Poetry reading from March 29th, yeah it was a long time ago

On Monday, March 29th I attended the first reading of The Open Light: A Celebration of Notre Dame Poets. I was actually required to go for another one of my classes so it was a nice way to get two birds with one stone. Unfortunately on that particular day I forgot we had to go to the reading so I went to our normal classroom and after sitting in isolation for 3 minutes I realized my mistake and ran out of the main building to McKenna Hall where the reading was being held. Luckily for me I only interrupted the introduction and was able to slither into a seat in the back of the room without causing too much of a disturbance.
The reading was held in one of McKenna Hall’s smaller rooms, not in the main auditorium like the Laurie Moore reading. I think this gave the poetry reading a more relaxed feeling; it wasn’t a big presentation, but rather an intimate reading. The room was filled with a mixture of students and those other adults you find on college campuses who could be professors, but you’re never quite sure. One young woman had an adorable baby with her, who was sometimes a participant in the reading. At one point one of the poets, Beth Ann Fennelly, asked how old the baby was and the mom replied that she was 10 weeks old and this was already her second poetry reading. I was impressed; the baby had already been to more poetry readings than I had.
The three poets who read were Jenny Boully, Beth Ann Fennelly, and Kimberly Blaeser, all three graduates from Notre Dame. When I arrived I was unsure what my feelings toward this reading would be. I have never been a huge poetry fan, unless you count performing Shel Silverstien’s poems in elementary school forensics. I usually feel that poetry has this deep, profound meaning that I’m too lazy to try and figure out. When the first poet, Jenny Boully, started reading I thought, “Yep, I don’t understand poetry.” Her poems made no sense to me. She spoke very rapidly and I managed to pick up a few phrases such as “I do believe in kidnapping I do, I do, I do” and “everything is too eerily coincidental.” I tried to focus, but my mind kept wandering and counting down the time until I could leave.
But then Beth Ann Fennelly started her reading and I my attention was drawn back in. Beth Ann reminded me of Ariel from the Little Mermaid. Her straight ruby hair came down past her waist and she had a smile permanently fixed on her face. She constantly laughed at herself and her work. The most attractive feature of her reading though, was that I understood her poems! Before each poem she gave an explanation of what inspired her to write it. Her poems ranged from one called Poem not to be read at your wedding to one about cow-tipping. My favorite poem was where she described spring at the University of North Carolina where she teaches. My favorite line was, “Today is the day the first bare-chested runners appear.” The humor in her poems leads to more serious aspects. After she proceeds to describe the bare-chested runners and how she goggles at them, the poem reflects on aging and the scarcity of time. The best part of the reading, however, was when I saw Beth Ann’s outfit after she was done. She wore a cute jumper dress and rainbow kneesocks that stuck up above her cowboy boots. This alone makes me want to be her friend.

