The Courage of a Poet by Nina Bayer

He stands in front of our small group of writers, staring at the note cards in his hands. He is too nervous to pace or even bend his knees, and so he thrusts his left hand into his pocket and then his right, shuffles his note cards then shuffles them again, and never looks up to see if we are still there. He has come to teach. We have come to learn. And so, as he begins to speak – softly, slowly – we strain to hear him in the awkward silence of the room. The information he shares is good – we take notes, we ask questions – but his presentation and interaction is painful.

He has been introduced to us as a talented author, an award-winning poet, an experienced editor, but he is so obviously shy that we soon learn teaching does not come naturally to him. Earlier in the day, he resisted even the most innocuous of interviews – mine – and asked instead that I take and transcribe the notes from his lecture for my article. I agreed, but to myself I wondered: What is it about poets? That they would knowingly enter a profession where public appearances are expected, even commonplace? That they would force themselves to leave the safe seclusion of their writing dens, and stand, terrified, in front of a crowd of anticipatory faces? I just didn't get it.

The first time I heard this poet read, I had thought the same thing. My colleagues and I had been invited to a backyard reception, held to celebrate the start of a new MFA program. With our backs to the sea, he stood in front of us on the patio steps fumbling through a stack of windblown copy paper. His hair fell across his face, his glasses slipped down his nose, and as he spoke, seagulls drowned out his timid voice. I felt sorry for him. He must hate every minute of this, I thought. Why on earth does he do it?

Following today’s lecture, I have another opportunity to hear him speak, only this time he does not lecture on the perils of editorial responsibilities, he simply reads his poems. Standing in front of an expectant crowd who has gathered in a dusty, waterside coffee house, he smiles – the first smile I remember seeing from him – and begins to read. Now his soft voice and awkward stance fade off into the background, and it is his words that captivate my attention. In his unassuming way, he reaches out to where I am seated amidst a semi-circle of mismatched chairs, and touches the inside of me so deeply that I cannot breathe. The silence in the room is no longer intrusive; it is his stage.

He reads from a collection of postcard poems, found words really, about a woman who fears she may never marry, the sins of her beau having been thrust upon her own reputation. The story is compelling, his words, an art form; even the hum of the soda machine behind the counter does not break the tension in the room. Poem after poem, he draws us in. We are entranced, boxed and shipped. When he has finished reading his last poem, we do not know whether to cry, or sigh, or applaud, and so, as we contemplate our decision, we do all three.

Somehow, this timorous poet has risen above his fear of public speaking and shared his words with us. And because he has, we have learned the greatest lesson a writer can learn – that words mean nothing if not shared. Just as a baseball is useless if not pitched across a plate, and a seed, just a stone if not planted in the ground, this poet’s words would not have touched us if he had allowed his fear to paralyze him. His courage has taught us the value of words; his words have taught us the value of courage. And for that I thank him.