"And some poets are far better read off the page because they're very bad speakers. I'm thinking of one in particular whom I won't name, a good poet, and he reads in such a dry, boring way, your eyes start drooping"
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MacCaig slips a small bomb into the precious ritual of the poetry reading: the idea that the poem and the poet are not the same performance. In an era when public readings were becoming a kind of cultural proof-of-life for writers, he pries them apart with a shrugging, almost conversational cruelty. The line works because it’s funny in the way a good heckle is funny: intimate, observant, and timed to the exact moment your attention fails.
His specificity does the heavy lifting. “Far better read off the page” isn’t just a preference for print; it’s a defense of the poem’s native habitat. On the page, the reader controls pace, rereads, hears inner cadence. In the room, the poet’s body becomes a competing text. MacCaig’s dig at “dry, boring” delivery implies that bad speaking can actively overwrite the poem’s music, replacing its rhythms with the flat meter of a badly chaired meeting.
The slyest move is the coy anonymity: “one in particular whom I won’t name.” He names by refusing to name. That small ethical fig leaf signals collegiality while letting the jab land; it also broadens the target from one poor reader to a whole genre of literary sanctimony. MacCaig, famously clear-eyed about pretension, is puncturing the assumption that authenticity lives in the author’s voice. Sometimes the most honest way to meet a poem is alone, with your eyes open and the poet nowhere in sight.
His specificity does the heavy lifting. “Far better read off the page” isn’t just a preference for print; it’s a defense of the poem’s native habitat. On the page, the reader controls pace, rereads, hears inner cadence. In the room, the poet’s body becomes a competing text. MacCaig’s dig at “dry, boring” delivery implies that bad speaking can actively overwrite the poem’s music, replacing its rhythms with the flat meter of a badly chaired meeting.
The slyest move is the coy anonymity: “one in particular whom I won’t name.” He names by refusing to name. That small ethical fig leaf signals collegiality while letting the jab land; it also broadens the target from one poor reader to a whole genre of literary sanctimony. MacCaig, famously clear-eyed about pretension, is puncturing the assumption that authenticity lives in the author’s voice. Sometimes the most honest way to meet a poem is alone, with your eyes open and the poet nowhere in sight.
Quote Details
| Topic | Poetry |
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