.
And one day, Fernando told Jon he was going to be published. By one of the largest Central American presses. Fernando is 20 and tiny and very modest.
Jon finishes. And Fernando says, almost whispers, "gracias".
He pauses to push his black rectangular glasses up his nose and begins...
He begins to tie delicate knots with his words that hold us above our teeny chairs. And, as he weaves his net of poetry, we are happily caught-- between the knots, in all the white space, submerged in candle light...where things are at once complex and simple, but we're not quite sure why...they just are...
Before we know it, we are gently released. The words end, the knots untie and we grapple for what treads we can catch. Once again, we shift uncomfortably in our too-small chairs.
We look at the poet, a little stunned. And then burst into applause. Fernando looks down at his book, a little stunned.
"I am still nervous," he tells us. "I am not used to sharing my words." And we all stumble over one another's "thank you," sounding clumsy and over-effusive.
He can't believe his words are out of his journal. But here they are-- on the page and in our ears.
And here he is--a waiter, a Tea Boy, a scribbler--a poet.
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