The Great Gig in Disguise

Last night’s reading: Cafe Simcha at shul, a Beatnik evening a la 1950s Greenwich Village.  Brought art. Brought poetry.  Should have remembered it would be dimly lit; 10″ x 14″ pen-and-ink didn’t show up well and people tended to skip over it to look at the larger ones.  At the last moment, remembered that a poem I’d chosen bore a word not quite appropriate for synagogue.  What with all the alliteration and assonance therein, no way could I have subbed: “Like a clown/or a whore/on a lunch break, he/refused to perform/wouldn’t spread.”  A kindly matron grasped my hand and explained that she never understood poetry in high school…and as her monologue went on, it was clear that I was no exception, but she said she appreciated my bravery.

Northernmost reading: Plataforma, St. Petersburg, Russia.  The first of a long line of poets and writers from Summer Literary Seminars signed up to read in a smoke-enveloped club.  Travel list for next trip: surgical mask and hand-washable fine washables.

Southernmost reading: Rutherford County for the Performing Arts, Murfreesboro, TN.  A beautiful, clean little center, gracefully small crowd assembled mostly for Untitled’s visual art show in the adjoining room.  Acoustics good, audience polite, even if some watched entranced from the eaves. 

A reading series I miss: The decade-long monthly series at Bean Central that folded as suddenly as the coffeehouse did.  Was featured several times. 

A reading series I kinda miss: The Mad Poets reading at Cafe Coco, late 90s.  1997 was the year I officially declared myself allergic to smoke.

A reading series I wish existed: Bongo After Hours, at the original Bongo Java.  I suppose they can’t afford to let out the tiny theater space for free, but I do miss those few open mic nights of the mid-90s…so much that I rented it out for my farewell poetry reading in anticipation of leaving Nashville…although I’m still here almost three years later. 

Strangest gig: West End Middle School’s “Read Me” Day, 2005.  I waltzed into an 8th grade class and announced “I’m your new student”.  Teach didn’t bat an eyelid (hey, I’m under 5 feet, I could work as a narc, really I could!) but moved aside for me to assemble my stack of papers as the ASL instructor gestured for the deaf student front-row left.  As I spoke, she gestured.  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her signal my words as I read my poetry.  As I slowed down, she slowed down.  As I sped up, she sped up.  As I stopped to sip Aquafina, she stopped and took a swig of Coke.

Worst gig:  Any crowded room where people are assembled to watch something else other than poetry.  Trust me, a captive audience is more trouble than it’s worth.

Best gig: Any quiet venue where I can read up to 20 minutes.

Most logistically difficult gig: Untitled’s Glow Show (was it Glow Show 6 or 7?)  All the performers, including poets, read under black light with a flashlight.  I wore my white high school graduation gown with a hood, which somewhat distracted my peripheral vision.

The un-gig:  The middle of a converted garage where a mic was planted on a small platform in the middle of a crowded gallery space of partiers and revelers.  I rather prefer to be able to hear my own voice.