Thursday - Chruch of the Open Mic
Jun. 1st, 2006 03:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about a lot of things, including how I hate short work weeks because they are so busy that I have to do things like actually work, instead of surf the net and blog. This annoys me to no end; you have no idea. I was also thinking about a poetry open mic that I went to on Saturday that opened my eyes (and ears) to what could be done with the art of the spoken word. I am nowhere near as impressed with myself as I used to be.
I am no longer the best poet that I personally know. I'm just the best white poet that I know.
When I was griping about the demise of my local open mic, a few people helpfully pointed out that there is a poetry open mic in Spring, about 25 miles to the east of where I live. Since I live in the sticks, I expect to have to drive a minimum of 25 miles to get to anything interesting so this was not a big deal. Houston is the land of sprawl; nothing in the Houston area is very close to anything else in the Houston area. When you live here, you spend a lot of time in your car. If you don't have a car, then you don't get out much. We have public transportation, but it's not very good and doesn't really serve anyone who lives outside of the central city. My only reluctance to his open mic had to do with the fact that most poets I have heard at open mics have bored me to tears.
It turns out, I've been listening to the wrong poets.
The Spring location was actually beneficial for me. My father lives in Spring, so I have free babysitting in the area. I also grew up there so I know how to find my way around. The weekly reading is at a place called Eb5 International Art Gallery, located in a strip shopping center. Spring has a lot of strip shopping centers and subdivisions full of single family dwellings; in fact, you could almost say that Spring is composed entirely of single family dwellings and strip shopping centers. It is not an area where you expect to find something that will impress you.
Someone had told me the open mic began at 8 P.M., but it actually does not begin until 9, so I showed up a bit early. There was almost no one there when I walked in. The gallery has 1 and a half levels, with the second level having a balcony that looks down over the first. The setting is very small and intimate. I talked to the MC, who encouraged me to put my name on the list to read. I signed up to go 5th. Since no one signed up for the 2nd or 3rd positions, this ended up meaning I would be the 3rd poet to read or recite.
As the gallery and the porch outside of it began to fill up, I became increasingly aware of my own lack of melanin. Mind you, I am not just fair skinned - I am Scandinavian fair skinned, meaning that looking at me in direct sunlight is liable to cause blindness (which is why I don't recommend doing it). I was about to learn the difference between a white poetry reading and a black poetry reading; it's about like the difference between white churches and black churches. The first are subdued and somber, while the second are often anything but. As far as poetry goes, I was on holy ground, but I didn't know it yet.
The first poet took the stage and blew me away. As I said, I am used to hearing white poets, and I am used to hating them. Your average white poet writes free verse, non rhyming, non metered, disjointed verse that is usually either filled with references so obscure that they only mean something to the person who wrote them, or they write about something so trite that you wind up feeling embarrassed for them. They get up on the microphone and they read in a monotone without looking at the audience or interacting with it. Even poems that are good on paper are usually presented in a lifeless, drawn out way that keeps you from realizing that what you are hearing may be any good. It's like hearing a great song sung out of key; it just doesn't sound like a great song. As an audience member, your only role is to clap politely when they are finished. Personally, the only reason that I clap at all is because they are finally finished; I clap because the pain is over.
When the first poet stepped down, the second poet took the stage and also blew my mind. The feedback from the audience in this venue was immediate, with murmurs of agreement, comments of "Tell it!" and "That's right!" If they liked you, you knew it. Silence from a white audience means that they are being polite, but it does not indicate whether or not they like you. Silence is just the best you can expect unless you trick them. I usually read comic poems to a white audience to surprise them into giving me an auditory response. Silence from the audience at Eb5 would have hit me in the face like ice water, it would have meant that I failed. Where a white audience expects to be bored, this audience expected to be touched, expected to be moved, expected me to deliver something powerful and not waste their time.
I realized that I was way out of my league.
