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Tipplers, beware! Drunk Poets’ Society is when Lauren Paredes goes to bars, magnetic poetry in hand, looking for poets who don’t know it … yet.
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I’m not going to lie. Since Patriot’s Day, it’s been hard to determine the appropriate way to think, feel, and behave. Chalk it up to survivor’s guilt, or whatever you want to call it, but the thought of going out to drink and shoot the shit with strangers hasn’t felt quite right. When last Thursday evening rolled around I realized that maybe those things were exactly what I needed.
The Field Pub in Central Square is as good a choice as any, if you’re looking for a warm and intimate bar to hide out with others while trying to come to terms with life’s horrors. After an awkward snub from someone who nervously laughs (and then turns away) when my friend and I proposition him for a poem, sociability seems harder to attain than ever.
And then Alex sits down at the table next to us, a Harpoon IPA in one hand and a look of potential boredom on his face.
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Alex, a painter and “not a poet,” is a genuinely nice guy who is happy to hang out and compose a poem while he waits for a friend. “I would have brought a book if I knew I’d be waiting, but this is more interesting,” he says, bringing the case of words over to his side of the table.
I learn that he paints mostly figurative images, while wishing he was able to do more abstract work, and I wonder if this will translate into his writing. As of now, his only exposure to this stuff is through the dinosaur and sex-themed magnetic poetry sets that exist on his fridge.
He also tells me that he, like so many of us, came to Boston for school and chose to stick around. I recognize that this is precisely what I love about living here, for better or worse.
And, if there’s anything I’m certain of, it’s that both traumatic events and alcohol make it even more crucial to hear strangers’ life stories.
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We don’t end up talking about any of the difficult stuff, or really anything literary for that matter, although I’m sure that there is some mild dissing of sonnets included in his commentary. But all of that doesn’t seem to matter, as far as I’m concerned.
Sometimes it’s more important to just come out of isolation, and make the rounds.
