No.20 - January 2018
Poetry Aloud, Part 1: Why I Hate Poetry Readings
As I type this essay, somewhere on an American campus a reasonably well-published poet stands confidently at a lectern boring the pants off the whole audience, most of whom stopped listening four poems ago. The poems are dry, way too long, and no one has any idea what they’re about. Many have stopped caring; and in fact it sounds as if the poet doesn’t much care, either. The voice is a barely audible monotone, and the ends of every sentence are swallowed before they’re fully out. This poet also spends an inordinate time in between poems searching through books for ones to read next. Why was there no preparation for this well-advertised and presumably well-paid event? Why on earth doesn’t the audience walk out? Well, they stay put out of politeness or because their English professor promised them extra credit for attending. A couple fellow poets in the audience, who have no doubt they could do much better, are mentally comparing the stratospheric praise offered by the reading’s host in her introduction to the lifeless, obscure, tin-eared stuff now being uttered.
About ten minutes past the announced ending time, our poet finally looks up absentmindedly and asks, “How’m I doing for time? I seem to have forgotten my watch. Time for a couple more?” The embarrassed host wakes from her doze and says sure, and everyone in the audience hates that coward with a white-hot passion. The visiting poet then slogs on for another twenty-two toe-curling minutes. A great many such featured poets teach for a living. So it remains one of the biggest mysteries of the poetry business how—since classes typically have set beginning and ending times—they forget such basics when presenting their own work rather than conducting, say, a class on Wallace Stevens.
Meanwhile, across town there is a bit more variety, happily, at the coffee shop’s monthly open mic. A ragtag group of mostly unpublished poets take their turns reading, and, though all have been warned sternly to read just a single poem which is not to exceed five minutes, each is on stage somewhere between eight and fifteen. At least two of them present two or three poems, and many introductions are longer than the poems. Half of them apologize in advance for their poems’ quality, then go right ahead and read them anyway. More than one listener thinks, “Boy, you were right: that really wasn’t very good.”
The other half of the night’s readers laboriously explain what the poem is about, mostly repeating information that is right there in the first stanza. One or two brag that their poem was recently runner-up for some prize you’ve never heard of. After hearing it, you decide never to enter that contest. Invariably, at least one poet notes proudly that he wrote the poem he’s going to present while the previous poets were at the microphone. He stumbles through it, and yes, you can easily believe that the sloppy mess you’re hearing was written in five minutes in a noisy, crowded room with no revision at all. Easy as well to believe that this poet never listens to anyone else’s poem, anyway.
And of course I’ve barely scratched the surface of the myriad ways poetry presented aloud can go wrong. In addition to problems of inaudibility, obscurity, poor enunciation, and so forth, I could easily add such flaws as speed reading, cliché, sentimentality, lack of eye contact, belaboring the obvious, limp rhythms, and the infamous “poetry voice,” with its affected rising inflections that make every line sound the same and every poet remind you of a bad kindergarten teacher talking down to the students.
Why are so many readings so awful, whether delivered by amateurs or the so-called pros? And given such a dismal state of affairs, why do so many of us continue to attend? Are we all crazy? (Don’t answer that.)
Well, sorry to pull a bait-and-switch on you, dear readers, but my answers may disappoint you if you were nodding along to what I wrote above. The answers are that (a) most readings aren’t nearly as bad as the cartoon version I’ve just depicted; and (b) we continue to attend for the honorable and ancient reason that poetry is an oral art, and has always thrived when delivered in person and out loud. I confess I had some fun writing my little diatribe above, and yes, I’m not denying that when readings go wrong, as too many do, they often do so for the reasons noted.
But here’s the thing. The truth is that the average poetry reading, like anything else, is by definition likely to be average, which is to say, neither painfully bad nor transcendently good. I’ve heard some piss-poor readings in my time, lord knows, some given by highly acclaimed poets, alas; but most are, well, really OK. Maybe not always riveting or memorable, but at least mildly pleasant if you love poetry. In other words, average.
It is not fair to generalize about poetry readings (or any other activities) by complaining about the worst examples, as I did shamelessly in my first several paragraphs above. Most baseball games, student plays, recitals, sermons, political speeches, or lectures are hardly splendid, yet still we attend. And for the most part, we don’t waste time pointing out the obvious: that many such events do not rock our worlds. Are none of the 9th graders playing Mozart or baseball as good as Yo Yo Ma or Willie Mays? What else is new?
For well over four decades I’ve attended countless readings—at schools, bars, cafes, museums, libraries, county fairs, academic conferences, and more. I’ve heard teenagers reciting their first poem, the handwritten copy recently ripped from a spiral notebook; I’ve heard at least two winners of the Nobel Prize (Seamus Heaney and Derek Walcott) give splendid readings of splendid work. And I’ve heard just about every kind of poet in between. Poets I’ve not encountered “live” I’ve often experienced on film or audio recording. And in recent years, podcasts and YouTube. Though I know enough not to expect a wonderful experience every time, nevertheless I still hold out real hope that the next one I attend will lift me out of myself and give my soul a good jolt. I’ve been positively surprised at least as often as negatively so.