I wanted to go over to the hostess and ask her to take my name off of the list, but to do so would have meant walking in front of the performing area. Also, the first two poets knew that I was on the list and scheduled to go next; we had all been on the front porch earlier and singed up in succession. My cowardice would not have gone unnoticed. Instead, I decided to carefully choose what I would read.
At this open mic, you only read or recited one poem and it was expected to last a little while. My poem had to have emotion and heart behind it. Rhyme was the rule and I found I had a new appreciation and respect for it, but my best pieces don't have a regular rhyme scheme. Besides, I decided that passion and power behind the words was more importance than rhyme. Whether you were talking about religion, sex, love or social injustice (and I would hear a lot about all of these and more that night), you had to have conviction when you spoke. I had to pick a piece that I could deliver with conviction.
The MC introduced me as a "virgin," meaning it was my first time on the mic there. I said a silent prayer before I stood up. He asked them to give me a warm welcome.
"Please God," I prayed, "don't let me suck."
I stood in front of the microphone, reminded the audience that I was a "virgin," winked and asked them to be gentle. Then I read "My Mother's Right Hand" for them. I got the murmurs and I got a "Tell it, girl!" so I think I did all right. The MC went through the list again and my second time around I read "Cajuns in Houston," which also got a good response.
When I left, I shook the MC's hand and thanked him for being kind. He thanked me for coming out, took down my email address, gave me a card and asked me to check out his website for HoustonPoets.com. He asked me to come back. Maybe he was just being polite, but I was flattered.
I do want to go back, too. Even if I don't read again, my mind has been opened to what can be done with poetry, how alive and vibrant it can be. I am having to re-think my whole art form, expanding my understanding of what poetry means and poetry can be. Artistically speaking, I have been born again. Even if I don't go back to read, I want to go back and worship at this alter of the spoken word.
It was amazing.
I am no longer the best poet that I personally know. I'm just the best white poet that I know.
When I was griping about the demise of my local open mic, a few people helpfully pointed out that there is a poetry open mic in Spring, about 25 miles to the east of where I live. Since I live in the sticks, I expect to have to drive a minimum of 25 miles to get to anything interesting so this was not a big deal. Houston is the land of sprawl; nothing in the Houston area is very close to anything else in the Houston area. When you live here, you spend a lot of time in your car. If you don't have a car, then you don't get out much. We have public transportation, but it's not very good and doesn't really serve anyone who lives outside of the central city. My only reluctance to his open mic had to do with the fact that most poets I have heard at open mics have bored me to tears.
It turns out, I've been listening to the wrong poets.
The Spring location was actually beneficial for me. My father lives in Spring, so I have free babysitting in the area. I also grew up there so I know how to find my way around. The weekly reading is at a place called Eb5 International Art Gallery, located in a strip shopping center. Spring has a lot of strip shopping centers and subdivisions full of single family dwellings; in fact, you could almost say that Spring is composed entirely of single family dwellings and strip shopping centers. It is not an area where you expect to find something that will impress you.
Someone had told me the open mic began at 8 P.M., but it actually does not begin until 9, so I showed up a bit early. There was almost no one there when I walked in. The gallery has 1 and a half levels, with the second level having a balcony that looks down over the first. The setting is very small and intimate. I talked to the MC, who encouraged me to put my name on the list to read. I signed up to go 5th. Since no one signed up for the 2nd or 3rd positions, this ended up meaning I would be the 3rd poet to read or recite.
As the gallery and the porch outside of it began to fill up, I became increasingly aware of my own lack of melanin. Mind you, I am not just fair skinned - I am Scandinavian fair skinned, meaning that looking at me in direct sunlight is liable to cause blindness (which is why I don't recommend doing it). I was about to learn the difference between a white poetry reading and a black poetry reading; it's about like the difference between white churches and black churches. The first are subdued and somber, while the second are often anything but. As far as poetry goes, I was on holy ground, but I didn't know it yet.
