In all languages, the number of printed publications of poetry collections has dwindled.
A few decades ago, each poetry collection would be printed in no less than a thousand copies. Today, the typical print run is barely 300 copies, most of which the poet gifts to friends at signing events.
Poetry soirées and matinées are now held in small rooms and attended by a few acquaintances.
Does this mean that the age of poetry is gone? Should we accept the death of poetry, the latest victim after the death of authors, books, critics, and readers?
A month ago, I attended a poetry evening for Moroccan poet Sakina Habib Allah in the French city of Nancy. I was three minutes late. When the door opened, I found myself in a dimly lit room where only the poet’s voice could be heard coming from a place I couldn’t see.
I found my way to the last row, where I kept hearing the rhythmic voice, accompanied by increasing and decreasing musical beats.
Slowly, the stage was lit with warm light, revealing the poet. She recited one of her poems, a dialogue between a grandmother, a mother, and a granddaughter, in both Arabic and French, every now and then glancing briefly at the papers someone to her right was holding.
A night of hope
The night before, the Palestinian poet Carol Sansour had recited her poetry at the Avignon Theatre Festival, where the “Poetess” programme dedicated to bilingual poetry performances was launched last year. The Syrian poet Rasha Omran and the Palestinian poet Asma Azaizeh also shared their experiences as part of the programme.
Poetess is the brainchild of French director and artist Henri Jules Julien, offering an artistic vision for poetry that mixes vocal theatre with other musical and visual media.
The performances given by these female poets in front of a large crowd confirm that poetry is still alive and well and could never die. But what form of poetry can coexist with today’s society and encourage people to pay the price of a ticket, or even attend a poetry performance for free?