MFA Thesis Reading

Regrettably, the only part of the MFA Thesis Reading that I understood with complete clarity was the introductory greeting by Steve Tomasula. The acoustics of the LaFortune Ballroom did not lend themselves well to the reading, so it was extremely difficult to paste together the excerpts of each reader’s thesis and come away with any understanding of the narrative. Furthermore, the voices of the readers ranged from thick monotone to nasal exuberance, which didn’t help the problem. Add this to the fact that Brian and I had taken our rightful seats in the absolute last row of the ballroom, and you have a perfect storm of auditory hurdles that I was unable to clear with the sort of mastery that would allow me to thoughtfully comment on the content of each graduate’s thesis.
But that said, I would still like to offer some of my thoughts on the atmosphere at the reading and the way it contributed to my overall view of the MFA program at Notre Dame. My background is one without much exposure to higher education; both of my parents were the only ones in their families to go to college and they both attended very ordinary colleges in Iowa. Neither received graduate degrees. So when I was college-shopping, I had very little exposure to the American University system in general. I consider this a relevant component of what makes up my view of the MFA program because it shows that I had very little concept of what different degrees meant, let alone what an academic community looked/felt/functioned like.
Fast-forward to this past Friday night, where the only two men I saw read were wearing long flowing orange hair, tight jeans and a blazer, and black shoes, seersucker pants, a V-neck t shirt, arm tattoos, chest tattoos, a shaved head and a beard that would make even make an NHL player turn his head in disgust. I always find it interesting that extremely smart people seem to dress (at least) a little bit outside of the norm. I always wonder whether it’s because they want to be noticed as different, if they simply think it looks better or if they are trying to make a statement that people like me can’t understand.
I felt an almost tangible separation between the intellectuals at the reading and me. It was almost hard to describe but it was definitely humbling. The reading that I understood best was by Tasha Matsumoto, and it was about moving to South Bend. I couldn’t help but wonder how northern Indiana fosters an academic community of intellectuals. Having been from Boston, I can personally attest to the fact that the famous “Do you like apples?” scene from Good Will Hunting paints a pretty fair portrait of Crimson nightlife. I wonder how these people feel about their years in South Bend, how they view people like me and whether or not they resent Notre Dame’s whiteness, economic prosperity, homogeneity and tendency to promote the stereotypical “All-American” as the ideal.
The truth is, I found each of the writers extremely likable, and I believe that they would be very nice if ever approached by an undergraduate. I got the sense that they were very happy people and that they would probably love a chance to talk about their experiences in college, in grad school and the ideas behind their stories. I also was genuinely impressed and intrigued by the different styles each of them employed to introduce each other. I found their words to be overwhelming sincere, although extremely brief. It was one of those rare moments in life where you witness another person’s special moment and are left wondering whether or not it was as special as you perceived it to be and what moments had to occur over the last several months in order for something as meaningless as an introduction to take on a higher meaning. But again, maybe I am grossly over thinking that.
I am probably creating an unnecessary barrier between myself and “them”, but I am still wrapping my mind around the fact that each applicant was selected as one out of 200. Most people live and die without ever beating odds like that. Add that to the fact that (from what I could understand), I really couldn’t discern what was so special about their writing. That isn’t meant to be insulting. Clearly they spoke with a confidence that most of our class wasn’t capable of; but much the writing that I heard seemed like something that certain students in our class were capable of writing. I can only imagine that most of what they were trying to say went straight over my head.
I also would love to know what exactly the writers are in grad school for, what their goals are. I can’t think of a profession with higher highs and lower lows than creative writing. On one hand, you could end up broke and poor with a useless degree, entering the job market the better part of a decade later than your undergraduate peers. On the other, you could be in world’s highest income bracket, working from home on your own schedule, contributing something permanent to society. I wonder what these writer’s goals are, and what the main thing each of them trying to say is. I also wonder if any of them are planning on teaching; I see that as sort of the in-between of the above two scenarios, given the fact that they enjoy mild literary success.
There’s really no salient point to this blog entry; I guess it’s more of a series of observations into something that I know very little about and feel very detached/slightly intimidated by. In any case, I enjoyed my time at the reading and have spent a lot of time since thinking about the atmosphere of the LaFun ballroom and the untold stories of those who filled it.

Good Old Room 106

I remember when I had theology in this stuffy old classroom at the end of the small narrowing hall of Oshag. Today the windows were cracked, it was 7 pm and the sun was still beaming through the windows, representing the best South Bend has to offer as well as the end this way too long of a school year. The room was filled with eager listeners and the typical snack and drinks aka cookies and water.

I didn't know what to really expect, one of the first poetry readings I've attended. I wasn't sure what my interest level would be going in, tired from the day, I thought I might pass out in the back of the classroom, no one knowing or caring. A taller, slender looking younger man stood up off the ground, green plaid shirt with a pink undershirt, never saw that before, he always had a smile on his face which caused me as well as everyone else in the room to smile, a very demanding smile. Last week, my friend visited, he arrived to complain about the new tolls which didn't use people but only a machine that collects your money through a little slit, his money got stuck three times than his credit card got stuck, it was a thirty minute ordeal, good thing that wasn't me.
Ironically,the first thing Zachary Schomburg said as he stood up off the floor was exactly that about the tolls and how he was late due to this new toll system and how it broke down and an employees hand all of a sudden came out and asked for the money, this immediately had everyone laughing including myself, he questioned would this be the future of tolls, would people hands just come out of the machines to collect the money. Judging by his sense of humor, I could see myself vibing with this guy. A younger guy with humor like me and my friend. His poems joked about females, day to day activities that I could relate to and understand.
One poem I enjoyed that he read was from Scary, No Scary:

The old man
hunched over
at the front door
will be prepared
to give you a tour,
but first he’ll ask
scary, or no scary?