So obviously we don’t attend poetry readings because we expect greatness every time. But that’s not really the point, is it? Yes, many open mics and readings aren’t wonderful, but that’s really a straw man argument. I say we keep attending for many good reasons. Some might include:
• To spend time in the company of fellow poetry fans, thus being infused with the very real sense of communal pleasure that comes from any such public event. If you love the art, it’s heartening to spend time with other kindred souls.
• To gain a better sense of the mind and character responsible for poems we’ve enjoyed on the page. A skilled presenter can provide useful context and background; can underline key elements of the poem through performance; can clarify difficulties; can leaven serious work with humor; can interact with the audience in fruitful ways; and more.
• To enjoy a space for reflection and the exercise our own critical and moral faculties that can be difficult to find in our daily routines. It can be a secular form of listening to a sermon in church. Indeed, many sermons in church include poetry, for the obvious reason that it’s a very good way to express complex thoughts and feelings honestly and memorably.
• To be inspired, if we are poets. To gather ideas for our own work. Even, sometimes, to learn by negative example. This is just common sense. A great musician doesn’t avoid listening to other performers, which is valuable for a number of reasons.
• To savor the oral dimension of the art in addition to its intellectual qualities. On stage isn’t always better than on the page, and not every poet is a gifted spoken-word artist, yet poetry aloud can nonetheless offer rewards that the silent page cannot. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen students who have struggled with Shakespeare on the page come away from a live performance with new understanding and appreciation.
• To pay our dues as working poets. After all, we can’t expect others to listen to or appreciateour poems if we’re not willing to return the favor. If you’re part of any community, it’s good to be a good citizen.
There are likely other reasons as well, of course.
This month’s column is Part I of a series in progress. Turns out I have rather a lot to say about the pleasures of poetry aloud. As for the bait-and-switch above, I wanted to get the negative mostly out of the way before turning to the positive, which interests me more. The caricature version of poetry readings is too often asserted by people who should know better, like our fellow poets, and it shows up disappointingly often in popular culture, in which screenwriters, for instance, sometimes use poets and poetry readings as shorthand for the clueless or culturally pretentious.
Over several future columns I plan to mention some great readings I’ve been to, and reflect on why they were so memorable. I will also describe a course I taught for many years, called Poetry Aloud, and some of things I learned while doing it. I may even give some tips for enhancing the experience, both from a reader’s and a listener’s perspective. Stay tuned. . . .
As I type this essay, somewhere on an American campus a reasonably well-published poet stands confidently at a lectern boring the pants off the whole audience, most of whom stopped listening four poems ago. The poems are dry, way too long, and no one has any idea what they’re about. Many have stopped caring; and in fact it sounds as if the poet doesn’t much care, either. The voice is a barely audible monotone, and the ends of every sentence are swallowed before they’re fully out. This poet also spends an inordinate time in between poems searching through books for ones to read next. Why was there no preparation for this well-advertised and presumably well-paid event? Why on earth doesn’t the audience walk out? Well, they stay put out of politeness or because their English professor promised them extra credit for attending. A couple fellow poets in the audience, who have no doubt they could do much better, are mentally comparing the stratospheric praise offered by the reading’s host in her introduction to the lifeless, obscure, tin-eared stuff now being uttered.
About ten minutes past the announced ending time, our poet finally looks up absentmindedly and asks, “How’m I doing for time? I seem to have forgotten my watch. Time for a couple more?” The embarrassed host wakes from her doze and says sure, and everyone in the audience hates that coward with a white-hot passion. The visiting poet then slogs on for another twenty-two toe-curling minutes. A great many such featured poets teach for a living. So it remains one of the biggest mysteries of the poetry business how—since classes typically have set beginning and ending times—they forget such basics when presenting their own work rather than conducting, say, a class on Wallace Stevens.
Meanwhile, across town there is a bit more variety, happily, at the coffee shop’s monthly open mic. A ragtag group of mostly unpublished poets take their turns reading, and, though all have been warned sternly to read just a single poem which is not to exceed five minutes, each is on stage somewhere between eight and fifteen. At least two of them present two or three poems, and many introductions are longer than the poems. Half of them apologize in advance for their poems’ quality, then go right ahead and read them anyway. More than one listener thinks, “Boy, you were right: that really wasn’t very good.”
The other half of the night’s readers laboriously explain what the poem is about, mostly repeating information that is right there in the first stanza. One or two brag that their poem was recently runner-up for some prize you’ve never heard of. After hearing it, you decide never to enter that contest. Invariably, at least one poet notes proudly that he wrote the poem he’s going to present while the previous poets were at the microphone. He stumbles through it, and yes, you can easily believe that the sloppy mess you’re hearing was written in five minutes in a noisy, crowded room with no revision at all. Easy as well to believe that this poet never listens to anyone else’s poem, anyway.
