My Life At The Mic- Not Always ‘The Diva’

  

When I was in high school, I was on the staff of our literary arts magazine, Pegasus. I enjoyed discussing the work submitted, and was already writing a lot of poetry myself. However, when it came time to present my own work, I would have others read it for me. I was too shy to read it aloud myself. In high school, that never changed. Even when I got a chorus part in the spring musical of my Senior year, Fiddler on the Roof, the only thing that kept me from freezing on stage, I suspect, was taking off my glasses for performances, in an effort at authenticity.

In college, I again joined the literary magazine staff, briefly, Cadence then, and several other things since. I don’t remember how much of my own work was involved, but I’m pretty sure the pressures of my dysfunctional marriage put the kibosh on that endeavor early on. I think the first poet I heard read her work aloud was Carley Bogarad, the late professor at SUNY New Paltz. I was a flop in her Intro English class, skipping as much as I could without flunking out, not feeling a part of the clique that had been firmly established among most of the other students during the previous semester.

But, I had the good fortune (and the nerve, considering my shoddy academic behavior) to hear Carley read her impressive work on campus once. The effect of hearing the poet read, as opposed to the many hours I’d spent reading the work of so many others, always in my own voice in my head, was profound. The connection between audience and writer was palpable. This was what I had longed for in writing, and never knew was missing.

After college, after divorce, I began to become involved in the Hudson Valley poetry scene. There was a group that met bi-monthly at the Stone Ridge Library that I found helpful, supportive, and really, a safe place to find my voice. We met in a living room of sorts, cozy with couches and lamps and threadbare rugs. The Stone Ridge Poetry Society, where I made friends that I still keep in touch with to this day, evolved into the Woodstock Poetry Society. WPS holds monthly readings at a Woodstock bookstore, and as such, it’s probably one of the longest continuous readings in the county.

Then there was the Tinker Street Café readings. I was driven by then to put my work out there as efficiently as possible. Mailing poems away to editors meant they were out of your hands for months at a time, and perhaps you’d never get a reply. Reading is a little like self-publishing, in that the poet gets to decide the shape of presentation, the tone of the work, the when and where. I felt like a goddess when I managed to get to the mic, and perhaps my hesitance made my experiences there basically painless. The volatile host, Dean Schambach, had no beef with me, and the drunks at the bar must have found my poems uninteresting, and left me alone. But, I got up and waded through the testosterone of that legendary watering hole, and practiced my art. Ever grateful to Dean for the chance and the support.

Today, so many years later, I marvel at the ease with which I approach the mic. I still feel a slight rush just before, plan out my path between the folding chairs and the wires, but once I’m there, my schtick begins. I sell my latest chapbook, talk up any readings I have coming up, then get down to the work. I don’t spend too much time explaining. If the poem doesn’t say it, it’s not done. If I don’t want to say it directly, any explanation will spoil the effect. I keep within the time constraints, because I respect the host and my fellow readers, even if they don’t return the favor. I like to leave listeners wanting more, in any case.

Afterwards, I get a few handshakes, some polite remarks from friendly and unfamiliar faces. I have taken to giving away pens that promote this blog, in fact. And I am happy with what I do. Without it, what would I be? Hardly a Diva.

How I Learned to Love (and Loath) Open Mics

     
     Second to mailing (and now emailing) your poems out to an invisible editor or editors, the best way to share your work with others is to read at an open mic. I cannot remember the first one I went to. I have written poems since elementary school, but I was slow in assuming the persona of a "poet." In high school I was on the staff of our fine literary magazine, Pegasus, and wasn't shy about expressing my misgivings about submitted work. When it came time to present something of my own, though, I always had a friend read it aloud for me. Poetry was too sacred, too personal an exposure for me to offer up without fear.

    When I went away to college, I continued to write, and for a short time even joined the literary magazine staff there, which had a tendency to dissolve and reconfigure itself semester after semester. I  was becoming more comfortable, more confident about my poems, and began to value them as my chosen mode of artistic expression as well as cheap therapy. I wrote my way through a difficult marriage and divorce, all the way to independence and sanity of a kind.

    After college, I saw an ad in the Shadwrapper (the local newspaper) for a poetry group that met twice a month at the nearby Stone Ridge Library. The Stone Ridge Poetry Society, founded by Shirley Powell, was my first adventure in poetry outside of academia. I made friends that are still friends thirty years later. Meetings combined workshopping poems with one or two featured readers. It was probably here, in the cozy living room-like space where the group met, that I had my first feature.

    Woodstock, the REAL Woodstock, New York had always been a welcoming place for artists of all levels of accomplishment. The open mic at the Tinker Street Cafe', hosted by Dean Schambach, was a challenging atmosphere for a twenty-something female, let alone a poet. There was alcohol, there were sometime fisticuffs. Dean was and is a contentious character with both champions and enemies. I myself had nothing but the most genial interactions with "Gungha Dean," as he is sometimes known by the locals because of his stirring rendition of Kipling's classic poem. Hecklers at the bar were something else again, but I still consider it a personal accomplishment to have survived the readings at the Tinker Street Cafe' relatively unscathed.

    One of the highlights of living in Albany was the longtime open mic hosted by Tom Natell at the legendary QE2, now both departed. I sometimes think I should have spent more of my student loan there instead of on tuition, but what's done is done. Since then, I have spent a lot of time commuting back and forth between The Emerald City and the Hudson Valley for readings there. There is an attitude of respect that rarely wavers-- for the audience, for one's own work-- that I find to be rarely matched. Readers don't often take advantage of the mic, or apologize in advance for the work they're about to impose on you. Time limits are clear and rarely violated.

    When my Roommate and I connected, I was running from one open mic to another almost every night of the week, and hosting an annual event called The Sylvia Plath Bake-Off, which at its height attracted 50 or more attendees in a single evening. Since that time, I have become more particular about which readings I attend. If a reading is poorly managed, if egos are allowed to run amok and hog the mic, if the open mic list is either endless or absurdly restricted, I will probably not be back soon. And I may or may not be missed. I'm OK with that.

    Unlike other artists, poets can be reasonably certain that there is no "Big Time" level of achievement for them to aspire to. It's one of the things I like about being a poet. It's a sort of exclusive club that, to paraphrase Groucho Marx, few would want to be a member of. But when all have gathered to share work, philosophies, secret details they may never tell their partners or families, and when they are sincere, I feel privileged to be in their presence. The Internet can at times echo some of that intimacy, but it's not there yet. The Open Mic, at its best, has yet to be equaled in the age of chat rooms and e-zines.