Metro Pulse/Gamut/Poetry Readings

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Our resident humorist attempts to air his "Dirty Laundry" at local poetry readings

by Scott McNutt

It's 7:40 p.m., and I'm in one of the ubiquitous malls that sprawl along Kingston Pike. Not a setting where you might expect to hear or speak firestorms of imagination. But that's what I hope to do: Hear poems by others, read something I've written, and experience first-hand Robert Lydick's "Purely Poetry" open-mike night (held at 8 p.m. the third Thursday of each month at Barnes & Noble Booksellers in Suburban Center).

Robert Lydick is average height, with glasses, unruly gray-flecked hair and a light brown goatee and mustache. In a calm, soft voice, he says he's a chemist by trade. He's run this open mike for about a year and usually gets between a half-dozen and a dozen attendees, ranging in age from high schoolers to senior citizens. After imparting this information, Robert wanders off in search of refreshment.

In a reading area midway back on the left side of the store, I sit down in one of the 10 chairs that have been placed in two rows facing a tabletop lectern. The carpet's a muted green. Classical music plays softly in the background. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee scents the atmosphere. It's a soothing, welcoming environment. But the lights seem too bright, and I'm nervously drumming my pen on the seat, wondering where everybody is at 7:55. Suspicions of conspiracy grow in me. On Tuesday I was victimized by a no-show open-mike night at Java's. Maybe the Muses feel my poetry would be better left unheard? If a would-be poet reads to a forest of empty chairs, does he make any sound?

More to the point, does he get any laughs? I'm not a poet; I'm a humorist. And like most humorists, I crave attention. So my not-so-ulterior motive in doing this is to get some laughs. Stand-up poetry, here I come! That is, if anybody else ever gets here.

Finally, other participants show up. Lesa Green comes in, a pleasant 32-year-old with long blondish hair and glasses. Lesa started writing a year and a half ago, when a friend told her she had things in her that ought to be expressed. "I write for my sanity," she says. While we chat two other folks come in, David Rasnake and Roger Hay.

Robert says we'd better get started. What? Only five of us? We're going to read to four other people sitting six feet away? Oy. Suddenly, I'm feeling abashed. I'm no stranger to public speaking. But I'm accustomed to that odd anonymity you achieve when addressing large groups, where you don't really see any one person in the audience. And I don't think the poem I had intended to read, "Dirty Laundry," a tongue-in-cheek piece using a wash cycle as a sexual metaphor, is appropriate for this setting.

I comment on the sparse attendance to Roger, who sits behind me. He notes that there are usually a few more regulars. But, he adds, "Poetry readings are seen as kind of odd. More people would probably come, but writing and reading poetry is not 'manly.'"

Roger's right; every schoolboy of my generation knew poetry was for sissies. Nonetheless, it's an ironic word choice given that, for thousands of years, humanity's primary entertainment was probably squatting around the cookfire, listening to someone recite epic poems like "Gilgamesh," "The Iliad," and "Beowulf." Around that same fire, the first "knock-knock" and "traveling caveman" jokes were probably told, too.

Robert reads a list of announcements and segues into his poetry. There's no more time for talk. I'm floundering to keep up. I try to take notes, but he's well into the poem before I've even written the title. Robert speaks quickly and mellifluously, his eyes fixed on the page, his hands waving to the cadence of his voice, reminiscent of a conductor leading an orchestra. I catch the next one, "Lost at Sea," and its first line: "Steel gray water reflects steel gray sky," then the rush of images washes my concentration away, and I allow myself to be swept along by the poem's tide. Sound cornball? Maybe, but that's my reaction. Charmed by the rhythm of Robert's words, I have a hard time focusing on meanings.

Lesa is up next. Her poems tend to be straightforward and descriptive. With epigrammatic sentiments, her works are as transparent as Robert's are opaque. She gets a laugh from us with "Charmin," which reads "Sometimes I feel like a roll of toilet paper, and the world is using me to wipe its ass."

After a few poems, Lesa yields to Roger. Roger is a compact, strong-looking fellow with curly brown hair, a mustache, and a frequent smile. His poems pack a big vocabulary and odd modifier combinations, containing phrases like "your Lucifer gaze...like the one that maimed me" and "visceral wood." He speaks with seeming confidence and pleasure, looking up from his notebook now and again to smile at each of us.

It's my turn now. Fortunately, I brought a more benign substitute for the washer-sex poem, an affectionate but wryly humorous (I hope!) ode to my significant other's complaint about being named after a weed: "'I got a weed,' she complained, when it came to the giving of names..." It's quickly done and the others applaud my effort. It's a noncompetitive, encouraging experience. Of course, we applaud politely after each recitation. But nobody laughed at mine. Maybe I should have told them it was supposed to be amusing? I'm disappointed.

