Anyway, I was also quite happy that Tony Robles came through, donned in a spiffy hat, and shared some comedic and incisive poetry. His poetic voice has been so consistent throughout the years, and I see how he continues to expand and give depth and color to his poetic world, very located in San Francisco streets. His poems populate these streets with real people, their not unimagined, not invented struggles and lives and histories. His poems are also touching or even tender, even in their grittiness, symmetrical, even as they turn in unexpected places.
As for myself, I hadn't read, "101 Words That Don't Quite Describe Me," in years, so it was good to open up with that. Also, I am understanding that it's good to somehow prepare an audience for liberal use of irony. I realize it can be abrupt, to simply jump into it with no warning; I read R. Zamora Linmark's "They Like You Because You Eat Dog," and while I am sure that the audience, who were primarily students, know intellectually what irony is, I also see how this is something audiences in general grapple with. I see this in their facial expressions, that they are doing the work, that they want to understand.
All this said, I am glad to have presented/performed in tonal shifts and multiple poetic voices. I realize my readings can be intense and even unrelenting, even in its more quiet or even comedic moments. I realize also that my readings are dense, perhaps in volume of work alone. I realize also that a lot of people think I am a scary girl, perhaps as a result of these things. Still, response was very positive and excited. The energy in the room was so upbeat, open, and generous.
There was an open mic, as well as a couple of student poet readers featuring. They each read one poem, and here, I can tell you that the work is smart, the writers are smart, their ideas very complete. There is very little reliance upon trope or poetic stunt work. I see their poems as these very earnest attempts at communicating something they are working to understand, about the world and their place in it, as participants in globalization, as its beneficiaries, as growing activists, and young adults.
After I read, one student approached me to ask me if I knew Patrick Rosal. This student had just read My American Kundiman, and I could detect in his own work traces of Pat influence; something in his performance tone, something in the sensuality of his poems. His poems' sensuality came across without bravado or coyness. He also told me he was currently taking Poetry for the People, and I asked him if he was trying out any poetic forms. He said yeah, kind of, and I told him that form was exciting, and an awesome thing for emerging poets to attempt.
Adrien Salazar read three poems, and referred back to my "[ave maria]," as he presented his own urban prayer poem. Now, his work I am seeing this consideration of page and tempo, line break, white space. I see how he is negotiating performance with what he is learning about page. A very good place to be, something like a poetic crossroads.
Last thing about the open mic, though we did have to leave only part way through it. I am starting to figure out what it is I typically abhor about open mics, and you know what it is? It's the bravado that accompanies a poem that could use some editing, revising, another set of eyes to read, some time to settle and reconsider, distill, reinvent. Perhaps the bravado is to compensate for insecurity at the onset; getting on the mic can be hard if you have limited experience at it. I see how this insecurity becomes a means of manipulating an audience into accepting you and your poem, and how this bravado becomes a tool or even weapon to coerce the room into liking you and your poem. And so then, opportunities to improve upon the work are lost to manufacturing a charisma.
That said, Maganda's poets did not exhibit any of this bravado or manipulation, but instead a genuine, "This is what I am trying to figure out. I am still learning."
Mind you, I am not advocating for poetic hiya. I am saying that I much appreciate openness; the writing of the poem, and the poem itself as the process by which a poet comes to understand something that is very important to him or her.
