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\centerline {Washington's best kept secret}     

    The Washington skies were sulking as usual when we drove up
    behind the Jefferson building. The elaborate stonework
    around its waist reminded me of the temples in India.
    We walked through the lobby with its vaulted ceilings
    covered in lavish baroque paintings to the Coolidge auditorium.
    This was the last day of the Library of Congress' spring
    literary season. The climax of a season of poetry, an
    evening with poet laureate Robert Pinsky. Just
    crowned as poet laureate for another season, he was to read
    from his own work, instead of just introducing the evening's
    poets.

      The library's literary evenings are usually held at the
      Madison building. Standing just across from the Jefferson
      building, it is architecturally a counterpoint with its
      massive modern rectangular features, labyrinthine interiors and
      warren of offices, more corporate headquarters than temple of
      learning. That is, if you forget the enormous statue of
      Madison by the entrance, affixing with his penetrating stare
      on you the grandeur of his dreams for which these buildings
      stand proud testimony, a secular temple for this country which
      lacking a native mythology worships its heroes with buildings
      evoking ancient Rome.

     Over the years I've listened to some of the best American
     poets alive at readings in the intimate and cozy Montpelier room
     of this building.
     The poet laureate always
     manages to introduce his colleagues with heartfelt and profoundly
     observant reflections on his friends' poetry. It is interesting
     to see, when a poet introduces a poet, how the line dividing
     faint praise and genuine appreciation gets moved far beyond its
     normal limits. But one thing conspicuously absent is the sort
     of intellectual one-up-manship and inflated ego that could
     completely soil such meetings. The poetry runs pure, and the
     poets captivate you with the power of their emotional sincerity,
     unfettered spirit, and complete lack of pretense. The audience
     is always enthusiastic and appreciative, even during the times when
     the reading is invaded by bubbly teenage pages trooping in from
     the congressional offices. As the poet settles into his or her
     reading, you are gradually drawn into their world, and even a long
          stressful day's weariness gets washed away by the gentle stream
     of words.


     Tonight, though, belongs to Robert Pinsky. An energetic, ebullient
     man who has an almost evangelical zeal for bringing poetry to
     the general public, he reads poetry during the MacNeil-Lehrer news hour,
     and tours the country conducting readings for his favourite poems
     project. His talks and poems are suffused with a keen eye for
     the poetry in the mass culture, from MTV to the internet. A pleasant
     surprise, because his vast knowledge of classical literature
     (as in Greek and Latin) made me expect someone entrenched in the ivory
     towers of the elite.

     Slowly the auditorium fills up. I see many of the "regulars".
     We recognise each other, but pretend not to, afraid we'd make each other
     feel guilty of regularly enjoying the poetry and the gourmet food at the
     reception afterwards. We sit in muted expectation, excited about the
     poetry to come, but bittersweet about the ensuing long wait for the
     fall poetry reading after tonight. The well lit, compact stage
     looks fresh with a few judiciously located potted plants.
         A gentle buzz indicates the poet has arrived and the event is about to
     start. Prosser Gifford, Director of scholarly programs, steps up to
     introduce the poet laureate. I almost expect him to start with the
     same sentence that he tirelessly repeats during every reading -"My
     job is to introduce the introducer." But tonight he is doing the
     introduction himself, and does a pretty good job of it.

     Robert Pinsky starts his reading with a little monologue, in a
     deep rumbling voice that catches you by surprise, hidden behind a
      youthfully enthusiastic
     demeanour. This is his sermon to the faithful, which we enjoy as
     much as his poetic musings. Tonight his voice is even more somber.
      This was the week of the school shootings in Colorado, and he
     touches a nerve by quoting the line "We fed our hearts on fantasies,
     and our hearts grew brutal by the fare," of Yeats. He repeats
     the line, slowly, letting it sink in. It drives home his point that
     imagination is a creature that is not always benevolent. Then he
     starts to read some poems that he had composed recently, "scribbling
     away during all those long distance flights." There is one titled
     "The Green Piano," and it recounts the days when he first learnt
     about his mother's mental illness, a tragic and indelible part of
     his memory that has been part of some other poems as well. He then
          shifts gear a little bit and dazzles the audience with a poem that
     starts "Any body can die..." and then continues with each letter of
     the alphabet.

       I have often worried about not "getting" some poems at these
       readings, and feel comforted when he prefaces another poem by
       saying that it is not meant to be "gotten" right there, but
       like a beautiful sculpture or painting must be read many times
       before the meaning "gets" to one. He also reads a long poem
       called "Town Hall", which is now inscribed on a plaque at the
       newly built town hall in Seattle. He had been asked to write
       one for them during one of the town hall style readings
       in connection with the favourite poems project.

       Another favourite
       theme for Robert Pinsky is the diversity of this country, and
       the rich variety of cultural and social experiences available.
       This also gets its fair share in his poems tonight. During one
       of the poetry evenings they have Washingtonians reading their
       favourite poems and the staff goes to some length to have
       every socio-economic and racial group represented. But it is
            also true that most of the other poetry readings are attended
       by a somewhat narrow sector of the population, especially
       considering the cosmopolitan nature of this city. Each reading
       draws its own audience, reflective of the poet's following.
       Some of the more popular writers and poets like John Barth and
       Mark Strand draw big crowds. At Barth's reading a self-professed
       "Barthomaniac" got up and read a poem he had composed during
       his college days in Barth's praise. Some of the readings can also
       be seen on C-SPAN or live on the internet.

       As the poet winds down I look around the almost packed auditorium,
       and we are all caught in a sort of reverie, immersed
       in the paintings of the poet's mindscape. We feel almost rudely
       awakened when Prosser Gifford once again gets on the podium to
       thank everyone and direct us to the "Great Hall" for the
       reception. The "Great Hall," true to its name, is one of the
       most sumptuously designed halls of the whole of the Library of
       Congress, with a high domed ceiling emblazoned with quotes from
       Madison, numerous paintings and sculptures, and broad
       marble staircases. It is a fitting climax to the poetry season.
       We mingle, darting to and from the food and wine tables.
       Pinsky is everywhere, and it seems he would manage to talk to
       everyone. I and my friend meet some people we had seen before,
       but mostly keep to ourselves, enjoying the wine.

       As we walk out of the building the sulking skies had finally given
       up and started a light drizzle. Over the years, I had stepped
       out to see it in its various moods, from the same spot outside the
       Madison building. Furiously pounding rain on the sidewalk,
       dreamily scattering light snow on winter nights, the lazy
       golden glow on fall evenings. But it has never failed to appear
       just a little more special, and magical, as I walk with the
       words of the evening echoing in my mind.










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