A week or so ago, I entered a poetry recitation competition after school on a recommendation from my teacher. It didn't go well. In fact, I would say it went disastrous.
The fact that I had to go first did not make me any more comfortable, either. So I walked into the room. Quinn (that's not his real name-- he lied to me!) Nguyen, Van Ry, and two other women I don't know are looking at me. After what seemed like an eternity (it was at least 5 minutes, I swear) of them writing stuff down and "getting ready", they tell me to go.
And so I launch into "It was not Death, for I Stood Up", by Emily Dickinson, and I must say, I nailed it. From the tricky pronunciation of siroccos to my many-times-practiced emphasis on the final line... to justify despair. I finished the poem, pleased with myself, although my legs were shaking beyond control.
After another eternity, it was time to do my second poem. You know, the one I had just recited perfectly several times in a row ten minutes ago? That one. "Sonnet 130" by the wonderful William Shakespeare. "My mistress' eyes look nothing like the sun"... and I drew a blank. I stared at the judges, searching for the second line. "Umm, can I start over?" I asked politely in a tiny voice. Four nods. "My mistress' eyes look nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red. If snow be white, why then, her breasts are dun? If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head".... And then I had recited four out of fourteen lines, and I could not remember a thing.
I had no idea what to do. Should I apologize, and leave? Should I wait for them to give me a line, even though they're not allowed to? I did the latter. And so I stared at the four judges before me, particularly the one with a copy of my poem. And they stared back. And what had to have been a full thirty seconds passed. And eventually, Quinn Nguyen fed me a line: "And in some perfumes..." "Oh! And-in-some-perfumes is-there-more-delight, -than-in-the-breath that-from-my-mistress... reeks!" I spurted out. And then I stared at them for another 30 seconds or so, until he unwillingly fed me another line.
And this is how it went, me saying a line excitedly when I found it, only to sit and stare at the judges. I left the room with the feeling I was disqualified, since they aren't allowed to feed lines.
And to all of you who didn't believe me when I said that I did terribly, suck it. I don't exaggerate about stuff like this. I hold myself in the highest regard, and do not just decide that I suck at something if I don't.
The fact that I had to go first did not make me any more comfortable, either. So I walked into the room. Quinn (that's not his real name-- he lied to me!) Nguyen, Van Ry, and two other women I don't know are looking at me. After what seemed like an eternity (it was at least 5 minutes, I swear) of them writing stuff down and "getting ready", they tell me to go.
And so I launch into "It was not Death, for I Stood Up", by Emily Dickinson, and I must say, I nailed it. From the tricky pronunciation of siroccos to my many-times-practiced emphasis on the final line... to justify despair. I finished the poem, pleased with myself, although my legs were shaking beyond control.
After another eternity, it was time to do my second poem. You know, the one I had just recited perfectly several times in a row ten minutes ago? That one. "Sonnet 130" by the wonderful William Shakespeare. "My mistress' eyes look nothing like the sun"... and I drew a blank. I stared at the judges, searching for the second line. "Umm, can I start over?" I asked politely in a tiny voice. Four nods. "My mistress' eyes look nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red. If snow be white, why then, her breasts are dun? If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head".... And then I had recited four out of fourteen lines, and I could not remember a thing.
I had no idea what to do. Should I apologize, and leave? Should I wait for them to give me a line, even though they're not allowed to? I did the latter. And so I stared at the four judges before me, particularly the one with a copy of my poem. And they stared back. And what had to have been a full thirty seconds passed. And eventually, Quinn Nguyen fed me a line: "And in some perfumes..." "Oh! And-in-some-perfumes is-there-more-delight, -than-in-the-breath that-from-my-mistress... reeks!" I spurted out. And then I stared at them for another 30 seconds or so, until he unwillingly fed me another line.
And this is how it went, me saying a line excitedly when I found it, only to sit and stare at the judges. I left the room with the feeling I was disqualified, since they aren't allowed to feed lines.
And to all of you who didn't believe me when I said that I did terribly, suck it. I don't exaggerate about stuff like this. I hold myself in the highest regard, and do not just decide that I suck at something if I don't.
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