Poetry reminds me of God.

Almost by accident, Keith and I went to a poetry reading at Registry Theatre. It was sponsored by Wilfred Laurier University and free! I don't know much about poetry; I don't know a lot about poets who are still alive. I know even less about Canadian poets.

But I think I accidentally found myself in a small room with some of the best poets in Canada.

Poetry reminds me of God. I'm not really sure why. Probably because it is so incredibly personal. It lets you see right into someone. It’s strange.

For the most part, we live such stupid lives. We want to look good, and we want to feel good, and we run around like gerbils trying to make that happen. Poetry is one thing that lives outside the world of cheap imitation.

Anne Lamott (my favourite person I don’t really know) says that, “Becoming a writer is about becoming conscious. Writing from a place of insight and simplicity and real caring about the truth, you have the ability to throw the light on for your reader.” I think I agree.

When a poem is a clear and critical outpouring of life itself, it’s priceless. Suddenly there is an honesty that makes us feel less alone, less isolated. “Hey, I feel that too.”

And I can’t look into that deep reflection of someone’s struggles and not see God: see the presence of God, or the longing for God, or the pain of God.

I think that’s why.

The last poet to read was Lorna Crozier. We ended up buying her book. This poem will never be the same thing on paper as it was when she read it, but still… I cried when she read it.

The Fear of Snakes
By Lorna Crozier

The snake can separate itself
from its shadow, move on ribbons of light,
taste the air, the morning and the evening,
the darkness at the heart of things. I remember
when my fear of snakes left for good,
it fell behind me like an old skin. In Swift Current
the boys found a huge snake and chased me
down the alleys, Larry Moen carrying it like a green torch,
the others yelling, Drop it down her back, my terror
of it sliding in the runnell of my spine (Larry,
the one who touched the inside of my legs on the swing,
an older boy we knew we shouldn't get close to
with our little dresses, our soft skin), my brother
saying Let her go, and I crouched behind the caraganas,
watched Larry nail the snake to a telephone pole.
It twisted on twin points of light, unable to crawl
out of its pain, its mouth opening, the red
tongue tasting its own terror, I loved it then,
that snake. The boys standing there with their stupid hands
dangling from their wrists, the beautiful green
mouth opening, a terrible dark O
no one could hear.