The hardest I have ever laughed at a poetry reading was the night I heard Brendan Constantine read "The Search Party" at the Ugly Mug in Orange. It was (or is -- I can't find it anywhere on Google, but I hope that a copy still exists somewhere) a short poem about a man who is invited to a "search party" and takes the word "party" the wrong way, dressing for the occasion and bringing a gift for the host. As he follows the other attendees in an all-night search for a tragically missing person, he maintains his optimism, even as the host mysteriously never appears. The poem's final line is "I still have my gift. It's a book." Perhaps you're smiling a bit at this description. It's funny enough to read. But my summary can't remotely equal Brendan's delivery; he projected the poem with a dogged earnestness that made imbecilic delusion sound almost admirable. I remember that he read it during the open mic and that it was the second of three poems. I have no idea what the third poem even was. I was in stitches after "The Search Party" to the point where my hearing momentarily stopped.
In a 2005 essay on Poets.org, David Groff wrote about one of the staples of poetry readings: the "mmmmm" from the audience that often follows the ending of a poem. "You’ve probably heard the sound yourself at a reading—an 'mmmmm' emanating from somewhere in the crowd, usually at the conclusion of poem with a linguistic or emotional zinger," Groff wrote. "Does that 'mmmmm' mean that listeners have been transported into the sublime? Or is the poem just cheap, the mmmmm a smug 'Amen!'?" As one who has attended scores of poetry readings over the years, I can vouch that the two most coveted reactions at such events are "mmmmm" (which typically comes after a closing line that is sad or harsh in a particularly eloquent way) or raucous laughter. Poetry readings, at their best, are performances, not simply recitations of written material, which means that short and pungent is often best. Yes, I know there are exceptions; Allen Ginsberg debuted "Howl," after all, at San Francisco's Six Gallery in 1955, and the wine-fueled attendees who listened through the entire poem had a superhuman attention span by ordinary standards. More typical reading hosts would encourage a featured poet to consider that the audience is tired after a long day and eager to be entertained. Perhaps that doesn't result in many poems as revolutionary as "Howl," but it does result in lively Wednesday nights. Some live poets are great actors or orators, and some are great comedians. Brendan is a great comedian, as are Jaimes Palacio, Eric Morago, Mary McIlvaine, Mindy Nettifee, Ben Trigg, Dmitry Berenson, and any number of others that I've seen over the years. I am not sure if I belong in that group myself. Yes, in the 11th grade, I was voted funniest student in my English class, an honor that I hold dear to this day. But as a poet, I've never tried hard to be funny, maybe for the simple reason that I would have to try hard to do it. If I inject humor into a poem, it tends to be dry and unforced. So it's a bit of a gamble that I submitted "The Poet's Nightmare" for publication this week in the Journal of Radical Wonder. This poem is an obscure item in my catalog; it appeared in Spot Literary Magazine in 2011 and never in any books afterward. I thought about including it in Tea and Subtitles: Selected Poems 1999-2019, but opted to leave it out. As an outright attempt to write a comic poem, it might not have fit in with the other poems; then again, maybe it would have provided a nice change of pace. I don't know. In any case, you can read it in Radical Wonder this week. What more is there to say? I hope the poem makes you smile. If it doesn't, then something else will soon enough. I'll leave you with the words of an anonymous open reader at a poetry reading years ago, who came onstage looking disheveled and, clutching a ragged sheet of paper in his hand, delivered six lines that no doubt prompted an "mmmmm" or two mixed with giggles: Roses are red, violets are blue. I'd suck as a horticulturalist if that's all I knew. If this poem were any worse, it would be a haiku.
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This is the blog of Michael Miller, a longtime journalist, poet, publisher and teacher. Check here for musings, observations, commentary and assorted bits of gratitude. Archives
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