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J.C. Todd came up from Philadelphia to read in my little poetry series at Cleo's tonight, and we ended up spending hours afterward hanging out and talking about writing. We've crossed paths a few times before and knew something good would eventually come of it, but this was the first really long conversation we'd ever had. Full of the pleasures of formalism, the headaches of translation, the ironies of publication, etc. Utterly delightful. Yet again, I was prepared to be embarrassed to admit to someone who was actively producing poetry that all I'm writing these days is genre fiction, and yet again, I found an interlocutor who was exceedingly friendly toward my project. I don't think it's just that I'm getting better at describing the novel in a way that makes it clear why anybody would give a damn. Poetry's a denigrated gutter genre, too, as far as mainstream American culture is concerned, and I suspect poets who don't write in other forms are relieved to be reminded that they're not alone in the gutter.
It's been two years since I've written a poem--that's just not what comes out these days--but I actually felt like a poet again.
Her performance was one of the best in the two years I've been running the series. She sold more books than any of the other featured poets who've had books to sell, so it seems the audience liked her as much as she liked them. The audience that comes out for the readings at Cleo's is my favorite audience in the whole Jersey poetry scene (including the audience of 2000+ people who come out for the Dodge Festival). I'm actually more proud of the audience I've built than I am of the (not too shabby) roster of readers I've lured to Highland Park. Every time I feel like I lucked into them, they tell me otherwise, so I guess I must have done something right.
So why is it that, every month, I think of giving it up? Every month, the legwork is just so damned annoying. The poets are happy to come read to my lovely audience, but can they be bothered to send me a three-line bio blurb for the flier? Not in a timely manner, no, and sometimes not at all. The proprietor of Cleo's Cafe changed the hours so closing time was two hours earlier, and didn't bother to mention it to me, though I bring in more business than he gets on any other night of the month. That played havoc with the dynamic of the open mic, all right. And I have to keep phoning up people I barely know to ask them to come read. I hate phoning up people I barely know. Emailing them is no better.
And yet, every month, the 2nd Friday rolls around, and Everything Is Wonderful. The featured readers nearly always turn out to have half an hour of fabulous, performable verse in them, and every month, I know there's at least one poetry reading within easy driving distance where the reader's work will be to my taste. The open mic rarely sucks. The audience gets it, really gets it. They listen for all they're worth, and think, and when they talk, what they say is worth hearing. When they applaud, they mean it. They make it worth my while to create the conditions that merit their applause. I go home joyful. And a week later, the minute I have to phone up some stranger to ask for something, I forget again.
It's been two years since I've written a poem--that's just not what comes out these days--but I actually felt like a poet again.
Her performance was one of the best in the two years I've been running the series. She sold more books than any of the other featured poets who've had books to sell, so it seems the audience liked her as much as she liked them. The audience that comes out for the readings at Cleo's is my favorite audience in the whole Jersey poetry scene (including the audience of 2000+ people who come out for the Dodge Festival). I'm actually more proud of the audience I've built than I am of the (not too shabby) roster of readers I've lured to Highland Park. Every time I feel like I lucked into them, they tell me otherwise, so I guess I must have done something right.
So why is it that, every month, I think of giving it up? Every month, the legwork is just so damned annoying. The poets are happy to come read to my lovely audience, but can they be bothered to send me a three-line bio blurb for the flier? Not in a timely manner, no, and sometimes not at all. The proprietor of Cleo's Cafe changed the hours so closing time was two hours earlier, and didn't bother to mention it to me, though I bring in more business than he gets on any other night of the month. That played havoc with the dynamic of the open mic, all right. And I have to keep phoning up people I barely know to ask them to come read. I hate phoning up people I barely know. Emailing them is no better.
And yet, every month, the 2nd Friday rolls around, and Everything Is Wonderful. The featured readers nearly always turn out to have half an hour of fabulous, performable verse in them, and every month, I know there's at least one poetry reading within easy driving distance where the reader's work will be to my taste. The open mic rarely sucks. The audience gets it, really gets it. They listen for all they're worth, and think, and when they talk, what they say is worth hearing. When they applaud, they mean it. They make it worth my while to create the conditions that merit their applause. I go home joyful. And a week later, the minute I have to phone up some stranger to ask for something, I forget again.
