VERSE GONE HAYWIRE

Trapped in a Roomful of Poets

Stuffed shirts and omelets

The open poetry reading was in a community meeting room at the Hemlock Public Library. It wasn’t difficult to find a seat. Not a lot of people attend open readings. Mainly the poets and a straggler or two. I come alone because I value my friendships and don’t want them to be bored to death. I usually arrive early to the reading and sneak out the back door when I’m finished. Unfortunately, I signed up late and was last on the list.

I sat next to a rather pretentious couple from San Bernadino. They were smug and had dried, veiny fingers. The man wore glasses on the tip of his nose, and the woman resembled Mona “Hatchet-Face” Malnorowski in a pink floral dress. They asked me where I was from, and when I said “Barstow,” they turned away in disgust like I was from the shithole of the world.

The first poet was an older woman. She came to the mic and announced that her favorite poet was Gertrude Stein because her friends said she looked like Gertrude Stein. She read a poem she wrote during a Paris vacation entitled, Whatever Happened to Alice B. Tookus — I Don’t Know. The poem was in three parts. The first part was terrible, the second part worse, and the third part horrendous.

The next person to the podium was a Robert Frost disciple who referred to himself as Winter Frost and read a poem called Traveling Both Roads at the Same Time. However, his poem took neither the high nor the low road. Instead, the poem was not about a road but his toe-cheese fetish.

Another poet was a doppelganger for Emily Dickenson named Chickie Lapidus. She was thin as a rail, pale as a ghost, and had black hair parted down the middle. We kept asking her to speak up while reading, but she continued to read in a mousy voice that only an English bulldog could hear.

Next was a slam poet with an Eminem cap turned backward, called Homer Simpson’s Bitch. He was mildly amusing, but his poem didn’t sound remotely poetic. There was no rhyme or rhythm. It was more of a rant with too many f-words, murder threats, and bomb scares. I believe he was venting his frustration at his parole officer, standing at the door with a Taser and a walkie-talkie.

Homer Simpson’s Bitch was followed by Henry David Thoroughfare, who said he was from the deep south. He went south alright, and I wished his poetry was a little deeper south, like the Southern Ocean in Antarctica. I’m tired of poetry about a man’s hunger for barbecue sauce and baby back ribs. Henry David Thoroughfare would win first prize for the most nauseating poem.

Next was a long-winded poet calling himself Ralph Waldo Iverson, who shared his epic love poem and soon-to-be classic: Hard Boiled, Over Easy, and Scrambled. For some reason, this poem got the most applause. Perhaps it was because he made everyone a build-your-own omelet on an electric skillet.

Two hours into the poetry reading, I was loosening my collar and gasping for air. It was stuffy, the smell of eggs was everywhere, and all the oxygen was sucked out of the room by the poets. I pictured myself hanging from the room’s ceiling fixture or banging my head against the complete set of Shakespearian plays until I reached a comatose state. Then, if my misery wasn’t bad enough, Nathanial Lipshitz, Hemlock’s Poet Laurette, read all of his malodorous chapbook, Jockey Shorts.

Finally, I was next. I clutched my two poems in my claw-like hands, sitting at the edge of the seat, removing waxy buildup with my pinky finger, and ready to be summoned to the podium. I reminded myself to slow down when I read, enunciate clearly, and make eye contact with the audience despite their homely appearance.

Then Nathanial Lipshitz, while fixing his comb-over, made a disheartening announcement.

“I must apologize to everyone who hasn’t read yet,” said the Poet Laurette, “but there’s a Hadassah group waiting for this meeting room. So, please hold on to your poems if you haven’t read them. We will continue our open poetry reading next Thursday night at seven. And remember what the great Professor Irwin Corey said about poetry, and I quote:

“You can go a long way with a poem. But you can go a lot farther without one.”

© 2022 Mark Tulin

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