I feel guilty as I walk into the Dead Poets bookstore: I don't read enough. I used to read all the time, but now I'm lucky if I make it through a novel every two months, which is shameful for a writer. Someone once said, "The writer who produces more than he reads bears the sure sign of an amateur." I wish I could say I read that in a book, but I'm pretty sure I heard it in a movie. So I'm hoping to score back a few of my lost intellectual points this Saturday night by attending one of Sin City's lesser-known cultural events: the poetry reading.
As the time for the reading draws near, members of Zeitgeist Press and Red Rock Review arrange a dozen or so mismatched chairs and antique couches in one of the store's small alcoves. Having not attended a poetry reading in seven years, I'm not sure what to expect.
I used to fancy myself a poet back in high school, before college taught me I was merely channeling a sappy Dr. Seuss with overused imagery. My love of the art form ended abruptly when one of my English professors declared that poetry has no rules. Damn it, I liked poetry having rules. Without them, I too often encountered wannabes pawning off wordy, colorless essays about their dead pets as poetry just because they added dramatic pauses.
There's a much larger turnout than I expected—about two people for every available chair—quickly bringing the metaphysical books section to standing-room-only. Ages range from 20-somethings to 50-somethings, with an even split of men and women.
One by one, nine poets take to the podium, unleashing a string of clever metaphors, rich descriptions and dramatic tonal reversals. The topics vary wildly: from Dayvid Figler's rebuke of a St. Patrick's Day parade to Mike Talbert's tales of an imprisoned psychopath to DeAnna Beachley's requiem for, yes, one dead cat.
But I find I'm listening more intently than I'm accustomed to. More than any other written form, poetry is all about the word—every word. You can speed-read a book and not miss anything. You can listen to a song and ignore the lyrics altogether. But in poetry, each word counts. And when it's done well, the words string together to build something that's not only clever in meaning, but rhythmically pleasing. It occurs to me that if more people spoke this way, I'd be a better listener.
While a skillful reading won't necessarily make a bad poem good, a bad reading can certainly sour a good poem. A few of the nervous beginners stumble, but most of the readers here are old pros who've read all over the country. They run their own literary magazines and have been kicked out of poetry readings at corporately owned bookstores for failing to realize that the freedom of speech ends at the F word.
Prominent Las Vegas poets like Bruce Isaacson, editor of Zeitgeist Press, read with a bold assurance—a casual connection with the audience that acts as a nice counterpoint to the few earlier poets who were a bit too introverted to speak up or stray from the sanctuary of the podium. Isaacson knows he's among friends here, and each poet's verse is met with enthusiastic applause. A few, like Figler, even score big laughs.
"And sure, there was a moment of transcendental bliss with the wind rustling and the hawks circling," he admits in a poem about his detachment from nature, before he adds, with a touch of unease, "but then I started to think ... why are those hawks circling?"
Amid the laughs, there are impressively somber moments as well. Gary Ashman ends one of his verses by describing his life as being "... in the markdown bin. Former best-seller, priced to move."
At some point, I realize I don't hate poetry; I just hate bad poetry. That doesn't mean readings will become my regular Saturday night thing. But it might be nice to drop in on one now and then to appreciate what bright people can pull off with a few well-chosen words. And I can reclaim a few more intellectual points while I'm at it.