I re-read “Seventh Heaven” by Patti Smith last night. Around Christmas of 1977, I was participating in a UIL speech tournament at Austin High School. There are a number of stories connected to this trip, none of which have to do with the topic at hand: “Seventh Heaven” by Patti Smith. I had both of Patti Smith’s albums at the time: Horses, and Radio Ethiopia. I was enamored of her and the very different aesthetic she projected into my 16-year- old mind. While on a break from the speech tournament, we went to an independent book store near UT, Grok Books. There in the poetry section (one that was not like the poetry offerings in Victoria, Texas), I found a book of poetry by Patti Smith. It cost $2.95. What a deal. I remember reading it in the cafeteria/auditorium of Austin High School as we waited to see if we had placed in Duet Acting. One of the girls on the trip asked to see what I was reading. She read the poem “Fantasy,” quickly handed it back to me with a look of confused distaste. “You like this?” I had to admit— I did. Still do. More so, I think, for the nostalgia of it all, than for the poetry itself. But as Roger Shattuck wrote: we spend a lifetime reading and studying poetry in an attempt to understand, and then try to read it once again with an innocent eye. Can’t really do that.
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