The first poet took the stage and blew me away. As I said, I am used to hearing white poets, and I am used to hating them. Your average white poet writes free verse, non rhyming, non metered, disjointed verse that is usually either filled with references so obscure that they only mean something to the person who wrote them, or they write about something so trite that you wind up feeling embarrassed for them. They get up on the microphone and they read in a monotone without looking at the audience or interacting with it. Even poems that are good on paper are usually presented in a lifeless, drawn out way that keeps you from realizing that what you are hearing may be any good. It's like hearing a great song sung out of key; it just doesn't sound like a great song. As an audience member, your only role is to clap politely when they are finished. Personally, the only reason that I clap at all is because they are finally finished; I clap because the pain is over.
When the first poet stepped down, the second poet took the stage and also blew my mind. The feedback from the audience in this venue was immediate, with murmurs of agreement, comments of "Tell it!" and "That's right!" If they liked you, you knew it. Silence from a white audience means that they are being polite, but it does not indicate whether or not they like you. Silence is just the best you can expect unless you trick them. I usually read comic poems to a white audience to surprise them into giving me an auditory response. Silence from the audience at Eb5 would have hit me in the face like ice water, it would have meant that I failed. Where a white audience expects to be bored, this audience expected to be touched, expected to be moved, expected me to deliver something powerful and not waste their time.
I realized that I was way out of my league.
I wanted to go over to the hostess and ask her to take my name off of the list, but to do so would have meant walking in front of the performing area. Also, the first two poets knew that I was on the list and scheduled to go next; we had all been on the front porch earlier and singed up in succession. My cowardice would not have gone unnoticed. Instead, I decided to carefully choose what I would read.
At this open mic, you only read or recited one poem and it was expected to last a little while. My poem had to have emotion and heart behind it. Rhyme was the rule and I found I had a new appreciation and respect for it, but my best pieces don't have a regular rhyme scheme. Besides, I decided that passion and power behind the words was more importance than rhyme. Whether you were talking about religion, sex, love or social injustice (and I would hear a lot about all of these and more that night), you had to have conviction when you spoke. I had to pick a piece that I could deliver with conviction.
The MC introduced me as a "virgin," meaning it was my first time on the mic there. I said a silent prayer before I stood up. He asked them to give me a warm welcome.
"Please God," I prayed, "don't let me suck."
I stood in front of the microphone, reminded the audience that I was a "virgin," winked and asked them to be gentle. Then I read "My Mother's Right Hand" for them. I got the murmurs and I got a "Tell it, girl!" so I think I did all right. The MC went through the list again and my second time around I read "Cajuns in Houston," which also got a good response.
When I left, I shook the MC's hand and thanked him for being kind. He thanked me for coming out, took down my email address, gave me a card and asked me to check out his website for HoustonPoets.com. He asked me to come back. Maybe he was just being polite, but I was flattered.
I do want to go back, too. Even if I don't read again, my mind has been opened to what can be done with poetry, how alive and vibrant it can be. I am having to re-think my whole art form, expanding my understanding of what poetry means and poetry can be. Artistically speaking, I have been born again. Even if I don't go back to read, I want to go back and worship at this alter of the spoken word.
It was amazing.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
It was amazing.
Date: 2006-06-01 09:01 pm (UTC)Re: It was amazing.
Date: 2006-06-01 09:05 pm (UTC)Seriously.
Even when the poetry was only so-so(and some of it was), the performance and delivery was astounding. You know those cooks who can take a tough cut of meat and make something scrumptious out of it? They were like that.
I'd hard to impress. I'm going to be even harder to impress after this.
They were like that.
Date: 2006-06-01 09:12 pm (UTC)keep in there and keep bustin chops,.. you may find yourself in a whole new league,..
Re: They were like that.
Date: 2006-06-01 09:19 pm (UTC)This could mean a major identity crises for me. ;)
thinking of myself as a hack
Date: 2006-06-01 09:27 pm (UTC)the crisis only feeds the muse,..:)
Re: thinking of myself as a hack
Date: 2006-06-01 09:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-02 04:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-02 05:16 pm (UTC)I'm also used to being the best poet reading, but I wasn't in this case (by far). All in all, I would say the experience was good for me.