You should say
no scary.

As he finished his first couple poems, they were short, entertaining, and many times contained some sort of punch line. Rather than some other poems from other authors in which I wasn't sure if it was actually English or maybe if the author put random lines together to make a poem(no offense), it could just me by inability to understand all the different dynamics of poetry. His voice seemed perfect for these type of stories, a soft welcoming voice that would change tones in an urgent matter as the story did, occasionally changing his voice to fit the different characters speaking in the poems. He questioned the crowd, sad or funny stories? It was later in the day and everyone seemed like they needed a pick me up, so he went after the funny stories, keeping everyone with a constant smile as they listened attentively waiting for that next line. Another excerpt I really enjoy and felt was unique with the repetition of the flame:

“A woman-shaped flame. A whale-shaped flame. An ocean-shaped flame. The woman-shaped flame is inside the whale-shaped flame. The whale-shaped flame is inside the ocean-shaped flame...A breach-shaped flame...A Lincoln-shaped flame directly behind Lincoln. It is his soul on fire. It has already left his body...A Lincoln-shaped flame. A Lincoln-shaped flame”

Going in very skeptical, I came out of this with a whole new view on poem readings. Hopefully I can catch one in the near future, the bar has been set high.

On Friday night I attended the MFA’s “Graduation”. This consisted of the students who were graduating the program reading a piece of their writing. Some chose to read poetry, others chose to read a piece of fiction that they had wrote, but one thing is for sure, each of them were very original. The biggest thing that I got out of the readings (I do not usually attend readings, so this may be common knowledge to others) was how incredibly influential a readers voice is on the piece of work they are delivering.

The reading started off with a male student reading something that he said he “just prepared a couple hours earlier”. As he gave a brief introduction about himself, he spoke in a soft voice, almost as if he was shy. Then, he flipped a switch and began reading in a voice that was the polar opposite of the one he was using before. To be honest, I do not even know what he was reading or what it was about, but I can say that I was intrigued simply because of the voice he was using. After he was done reading, he went back into the previous version of himself.

One of the next girls read some of her poetry. She was very soft spoken throughout her reading, and it added a comforting feel to her reading. She did a great job delivering her poetry, with her tone adding the grace that poetry deserves.

Finally, one of the last girls that I heard read delivered a piece of fiction about a girl moving to South Bend. The reader was clearly not the shy one of the group, and her reading was very effective as she varied her tone and pitch in perfect harmony with the material she was reading.

In conclusion, the material is not what was surprising to me. To be honest, most of the time I could not understand what was being read due to the poor acoustic characteristics of the room. However, the delivery of each piece of writing varied from person to person, and it was the degree with which they varied that shocked me. Each writer was very original in the delivery and truly showed examples of various “voices” of various authors, even if in a very literal sense.

A Night With David Sedaris

David Sedaris is a little man with a high, nasal voice from New York City by way of North Carolina. He is an essayist, humorist, comedian, and radio contributor. He is hilarious. His books are collections of essays detailing his life and various experiences growing up, doing drugs, life as a performance artist, and most notably, working as an elf in Santaland. Read his books if you haven’t already. They are wonderful. Hilarious, darkly cynical, superbly observational, delightfully absurd, and yet ultimately incredibly touching and engaging. Read them and you’ll fall in love.

So Mr. Sedaris came to the Morris Center for one night to read some of his work. As a side note, I had never been to the Morris Center and was pleasantly, perhaps incredulously surprised with the place. It’s quite the classy establishment, and in South Bend no less. Go figure. That being said, we got the cheap tickets for the show – which were still $25 – and were seated in literally the back row of the third balcony. I always considered “nose-bleed section” some terrible colloquialism that got thrown about, but sitting that high up, staring down at such a tiny point of light, and knowing you paid $25 for it, it really does make you want to punch someone in the nose.

