Being sick in this city sucks!
Last week my immune system was trying to tell me to settle the fuck down and relax. But did I listen? NO! Because there is a fuck ton of shit that I want to see and do. And that’s when my immune system knocks my ass out. I’ve spent about two and a half days in bed.
However, before I went down for a two day nap I did get to witness some local poetry scene action.
“Sorry we got to a late start, but there is no time or space in New Orleans.” There’s something called “New Orleans time” here. Things don’t start when they say they will. Most take this as a leisurely Southern attitude on time… it drives me totally nuts. I’m the type of person that likes to be 15 minutes early for everything. Showing up 15 minutes early for something to start an hour late? AGRGHGHAHGHHARHGHAGRHGGA!
I heard Rodger Kamenetz at The Gold Mine (quick aside about The Gold Mine—their prices SUCK! $5 for an Aibta is stupid.)
When I started thinking about moving to Louisiana I looked up as many creative writing programs as I could. In the process I ended up falling head over heels with two poets. Lara Glenum and Mr. Kamenetz. I found out at a book reading earlier in the week that R. K. would be reading at a poetry reading.
So book reading and open mic poetry… in one week? Yeah, I moved to THAT town. The literary scene is overwhelming. I’m a little poet-geeked out at the many opportunities New Orleans has to offer. The poetry reading as The Gold Mine is a weekly shindig with featured artists starting the session off. http://www.17poets.com/
Part of me doesn’t really know how to handle myself in poetic social settings. I mean, I feel like I’m not well socialized. “Hi. I’m Naomi. I’m a poet too! Be friends with me?” Weirdo! People ask me what kind of poetry I write… and I’m totally clueless as to how to reply. I feel like I should have more public confidence than this. I mean, I can recite 30 types of moaning orgasms on stage but I turn into a wall flower when someone asks me about my poetry? Fail so hard.
R. K. does this fascinating thing with his head when he reads. He tilts it to the upper left. It reminds me of an owl. And his breath is really reserved. The poetry he read, as expected, struck me fairly deep. I’m looking forward to his new book of poetry.
I geeked out on him a little and asked for a picture.
Actually it went down like this.
“Would it be weird if I asked to take a picture with you?”
“No. That wouldn’t be weird.”
“Oh my god. Thank you so hard.”
“It this going to end up on your Facebook.”
“Probably. And my blog. I collect pictures with poets like kids collect Pokemon cards.”
Then I gushed at him for a bit about how I fell in love with his poetry when I was looking at the program and LSU and that I was totally depressed he wasn’t teaching there anymore and would he please sign these books for me and I just moved here and I’m totally in love with how much happens in literary arts and oh wow I have to go catch the last bus back home.
Really? I feel like I should have a chaperone. Or a functioning social filter.
I think perhaps that poetry is so personal as the author of it that it is difficult to separate yourself from your work enough to classify it, or that the piece should define itself to the reader/listener rather than have its poignancy corrupted by dissection.
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