And of course I’ve barely scratched the surface of the myriad ways poetry presented aloud can go wrong. In addition to problems of inaudibility, obscurity, poor enunciation, and so forth, I could easily add such flaws as speed reading, cliché, sentimentality, lack of eye contact, belaboring the obvious, limp rhythms, and the infamous “poetry voice,” with its affected rising inflections that make every line sound the same and every poet remind you of a bad kindergarten teacher talking down to the students.
Why are so many readings so awful, whether delivered by amateurs or the so-called pros? And given such a dismal state of affairs, why do so many of us continue to attend? Are we all crazy? (Don’t answer that.)
Well, sorry to pull a bait-and-switch on you, dear readers, but my answers may disappoint you if you were nodding along to what I wrote above. The answers are that (a) most readings aren’t nearly as bad as the cartoon version I’ve just depicted; and (b) we continue to attend for the honorable and ancient reason that poetry is an oral art, and has always thrived when delivered in person and out loud. I confess I had some fun writing my little diatribe above, and yes, I’m not denying that when readings go wrong, as too many do, they often do so for the reasons noted.
But here’s the thing. The truth is that the average poetry reading, like anything else, is by definition likely to be average, which is to say, neither painfully bad nor transcendently good. I’ve heard some piss-poor readings in my time, lord knows, some given by highly acclaimed poets, alas; but most are, well, really OK. Maybe not always riveting or memorable, but at least mildly pleasant if you love poetry. In other words, average.
It is not fair to generalize about poetry readings (or any other activities) by complaining about the worst examples, as I did shamelessly in my first several paragraphs above. Most baseball games, student plays, recitals, sermons, political speeches, or lectures are hardly splendid, yet still we attend. And for the most part, we don’t waste time pointing out the obvious: that many such events do not rock our worlds. Are none of the 9th graders playing Mozart or baseball as good as Yo Yo Ma or Willie Mays? What else is new?
For well over four decades I’ve attended countless readings—at schools, bars, cafes, museums, libraries, county fairs, academic conferences, and more. I’ve heard teenagers reciting their first poem, the handwritten copy recently ripped from a spiral notebook; I’ve heard at least two winners of the Nobel Prize (Seamus Heaney and Derek Walcott) give splendid readings of splendid work. And I’ve heard just about every kind of poet in between. Poets I’ve not encountered “live” I’ve often experienced on film or audio recording. And in recent years, podcasts and YouTube. Though I know enough not to expect a wonderful experience every time, nevertheless I still hold out real hope that the next one I attend will lift me out of myself and give my soul a good jolt. I’ve been positively surprised at least as often as negatively so.
So obviously we don’t attend poetry readings because we expect greatness every time. But that’s not really the point, is it? Yes, many open mics and readings aren’t wonderful, but that’s really a straw man argument. I say we keep attending for many good reasons. Some might include:
• To spend time in the company of fellow poetry fans, thus being infused with the very real sense of communal pleasure that comes from any such public event. If you love the art, it’s heartening to spend time with other kindred souls.
• To gain a better sense of the mind and character responsible for poems we’ve enjoyed on the page. A skilled presenter can provide useful context and background; can underline key elements of the poem through performance; can clarify difficulties; can leaven serious work with humor; can interact with the audience in fruitful ways; and more.
• To enjoy a space for reflection and the exercise our own critical and moral faculties that can be difficult to find in our daily routines. It can be a secular form of listening to a sermon in church. Indeed, many sermons in church include poetry, for the obvious reason that it’s a very good way to express complex thoughts and feelings honestly and memorably.
• To be inspired, if we are poets. To gather ideas for our own work. Even, sometimes, to learn by negative example. This is just common sense. A great musician doesn’t avoid listening to other performers, which is valuable for a number of reasons.
• To savor the oral dimension of the art in addition to its intellectual qualities. On stage isn’t always better than on the page, and not every poet is a gifted spoken-word artist, yet poetry aloud can nonetheless offer rewards that the silent page cannot. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen students who have struggled with Shakespeare on the page come away from a live performance with new understanding and appreciation.
• To pay our dues as working poets. After all, we can’t expect others to listen to or appreciateour poems if we’re not willing to return the favor. If you’re part of any community, it’s good to be a good citizen.
There are likely other reasons as well, of course.
This month’s column is Part I of a series in progress. Turns out I have rather a lot to say about the pleasures of poetry aloud. As for the bait-and-switch above, I wanted to get the negative mostly out of the way before turning to the positive, which interests me more. The caricature version of poetry readings is too often asserted by people who should know better, like our fellow poets, and it shows up disappointingly often in popular culture, in which screenwriters, for instance, sometimes use poets and poetry readings as shorthand for the clueless or culturally pretentious.
Over several future columns I plan to mention some great readings I’ve been to, and reflect on why they were so memorable. I will also describe a course I taught for many years, called Poetry Aloud, and some of things I learned while doing it. I may even give some tips for enhancing the experience, both from a reader’s and a listener’s perspective. Stay tuned. . . .
© 2018 David Graham