"In the dead of night
I'm driving my new car
on the highway...
(pause)
Oh I'm sorry, I forgot to title this poem. Let's see
(reads poem through silently)
I guess I could call it "Driving at night".
Ok. I'll start over.
"In the dead of night
I'm driving my new car..."
Welcome to the open poetry stage!
Years ago I swore I would never sit through it again. Something I once had enjoyed in my younger days had grown stale and unbearable. Nothing ever against the event itself, I relish in the tradition. After a while, however, it does become too much. I've heard some true talent over the years and met some of my best friends in those darkened dens but I've also been witness to an exceeding amount of mire in that time. When I walked away from it poets were taking the stage less and anyone with a stupid human trick or an unpolished stand up comedy routine was taking up the slack. Coming back, I noticed that nothing had changed. I sat in the Artist Quarter on a Monday night (once known for its open poetry nights at the old location). Eighteen performers were on the list of which three were poets, four musicians (mostly of the quirky-folk ilk), one tiny white girl who improvised hate whitey rap, nine people who aspired to being stand up comedians (not one able to deliver a single joke), and a middle aged man who changed several times on stage [note: I didn't say quickly] while his wife filmed the twenty minutes of him being an ass for what he said was going to be a movie [note: he didn't say home].
What I realized is that there was once a time when these events were called OPEN POETRY STAGES. Now they are called OPEN STAGES. It allows for anything and no longer the place to find poetry (at least in any significant form).
But, never to fear, the poetry stages are still here in the Twin Cites albeit further apart and harder to locate. A few weeks ago I attended the reading series put on by Loose-Leaf Press. It was reminiscent of the readings at the old Susan's Coffeehouse and Rosencrantz in the mid '90s. All poetry from beginning to end, and I was happy to see it. I applaud Loose-Leaf and its founder, Nicole Lynskey, for what they are doing. I may not always agree with their choices of featured poets but this is a matter of taste and in light of what I had seen at the Artist's Quarter I am not about to complain.
Yes, of course, the age old characters will be in the limelight whether they appear as a featured poet or part of the open reading amalgam that follows. A few of my favorites:
The baking bread poets. I first met baking bread poets in 1993 when Barnes and Noble on the Nicollet Mall held lunch time readings. I was always the only male and only one under fifty years of age. The baking bread poets don't have poems, they have recipes. They believe these recipes to be poems because of the enjambment of the ingredients list. Back then when I referred to them as Baking Bread Poets, the label stuck and the categorization has been well used since. These "poems" are often heard during call in sessions of talk radio on WCCO in the wee hours of the night. I argued then, and will argue to this day, that ANY poem that begins with the words: "2 cups flour" cannot be a good poem.
The audience poet. This is the poet who sits in the audience writing in a notebook during the featured readers then, at the time of the open stage, reads whatever it was that he wrote. Often these poems are introduced as having been written within the last couple minutes and they are always dedicated to the poets who read before as they were the obvious inspiration for the pieces. I am a proponent of divine inspiration and the idea of satori is near and dear to my heart but have any of these creations ever been good? Often half a dozen lines are all too similar to ones heard minutes before.
The poet of obvious enlightenment. These are poets often also fall into the category described by poet Dan Schneider as Dead White Males. They write poems that explain the obvious to the reader. When you hear one of their poems you immediately have the reaction of sarcastically slapping your cheek and saying,
"Gee, I never knew war was bad."
"Wow, child abuse is a horrible thing after all."
"I never knew that rape was something that should be frowned upon."
"Bombs and guns kill people? Since when?"
And, just in case, you miss the point in the poem--don't worry, a brief sermon always follows.
The poets who at some point in their lives have had the joy of being pregnant and the will to write multiple poems about it with every cliche known to man--a.k.a the pregnant poets. I understand they can feel life inside their belly. I've even heard, mind you, through varying sources, that, when pregnant, they will eat for two.
The finger smelling poet. Ok. I'll admit that this category consists of just one poet but after hearing several poems in which each piece featured what her fingers smelled like I was moved to pay her tribute with her own category.
Regardless who reads, what is important is that these readings (and should be more reading series in the Twin Cities) have poets reading their works sans the comedians and SLAM performers (I will address Slammers later but, suffice it to say, these are performance artists who may incorporate poetry but are not poets). In the ongoing argument of whether or not poetry should be read aloud or kept to the page, I side with the former. It is, after all, the great Greek oral tradition. So let us continue to celebrate this tradition of one poet, onstage, reading the written work, nothing more--a marvelous evening.
© 2005 by D. Garcia Wahl.