David gets laughs. Straight brown hair, neat appearance, average build, he looks to me what would be called "bookish." By contrast, David's is the most animated, polished performance. His are witty, often acerbic observations on life, filled with lines like "If there is a cosmic home plate umpire, he threw me out of the game long ago," and titles like "Dollar Bill Shakespeare's Three-Step Plan."

It's only 8:30, and we're finished. Then Robert gets up to read again. We're not finished. They do another round. Then another. And another. Then a break. Then...more. In these ensuing rounds, they cover a plethora of topics, including perfume, Edgar Alan Poe, bad 1980s big-hair, pop-metal music, chocolate bunnies, and, of course, love. It's impressive, but ultimately exhausting. Midway through the second hour, I've lost my ability to concentrate on the words, much less take notes. I catch myself wondering if Princess Di did any open-mike readings.

A little after 10 we call it a night. I have just enough energy left to ask Roger about the 11th Street Expresso House reading, where I'm going next Wednesday. He says many of the regulars here go there, and, like here, attendance is varied. He claims 30 people were there last week. Great. I stumble out, trying to escape visions of the ghost of Princess Di reciting poetry.

At 8:10 the next Wednesday, I'm sitting with Robert and his dalmatian at one of the concrete picnic tables on the 11th Street Expresso House's back patio, where the reading will take place. Robert quietly tells me he was first inspired to write poetry by "the challenge of translating colors into words." As for reading at open mikes, Robert says, "Hearing it aloud helps me to understand what I've written."

A short, middle-age guy with a pony tail, ball cap and glasses comes up. Robert introduces him as Geo Chernikow, who immediately agrees to talk with me. "I've been reading here for years," Geo says enthusiastically, "because it's so open to others and to the environment." Geo's observation is an understatement. Cars rumble by on 11th Street, other patrons laugh and converse, a small child scampers about screaming gleefully, the dalmatian dashes around, bouncing its retractable leash handle—thunk-thunk-thunk—over the concrete floor, cicadas emit their rhythmic shrill, and planes and helicopters drone overhead with annoying regularity. Plus, mosquitoes are biting, and the light is failing. I remark that all this will be competition for readers. Geo laughs and says, "Real poetry readings are more about sharing the experience than performing."

David Rasnake has now appeared, as have other people, too many for me to talk to. But things seem happily chaotic, with no one in a rush to get started, so I keep asking folks why they do this. I turn to a heavy-set fellow in a T-shirt and blue jeans. He's Melvin Whaley, and he does readings because "listening to others is the best way to improve your work." Gerry Malone, a stoutly built African-American man with a shaven head, participates to "express what's on my mind... [and] I like the energy you get back from the audience..." I ask David, who has done poetry slams, how they and open mikes contrast. While praising the value of and talent in slams, he says, "It's a generalization, but I used to say: Slams exist to attract people who wouldn't normally come to a poetry reading. But why do we want to make it into something it's not?"

While I've been talking, someone has brought out spray-cans of mosquito repellent. Yay! At least we don't have to put up with every part of the environment. A light is set on the railing at the back of the patio, so we can see to read. David takes control of the proceedings. He welcomes us and invites someone to start us off, which Robert does. He begins with two poems about the Russian submarine disaster. I look around as twilight creeps in. I count at least a dozen people on the patio, plus an indefinite number of folks coming and going along the stairs up to the Expresso House. Geo and Gerry read after Robert, but it's too dark to take notes anymore. Curiously, I do remember the last words from the next reader, a woman paying homage to bike riding at night: "...I can be good in the dark."

Speaking of which, I decide it's dark enough for "Dirty Laundry." I make a point of announcing that the poem is "tongue-in-cheek; if you feel like giggling, please do." And with that, I launch into it: "Turned on...buttons pushed and knobs pulled, top down and heat rising..." I get big laughs. BIG laughs! I'm a hit! I hear several compliments as I sit down.

So I have satisfied my ulterior motive. But I decide to stick around and hear some more. Eventually, I read again. It's an entertaining and enlightening way to pass an evening. The subjects are again diverse, including the human genome project, idyllic days in the country, Chinese water torture, the existence of God as proven by two found dimes, and, of course, love.

As I sit and listen, it occurs to me that Geo is right. This poetry reading is about sharing the experience. And despite all the aggravating extraneous noises, the setting is right. Not to take anything away from Barnes & Noble. It's perfectly suitable for poetry readings. But sitting outside in the dark, with the night noises intruding on my concentration and indistinct shapes of other audience members surrounding me, all of us focused on one figure illuminated in a single light, I imagine us as our ancestors: crouching around the cookfire, listening to a speaker recite stirring, epic poems and maybe telling funny tall-tales. Yes, something about this experience carries us back to those primeval times. Of course, we wouldn't have had the mosquito repellent back then.