Nothing makes a person more artsy than if he or she attends a poetry reading. I didn’t realize that I had a hankering for this sort of entertainment until recently. I was moseying to my class in Dallas Hall when I stopped to glance at the bulletin board. My eyes darted from one neon advertisement to another and lay to rest on a large poster promoting the Highland Park Literary Festival.

For a reason unbeknownst to me, the festival chose to go with an Asian title, “The Year of the Poet.” This intrigued me. There was a whole world out there in which I had never stepped foot. Not to mention, Billy Collins was going to be the featured speaker, and he was an American Poetry Laureate. I wasn’t sure what an American Poetry Laureate did or how he or she was chosen. All I knew was that the title sounded important, so this poet must be good.

Now that I had made the decision to go, I had to find someone to go with me. I mean, what kind of loser would go to a poetry reading alone? But finding a friend to go to such an event, especially when it takes place in a local high school, is a lot harder to do than I first imagined. Turns out that the third try was a charm. After presenting my pitch to two other friends, I finally managed to convince one. He recently wrecked his car, and he needed a ride later in the week, so I used this little field trip as collateral.

There we sat in the crowded Highland Park High School auditorium. There was no doubt that Mr. Collins had a knack for pulling in an eclectic crowd. The lady to our right, with her fur coat and large hat, was dressed as though she was expecting the auditorium to become very cold. Another lady came with a note pad and a collection of poetry books; it certainly wasn’t her first rodeo.

I wanted to observe more, but the lights dimmed. We all waited in anticipation, but before Collins could come out for his reading, he had to be introduced, of course. As the female high school teacher read Billy Collin’s list of accomplishments, one could tell that she neither knew of Billy nor cared to learn anything about him. Her apathy left me drained. I could hear my friend let out a low sigh of despair. This was going to be a long journey for him.

Monotone seemed to be the night’s theme. Poet Collin’s voice did not go up or down. Instead it followed the very straight, long line of dull. I did enjoy his poetry, however. It was dry and witty. Rather than attempting rhyme, his poems went for jabs and insults.

I really got into them. I laughed when he laughed, and reflected on the greater meaning of life at all the right times. During one particularly funny poem, I glanced over at my friend and saw a blank stare. Clearly, he was not picking up what Billy Collins was throwing down.

There was one point when Collins said that when writing a poem, he doesn’t try to prove something. As soon as he starts one, he is just looking for a way to end it. I could tell my friend was hoping the same would happen for the poetry reading. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. He and I decided to throw in our artsy hats after about forty minutes.

Looking back, I enjoyed the experience. It was a good reading for beginners. There weren’t too many teens who were frustrated with life, and there weren’t drums to highlight the poems’ rhythm. I don’t know if I will ever be ready for an actual poetry reading, though. The one to which I went promised good poems by a renowned poet, but that’s not always guaranteed. I wouldn’t call myself a poetry fan, but I am definitely learning how to appreciate the art.

Peter Goldschmidt is a sophomore financial con sulting major. He can be reached for comment at [email protected].