Page 26 of Awakening the Sheriff

We weaved through the crowd, and I felt a little intimidated by the intellectual atmosphere. What was I even doing here? This was so far above my level.

We found seats near the back, settling in as a woman with a flowing scarf took the stage, and the room quieted down. She welcomed everyone and introduced the first poet, a young guy whose poem was short. After that, the readings followed each other rapidly. Around us, pages rustled as people followed along in their copies.

One woman read a melancholy poem by Sylvia Plath, her tremulous voice adding depth and emotion to the words she read. It was too sad for me, but others felt differently, judging by their enraptured expressions. A young man followed with a more upbeat selection by Walt Whitman, speaking clearly and with passion. That appealed more to me, and at least I recognized that name.

Bit by bit, I was drawn in, noticing the rhythms and cadences of the poetry in a way I never had. Some were somber and monotone, others flowery, passionate, or whimsical. I still didn’t understand most of the metaphors and imagery, and at some point, I stopped trying to grasp them, but I appreciated the emotions behind them. And most of all, I enjoyed watching Keaton.

He seemed absorbed, leaning forward in his seat, his eyes sparkling. And he reacted to each poem, furrowing his brow as he contemplated the meaning, breaking into a smile upon catching a clever turn of phrase, and when a particularly poignant line was read, he’d nod vigorously or let out a quiet “Mmm” of appreciation.

He wasn’t only listening. He was experiencing each line, letting every word wash over him like a wave. For him, this was as much a hobby as building LEGO sets was for me. It was an unexpected pleasure to see how passionate he was about poetry. He was in his element, and I was glad to be there with him.

“Isn’t this amazing?” he whispered during a break. “The power of language, the way it can move and inspire us.”

I nodded, a surge of emotion I couldn’t quite put into words shooting through me.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“More than I expected.”

No lie detected.

After the last poet had shared their piece, we exchanged a few words with some attendees, then made our way to the exit.

“Whew, that last one got me,” Keaton said as we left the bookstore, his excitement for the night’s readings radiating off him. “What did you think, Auden?”

Shit, what had the last one been? I’d tuned out a bit by then. Oh wait, it was the one with the Latin title, but I hadn’t understood much of it.

“Uh, well…” I hesitated, embarrassed by my lack of poetic insight. “I didn’t get it? I’m not even sure what the title means.”

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” Keaton said. The words rolled off his tongue as smoothly as I could recite the Miranda rights. “It’s Latin for ‘it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.’ In this poem, Wilfred Owen pushes back against that idea.”

I frowned. “He didn’t think it noble to give your life for your country?”

“He served in the First World War and experienced trench warfare and attacks with poisonous gas firsthand. What he’s expressing in his poem is that there’s nothing noble about dying like that, and if people could see how awful death is in war, they wouldn’t repeat that statement or romanticize it.”

Now that, I could agree with. “He’s right. There’s nothing romantic about war.”

Keaton grabbed my arm, his face paling. “Shoot, Auden, I didn’t think. How insensitive of me to talk to you about war.”

When we’d been building the fire station, I’d told him I’d served in the Army. How sweet of him to be worried about that. “It’s fine. It’s not a trigger for me, unlike for some others.”

“But you were deployed. I assume you saw war.”

“Not like others. I served with the MP, the military police, so while I was deployed twice, I didn’t serve on the front lines. That makes my experience very different from those who did.”

Understanding dawned on his face. “But you saw enough to agree with the poem.”

He let go of my arm, and funnily enough, I wouldn’t have minded him holding on a little longer. “Losing Essex was enough to know how cruel war is.”

“That’s what the poem is all about. Wilfred Owen describes a gas attack in vivid imagery. One example is the phrase ‘blood gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs.’ That’s about as descriptive as it gets.”

“Yes, now that I know what it’s about, I agree. It’s hard to follow when you’re missing the context.”

Keaton nodded. “That’s the challenge of poetry. Often, we have to explain the setting and context first before the poem can be truly understood, and not many people have the patience for that.”

I grinned. “I’m surprised you do. You said yourself how impatient you are.”

He bumped my shoulder. “Who said you could use my own words against me?”

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