I consider poetry ‘work’—reading it, representing it, writing it.
Whereas my actual 9-5 means little of nothing to me. A solid exchange of my time for my rent. Thank you!
I don’t always enjoy showing up for work. Some days productive, others a slog, others: eh.
So I endured the day in office, even the awful sandwiches and the idea that after clocking out of work, I had to hang out in office another hour before leaving for the reading. Going home only to immediately return wasn’t an option. And with the store closures in San Francisco, there was little else to do in the area except burn time.
This was my third reading in three weeks this month. Last month, I read only once at Santa Clara University.
I don’t know how many readings I’ve featured in over the years. Its scary to think—hundreds? Could I have touched one thousand? More? Since i started back in the mid 90’s, there’s been… a lot. I enjoy it. Its one of the few things I feel confident about, even as I struggle with confidence.
Earlier this year, I read for a middle school as part of their Black History Month Celebration. Catered by the community: Bring Your Own Black History Dish. So there was BBQ and a platter of pork-free collard greens and me as one of the guest speakers. I was informed that the school was primarily Latinx students from Mexico and Central America. One of school’s administrators who reached out to me, during the reading stood in back of the room and translated my work into a microphone broadcast to those in the room wearing headsets. So when I got up to read, I searched over the heads of the people seated in the library and focused on the woman quietly whispering into her fist. I slowed my pace and leaned into clear articulation for her. It was like she was supporting me, rooting for me.
I don’t experience stage fright, (lost it in high school attempting stand up comedy as part of an assembly. that killed my stage fright dead) but that middle school room was triggering. Unlike many of my peers, I don’t work in schools and don’t get a lot of experience sharing my work specifically with teens and pre-teens. A shame, that. But I therefore felt nervous about being a true stranger in the room of parents, teachers and teens who all kinda knew one another, and I was the special outsider who felt exposed, targeted. The 14 year old James within me expected to be bullied and felt cautious of the couch in back of the library where several layers of teens sat bunched together. I read immediately after folks in the room fixed their plates then sat down to eat. I myself couldn’t eat anything at all, preferring to read while empty and sober, wishing to give all my good energy into the words and my breath. I stayed on the work, focused on my translator and avoided reading aggressive poems or anything pointing to sex. Though I knew the kids wouldn’t have minded, there were parents here too. I chose poems about food or people from history. It relieved me that I didn’t have to read very long, there were other things to do that night. And I was grateful to get to my last poem. Turns out, it was the parents who were responsive to me. One person pulling me towards them as I returned to my chair, then another. One man came up to me afterwards while I packed a to-go box and confessed: I’ve never seen a poet read their own work, I’ve never attended a poetry reading…
I’ve never felt more stunned, mostly because I’m surrounded by poets and narcissists and that’s all we do, round robin ourselves to death. I told him it was an honor to meet him and meant it. I didn’t expect to meet his kind again.
The school was far away from everything: my job, my home and was expensive to get to via car share. Another teacher at the event offered me a ride home once she realized I lived a couple dozen blocks from her. Because of her ride, I stayed until everyone else had left, then helped pack carts with coffee machines and half-eaten food and unused utensils. My nerves were overzealous. Everyone was kind – I was dropped off at my door and didn’t even need to compensate her with a handshake. It was a good and long night.
Two more readings followed that next month. One at an art gallery which I looked forward to because I intended to read new poems. At the school, I felt a need to be specific and curate published poems. For the gallery, there were no expectations and I could read finished poems I haven’t read. Reading poems aloud is essential in the writing process. Reading poems aloud teaches you what the poem is doing and how it wants to be read. It shows you what works and what doesn’t. It makes you realize you’ve chosen the wrong word or reveals that the poem is funnier or better or more revealing than you expected. It shows you where something’s wrong or what you’ve done right. Reading new poems aloud is essential to the editing process.
The reading at the art gallery was fun. The audience laughed, was with me and felt present and electric. Pouring out the words for them felt good. Their attention being better than food or money. I subsequently decided to use the same poems for the following reading at a university, with the exception of adding a couple of poems from my books.
The University reading though, was different. A completely different temperature. Unlike the gallery—a smallish, brightly lit space packed with people, MFA students—the university room was cavernous, patterned in red. And if anyone laughed, it was muted and never reached me. They were somber. Some snapped in lieu of applause, which sometimes annoys me because I don’t believe they know why they snap or where that originated. Despite the crowd, I felt alone at the mic. Later, it would be pointed out to me that one side of the room was all students and the other side, all staff and teachers.
I opened with a poem on police violence and two students got up and walked out. While true the reading wasn’t mandatory and maybe they just weren’t into it, but their leaving amused me and I felt strangely proud. I thought of Andy Kaufman, a performer I’ve long admired, a ‘stand-up’ comic who didn’t care whether the audience laughed or not, just that they responded somehow.
Leaving certainly was a response.
Afterwards; a friendly orgy. People mingled urgently, snapping photos and getting books signed before a group of us left for an after reading dinner at a superb local pizza kitchen. One brother hugged me so aggressively I wondered if we were related…or just got engaged.
Any joy I receive from being a poet comes in reading my work aloud to an audience. It seems silly to admit such a thing. Wishing I had more value or other talents, wishing I was chatty and preferred mingling. But when the bell rang for the end of the reading, I felt done with the entire day. Sitting in back of a car share last night after leaving another session, I briefly wished I were a different man and felt silly that this was what I mostly liked to do. I spent an hour in a bookstore adding more reading material to my very high pile, then read three poems and called a car and left. I stood waiting alone and felt invisible before my name was called. Then after, felt like I didn’t know what to do with myself, as if I’m only useful for a few minutes at a time. People were very kind to the poems—I was approached by different people who each had something different to say about a different poem. It felt good and validating, but afterwards quiet. The poems having dissolved in the air. A friend texted me about a Saturday event next month, “are you interested in reading” she asked. I never answered her directly. I’ve done it, I thought. I looked over her message a long time until my phone timed out.
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