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It's Not the Heat, It's the Humidity
Summer Poetry in New York
Text: Sharon Mesmer
August is a slow month for poetry here in New York. By July, any
lucky poets with money or rich friends join the exodous to the
Hamptons or Shelter Island on the weekends. The unlucky who remain
in the city, where the discomfort level is high high high, turn
up the air conditioners, make a pot of coffee, and write, write,
write.
A
few events continue through the summer months, however. Just last
week I trudged through a typhoon-like storm to Tillie's, a cafe
in Brooklyn, to check out a new series run by Richard Loringer,
a Brooklyn College professor. Tillie's is a cute little place
run by a married couple, serving coffees, teas, little savory
things to eat, etc. Despite the downpour, the place was packed.
Featured were poets John Ritchie, Kristin Prevallet, and Tom Devaney.
John Ritchie seemed new -- at least I'd never seen him read before
-- and nervous, his work a bit predictable: "Language poetry"
mixed in with some wry observations of "la vie de Brooklyn." Kristin
Prevallet is a regular at the St. Mark's Poetry Project -- I believe
she ran their Monday night series last season. She read a very
funny piece about wrestling, which recalled the famous essay by
French critic Roland Barthes. Has "The Rock" made it to Japan
yet? He's a popular wrestler here. Apparently, he made an appearance
at the Republican convention, which was the inspiration for Kristin's
piece, which described a confrontation between The Rock and another,
less Republican opponent. There was an overall "political" feel
to this reading, because of the Republican convention happening
right at that moment in Philadelphia -- anytime Republicans gather
it's always a source of concern for poets! The final reader, Tom
Devaney, had just returned that day from Philadelphia, where he
joined his friends, a group of puppet-makers, in a protest connected
with the convention. Apparently, the police had raided their puppet-making
studio, on the pretext that the materials were actually "bomb-making"
devices (oh, Americans are so stupid ...), and so Tom's friends
had marched in protest in their puppet costumes. Tom read his
work ? from his newest book, THE AMERICAN PRAGMATIST FELL IN LOVE
-- to the accompaniment of music. Tom's work is great, but the
music and the poetry didn't quite match up. But, he gets a good
mark for effort! Afterwards, poets and audience alike moved to
the bar next door, The Alibi, to sit and talk about what they'd
just seen, and gather more humidity onto their skins.
Another
series that continues through the summer is A Gathering of the
Tribes, one of the most interesting and inclusive series in the
city. Organized by Lower East Side legend Steve Cannon, the readings
take place in his own apartment, part of which is set up like
a studio for exhibiting paintings. The poets read in the studio,
everyone sits around on the floor or on the few chairs, and the
whole effect is very relaxing and homey. The readings are run
in the usual way: first the open reading, then the two featured
readers, then more open reading. Lots of drinking goes on, so
by the time the featured readers are done, everyone's in the kitchen
getting more drinks and no one's listening to the second group
of open reading poets. When I read there a few months ago, on
Easter Sunday, I read with my friend Edwin Torres -- a really
brilliant poet also associated with the Poetry Project, and the
Nuyorican Poets Cafe (which is right across the street from Steve's
apartment). Edwin read from his new book, Fractured Humorous,
in his wonderful, entertaining way. His work is full of really
funny language puns. Even funnier, at least for me, was that my
old boyfriend from twenty years ago showed up at that reading
with his current girlfriend. Actually, that wasn't so funny.
A third series, different from the other two, is the Temple Bar
Reading Series, in lower Manhattan. The Temple Bar is a very chic,
hip, expensive, beautiful bar, full of fashion types: skinny chicks
in tight dresses, guys with weird haircuts and goofy pants. I
read there two weeks ago with poet Marianne Vitale, performance
artist Michael Portnoy (the guy who danced next to Bob Dylan at
the Grammy Awards a few years ago with "Soy Bomb" written on his
chest), and poet Todd Colby, editor of an excellent new anthology
called HEIGHTS OF THE MARVELOUS. For a Sunday, it was pretty crowded,
which was nice. Even nicer: the poets got free drinks! I ordered
martinis. By the time I read I was drunk, but that was okay, because
some guy kept heckling me. He started during the first reader
(Todd) by saying, "Hey! You call that poetry?" Todd got mad, but
I said, "You should answer him, and tell him why it's poetry."
So Todd eloquently explained why his work was poetry, but the
guy kept mumbling. So when I went up I introduced my first poem
by saying (directing my comments to the heckler), "This poem was
written in dactylic hexameter, just like 'The Odyssey' and the
Greek epics." It really wasn't, but the heckler didn't know what
I was talking about, so he sat there quietly. After I finished,
Michael began a performance that ended with him breaking a glass.
Not sure how that happened, because I had gone to the bathroom,
but the bar manager didn't like it. Ah, artists -- always so controversial!
After the reading, John S. Hall, of the group King Missile, and
I debated the merits of the glass breaking. No conclusions were
reached. It was too hot to worry about it.
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