Last night, I stood on a Poetry-Out-Loud-sponsored stage, in front of a café-like setup of tables and chairs. The lights weren't blinding enough, and though I was reassured by my English teacher's smile, the judges off to my right and competitors two feet away were not as comforting. The previous performer was tall (at least taller than me, which is not hard to accomplish), and so much microphone adjusting was required.
"'The Lake Isle of Innisfree' by William Butler Yeats," I began, and I breathed the poem out. The judges faded away. I was not on a stage. I floated away; I was with Yeats, going to Innisfree. Midnight was "all a glimmer," "noon just a glow" -- I heard it "in my deep heart's core."
Ten minutes later, I was back up there, only this time with "Sheltered Garden," by H. D., my tried-and-true performance poem. The poem is beautiful (albeit kind of long), and I felt every word pulsating as I spoke the poem aloud. Once again, the audience dissolved -- it was just me and the poem. As I made my way back to my seat, my teacher whispered, "One of the judges gave you a thumbs-up."
There was an interlude of snacks and score-crunching, and then the moment of truth. There were only four competitors (one school's performers were unable to come to the competition), so numerically, I had a good shot at being one of the top two placers (and go to state competition!). However, reason didn't prevent me from trembling as the announcer read off the names. "First runner-up..." Not me.
"The regional winner..." I heard my name, and it was surreal. I felt so lucky in that moment -- lucky that I had the support of my English teacher, lucky that my little brother was willing to listen to poetry practices for hours on end, lucky that the numbers had worked out in my favor. After four years of being invested in poetry performance, I had something to show for it. And the best part of it was that I loved my poems, and the judges were able to see that.
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