a puzzle of a poem

post-pandemic party anxiety and the exasperating genius of Emily Dickinson

I almost bailed on poetry club last night. One of my kids isn’t well, I had a zoom thingy that conflicted and frankly I was just exhausted — but I forced myself, and I was immediately glad that I did. Not after-the-fact glad, but heartened, uplifted from the moment I arrived. We ate in Stephanie’s garden. There was Indian takeaway and cold white wine and conversation about everything from Italian Fascist internment camps to cryptocurrency to Pablo Neruda’s socks.

I never regret poetry club. Ever. And that’s not something I say about many social activities these days.

London is bursting back into its effervescent gadfly self this summer, I’ve slightly lost the party knack. Which is weird because I used to love a party.

Technically nothing’s changed, I’m still a fan of all the basic ingredients: People, chatter (wine). But parties are more than the sum of their parts. The buzz of a crowded room is the best and worst thing about them. At the moment my buzz tolerance is very low. What once felt restorative now often feels draining. The main problem is that I’ve forgotten how to start or move on from a conversation. My brain goes a bit staticky. I just want run home and curl up with a book. But the good news is, poetry club isn’t like that.

Fittingly, the first poem we discussed was by the reclusive genius Emily Dickinson. It’s a bit of a puzzle, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.