On Brutal, Manic, Terrifying Criticism (Can anyone really hate trumpets?)

I've written a little about criticism here in the past. I've experienced kidney punch criticism about my writing, looks, folk singing, and social views. I've definitely cried about it, and have even been paid to flip the table and provide criticism. But this clip documents a critical "Perfect Storm," a cloud of hot air, negative feedback, rage, and bizarre neurosis whirling like typhoon from the mouth of one sad NYU film student. He is explosive. Hypnotic. A mix between John Simon, Ann Coulter, and The Penguin.

If you missed this one, it features a man driven to literal madness by the thoughtless practicing of a trumpet player in a public alcove. It's hilariously heartbreaking, because even as you choose which man to side with, there's no getting around how broken the critic has to feel inside in order to unleash that kind of seething spittle.

For those of you slammed and critiqued in the past: see? It happens to everyone! To aspiring critics: this. is. not. how. to. do. it.






At the end of the day, aren't we all looking for some acknowledgement that we stood near Bob Dylan that one time?

The Trouble With (National) Poet(ry Month), Plus the Slurred Genius of Accidental Poet "Dominque"

April is National Poetry Month. This guarantees that:

A) Today you will see a peppering of blog posts and pseudonews items about National Poetry Month.
     a1. By tomorrow you will have forgotten it is National Poetry Month.

B) Lovers of poetry will spend the next 30 days re-reminding you that it is National Poetry Month.
     b1. You will slowly grow to resent them. 

C) People with internet platforms will publicly "celebrate" National Poetry Month.
     c1. Mostly by posting cringe-verse torn from their high school journals, greatest hits from undergrad History of Lit books (largely Yeats, Whitman, Blake, Frost and Angelou) and/or lines from the most notable poetry figure from their home town/state/country.

D) On April 30 most poets will still feel isolated and under-appreciated.
     d1. Additional April 30th projection statistics: 98% of all poetry-haters will still hate poetry. 1% will have defected to the pro-poetry side. The remaining 1% will have died of old age or unrelated catastrophes. 

Also, Barnes and Noble will feature discounted boxes of magnetic poetry sets:

Only people with metal surfaces in their home are allowed to write poetry.

As the author of a blog with the word "poet" in the title, I will contribute to this arbitrary public exercise by continuing business as usual, and by posting any examples I can find of Accidental Poetry.

Business as usual:
a snippet from "On Creative Loneliness," an old cringe-piece responding to "The Importance of Solitude:"

"but who will write the writer
in return
curl words back in reciprocal arcs
greet her in the morning
with three even lines in ink
on a napkin

silence, golden 
but after the hushes
the observer bears the weight

to see so much
to be seen so little"

And my first NaPoMo contribution, a must watch (with sound turned up high):

Accidental Poetry by Dominique: "U is for Eunice"
(Bio: Dominique is an upbeat girl-about-town who recently relocated from Desperation, MA, to Self-Loathing, PA, where she currently lives under her pillow. When not recording poetry on Ryan's message machine, she enjoys binge-drinking Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka, playing with yo-yos, entering spelling bees and giggling. By day, Dominique works for either eBay or Jamba Juice, we're not quite sure.)

Don't You Just Hate Poetry Readings?: The Debut of Banjoetry

 

A few weeks ago I turned to a trusted buddy and said, "I want to score poems to banjo."

She said: "That is a terrible idea."

I said: "I want to read them live, with the banjo."

She said: "That is a terrible idea."

I said: "In front of a bunch of people."

She said: "That. Is. A. TERRIBLE. Idea."

I began scribbling notes.

A few days later I mentioned to a trusted mentor that I had a feature slot reading at Bowery Poetry and wanted to perform a suite of poems scored to live banjo twanging.

He said, "That sounds like absolute agony."

I decided then to do it.

I fortunately have a dear friend who can twang banjo. He has toured with Pete Townshend of The Who and pop-punk demigod Bob Mould. He has recorded with members of Teenage Fanclub. And Sleater-Kinney. And The Posies. And Ash. He has his own indie album of aching, perfectly strummed alt-rock tunes. (Aside: I highly recommend that record--great break-up album. Doubly sweet on vinyl.) Oh, and a Tony Award and a bunch of big Broadway credits and a list of off-Broadway mega-roles, like rock diva Hedwig from Hedwig and The Angry Inch. Sometimes you see him on TV. His name is Michael Cerveris and he was, and still is, clearly overqualified for my plot. 

I told him I wanted to score some poems about New Orleans to banjo. And read them. In front of people. I explained he was essential because he is the only one I know who can play banjo.

He said, "Okay, let's do it."

