Lori Negridge Allen
Who’s at Your Poetry Reading?
PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2023: VOL. 38.
WINNER OF THE NONFICTION EDITOR’S PRIZE.
I have attended more poetry readings than any horror-writing, non-poet alive. I have survived Snodgrass, Wilber, Gioa, Feinstein, Wakoski, Clampett, Auden, Leithauser, Cummings, Pinsky, Brodsky, Allen, Solter, Morgan, Strand, Peacock... still reasonably intact (if not necessarily unimpaired), and I consider myself somewhat of an expert on the subject. Although, with the exception of Cummings and Allen, both of whom I was in love (and with E.E., unrequited), they all pretty much blurred together—which is exactly as it should be.
It is my intention to not only help others achieve and maintain that blur, but to put it to the best possible use. (A disclaimer here: At times, poems on the page have been my passion, my obsession, my raison d’être. It is the poet who gets in the way, who turns readings into anesthesia.)
Although poetry readings are not conducive to rational thought, they are extremely conducive to fugue. And from fugue comes creativity.
True, you can get there by other routes. You can drive from Maine to Miami with someone who does not speak your language. You can watch an evening of comedy reruns on alternative networks. You can attend a concert of popular music from another generation. But poetry readings are far less masochistic.
And there’s something in the air at even the weakest of them—a writing pheromone, perhaps—that can set off the creative juices like an exotic dancer at a strip joint. The trick in both: getting turned on while concealing your excitement underneath your metaphorical raincoat.
Specific tips to pull this off are as follows:
Arrive too early. Not having anyone to talk to or anything to do gives you a head start on boredom. Arriving on time serves the purpose almost as well, as these things never begin when they’re supposed to. But whatever you do, do not come late. Latecomers have to sit in the front row. This is to be avoided at all costs. A novice will have to pay attention in the front row. It’s almost impossible not to.
Sit next to a close friend or relative of the poet. They are likely to know the poems, which is all the better for you to tune out. Just laugh or gasp or smile whenever they laugh or gasp or smile. No one will notice if you’re a beat behind. There may be no lag. Friends and relatives tend to respond prematurely, as if to get it over with.
Don’t worry about the first poem. Nobody listens to the first poem. Nobody can hear it as the audience is still settling down. Though the poet has chosen this poem very carefully, the poet needn’t have bothered.
You can begin to get comfortable during the second poem. This is when you should place any belongings on the floor. It is essential that you do this, so if you happen to doze and fall off your chair, you can always say you were just reaching for a pencil.
During the third poem, you will encounter the “Danger Zone.” Here is where even the most gifted fugue-er might be tempted to pay attention. Restrain yourself. Valuable time can be lost. (As mentioned before, I was a writer of, among other things, horror. People often asked me, Where does a nice woman like you get all those grisly ideas? Well, now you know. Somewhere after the third poem.)
Raise your hands as if to applaud no more than twice, but don’t actually let your palms touch. Clapping after individual poems is verboten. It wakes people up. But you get brownie points by looking as if you want to clap. Don’t worry if you have no idea which poem you’re praising. The poet loves them all, and for the rest of the evening, the one you almost applauded will be the poet’s favorite.
Time no longer exists now. The people around you have undead smiles. A young woman in black ardently takes notes, but is actually doodling tombstones. All is right with the world. Here, I take the opportunity to pursue one of my most cherished ambitions—to contribute to the world of horror fiction a new monster, conceived in poetry readings, composed of equal parts the Frankenstein monster, Dracula, the Mummy, the Wicked Witch of the West, and Darth Vader, and dedicated to the proposition that all poets were created grist for the mill. In this way, I serve Calliope. Far more remember Frankenstein’s monster than Mary Shelley, or the husband who may or may not have been her inspiration.
Do not rush up to the poet to give congratulations at the end of the reading. Follow the poet to the aprés reading at the nearest bar. Note the poet’s response to adulation. Do they revel in it aggressively? Welcome it as their due, like a sacrifice? Shun it, like a silver cross?
Speaking of human sacrifice, select your victim pool at random. The poet in the bar is surrounded not by vestal virgins, but poet wannabes.
Order beer or bottled water. Real poets never drink wine.
After your group has raised the bar’s decibel level to the point where nobody can hear, it is safe to return to your fugue state and ponder fifty ways to try to kill your monster.