The Nature of Regret

Earlier this week, I participated in the first International Poetry Reading and Reception at the community college where I work.

I originally planned the event eight months ago, and later linked it with the College's International Education Week festivities - a concession to my Dean, who proved to be my strongest backer, not only of the event itself but of my own dreams, desires and effort. As a result of this commingling of events, the day was out of my control, and fixed to a Monday evening.

First regret in hindsight: Monday is a lousy day to hold a poetry reading. Turnout was light. We moved the audience, who had seated themselves toward the back of the auditorium, toward the front.

Second regret: Large auditoriums may reveal high confidence in speakers and audience. But in reality, a small attendance is glaringly noticed when so many seats are empty.

This was my baptism. I've read at a number of places - and looking back, I realized the rooms were cozy, tight. Usually, seats had to be added to accommodate everyone. And without exception, these were held on a weekend evening.

Then there was the time frame: two hours of seating without interruption requires unusual stamina. Now why didn't I think of that? How many plays, concerts and other staged performances have I attended? Plenty. And how many of them force attention for 120 minutes? Well, hmm now. Few. When this particular convenience was not provided, people started leaving. Rolling into the second hour, individual abandonment became a contagion. When I watched my two good friends rise from their seats and lurk out, I knew my mistake was a biggie.

The morning after, I awoke with a sour memory. Disenchantment and disappointment poured over me like a deluge. I couldn't shake the awful feeling that I'd led two wonderful poets (Celia Alvarez and Marisella Veiga) into an open pit, a vast darkness; that I had not attended to reality - day, time, space, breaks.

But regret is like yeast that rises into a mountainous mass and two hours later, falls flat, levels out. It took more than two hours. But finally I recognized that my disappointment was based on untested expectations. A "first" of anything has inherently higher risk than a repeat act.

And continuing in the vein of relativity, I just read of a poet's experience at a reading arranged at a bookstore. She had zero turnout. She sold one book. And she received no honorarium.

So the nature of regret is flexible. Now I realize that an audience of 80-90 people ain't so bad when the alternative is zero. I recognize that press before the event, while not shaking the rooftops, was good. And, I recognize that poets do not go out of their way to support other poets. Multilingual people, immigrants, the displaced, English faculty, ESL faculty - they are the same. This isn't a condemnation, just a simple truth.

And the nature of regret is that it comes ready made for learning. I'm already meeting and organizing for next year's poetry event.