Thus the inside joke of "banjoetry" went public. Both the friend and mentor who said it was a terrible idea attended the performance. I have video proof (embedded below) that they cheered like loons for us in spite of themselves. A bunch of other people did too. They may even have enjoyed it. Or banjoyed it. (Either works.)

Fantastic photographer Jenny Anderson was there to get it on film (scroll down for pics). There's video of the whole set. I'm also pasting in the text from my "set" opener, "Don't You Just Hate Poetry Readings?" below. I love reading but somehow always get nervous and start shaking like a crack-baby for the first 5 minutes of all performances, which occasionally leads to tripping over the words of whatever is read first. I wrote the poem a few hours before hitting Bowery, so it was especially unfamiliar and raw...the text is here to fill in the gaps where my crackbabyness failed the piece.

Don't You Just Hate Poetry Readings?

Behind a curtain, under some stairs,

shoe-horned into community centers or the nearest jail,

spawning on student coffee shop stages,

dressed up and made up and paraded for sale

at your nearest megabookshop franchise, there it is folks! (and this is no joke),

we got right here for you fine folk the fruit fly of the literary world,

the buzzing

beating

flapping

needy

slip of public word breeding known to us as The Poetry Reading,

Where everyone’s less than secretly competing for rattiest scarf,

holiest boots,

most crumpled transcripts of items that could’ve been committed to mind if we’d taken the time

Best disapproving sigh,

best judgmental eye,

least best chance of separating spectators short on patience from Thorazine patients when you prop them all up in one straight line;

Most likely to jack from Kerouac

to buy off Bly

or rip off poor Miss Smith by dragging up some poorer stiff

with a guitar with them to riff on riffs while the whole ship goes down and watchers go stiff

before they make it to the awards portion of the night!

where blue ribbons are given for angriest word rant,

droniest tone poem,

most unnerving piece of childhood nostalgia,

most unremarkable slab of melancholia,

and don’t forget the coveted award of most maligning backhanded complimented handed out as you walk out the door, and that’s before

we event mention honorable mentions for artful statings of the obvious,

heartfelt ramblings by the oblivious,

irreverent references,

obscure preferences,

whored out metaphors

ALL absorbed while keeping an ear out for a cell phone ringing or Death finally bringing

some carefully delivered blessed delivery from asking why we’re here again, especially when

every time we leave one of these creaking old creative heaves we always seethe

WHY. DO. I. KEEP. GOING. TO. THESE. THINGS?
Because we know if we don’t go

we’ll not have heard that line or word

that makes it clear while we’re all here

and still coming to poetry readings.



Michael Cerveris rockin' the MANjo for the love of banjoetry.

 

"I love reading out loud thiiiiiiiiiiis much...."

Seriously? This photo? What the hell am I doing? It does look intense though, maaaaaan. **Poetic beat finger snaps.**

The "banjoetry" starts around the 6:57 mark. (At one point some affable lout steps in front of the camera, which was resting on the bar next to a whiskey and ginger. He quickly realizes his folly and steps back outta the shot.) 

This set includes the above detailing of why poetry readings are agony, delivers missives for my inarticulateness in romantic situations, paces out a suite of poems about the alchemy of New Orleans while Cerveris twangs the strings, then brings the hyperbolic silliness of Mick Jagger's Shirts back to its original home at Bowery Poetry.

Hannah's set is sex, mangled love and why you should think twice before letting her play librarian, with a spotlight thrown on the accidental poetic rhythms hiding in GMail threads.

Banjoy, and thank you to everyone who packed the house. Special thanks to Michael for lending his talent and insight during the collaboration process, George Wallace and Russ Green of Bowery Poetry Club for having for allowing me to read poetry in public.  

Kimberly Kaye at Bowery Poetry Club 2/20/11 from Hannah Miet on Vimeo.

And Hannah:

Hannah Miet at Bowery Poetry Club 2/20/11 from Hannah Miet on Vimeo.

Pass the Flask You Hag: Losing My Virginity at Bowery Poetry

This weekend, George Wallace made my month by allowing my up onstage for Beat Hour @ The Bowery [Poetry Club]. The bill also featured PHIL ASAPH, TED JONATHON and ROBERT GIBBONS and an impromptu finale by Russ Green. I am honored and thankful to have been allowed onstage with them.

It was my first public reading and I was absolutely fucking terrified.

Fortunately, someone got all my public onstage awkwardness on film.

I ramble about about old drunken aunties, divine relationship-enders on the Bayou, the importance of underscoring during blizzards...and about Mick Jagger's shirts. Because let's face it, they're the highlight of any closet. 

Kimberly Kaye at Bowery Poetry Club from Hannah Miet on Vimeo.



Hannah Miet at Bowery Poetry Club from Hannah Miet on Vimeo.

Be gentle. It was literally my first time.