At any rate, Sedaris made up for it all. He began reading from his latest book, When You are Engulfed in Flames, starting with an account of his trip to the Australian bush and feeding a kookaburra. The story then segues into a story from Sedaris’ childhood when he and his sister Amy (star of Stranger’s With Candy) sang the song Kookaburra together for an hour on end, ultimately infuriating their father and culminating in Sedaris getting smacked with a fraternity paddle. I hadn’t read Sedaris’ work for a while, and it was a great reminder of why I liked it so much. He walks the line of absurdity and nostalgia so well, you often question – “This could not have happened.” More than anything, he writes – and speaks – with a Southern gentility and formality that combines with a New York sharpness and cynicism that is just – it’s just wonderful.

Sedaris moved on to some short quips from his diary. The standout of them all was an account of his time in line at an airport and his observation of a red-headed kid with cornrows and a shirt reading “Freaky Motha-Focka”. Once again, a bizarre and hilarious story of everyday minutiae.

The reading was wonderful. Sedaris is an incredibly kind and humble author. He stayed for two hours after the show just to sign books and talk with the crowd. I spoke with him shortly and he just asked us questions about who we were, what we were studying, how it was going and so on. He was probably just searching for his next bizarre subject, but it really seemed like he cared about his audience. All in all, a night with David Sedaris did not disappoint.

On April 14, Kimberly Koga, Jennifer Stockdale and CJ Waterman presented their poetry at Lula’s Café. Kimberly Koga began the reading, and to say the least, her poems were attention grabbing. While her poetry was very graphic and sexually explicit, Kimberly relied more on sound than imagery.

Her poems were highly aural, with many similar vowel noises grouped together. She broke up smoothly flowing lines of similar sound with short, harsh, curse words, saying “fuck” or “cunt”. These words do possess a certain amount of shock value, but they were more effective because their blunt sounds were juxtaposed with the smooth continuity and cohesiveness of the poem. This juxtaposition was further highlighted by her inclusion of moaning, which fit well with the assonance of her poetry. Her poem, which she called “The Beaver Poem”, was particularly graphic in its imagery, describing the fleshy globules with transparent webs of tissue.

Jennifer Stockdale presented her poetry next. Some of her poetry shared Kimberly Koga’s graphic imagery, but other poems had a stronger comedic, or even cynical element. “Psycho-somatic Babies” was one of her first poem, and babies, children, and fetuses became a recurring motif in her poetry. Her images of birth and fetuses were painstakingly detailed, to the point where she seemed almost paranoid about children. While many of her poems revolved around children, my favorite poem of hers was the one where she describes a Notre Dame girl at Confession. How she had “pared down” her “cock tease” into “eight Hail Mary’s”. I thought that the poem was funny and apt, very well suited to the audience.

CJ Waterman’s poems were more narrative than the other two. He read selections from two poems, one described someone retrospectively examining the end of their life and the other described the blowing up a regional airport. Both of his poems had an escalating, intense tone. The tone was particularly appropriate for his description of the last days of someone’s life. It wasn’t melancholy, but frustrated and angry. I would also like to assume that he

was using symbolism when he talked about “fucking the white swan”. In “Blowing up a Regional Airport”, he used the very graphic language, describing the graying, flaking flesh of those on fire. It contrasted with the very ordinary situation of going through airport security he described in the second excerpt from that poem. Ordering the excerpts like that was very effective because it contrasted what we fear, a terrible attack involving airplanes, with what we see as a useless security precaution.

I thought that the poems were interesting, and I was glad to be introduced to Lula’s Café, which had an excellent toasted brie sandwich.

Maurice Kilwein Guevara

I went to a Hammes Notre Dame Bookstore reading on 19APR2010. It was a poetry reading. I wasn’t thrilled about this fact. There were many undergraduate students, there to fulfill a requirement for a class, and there were several colleagues of his also in attendance. The general conversation was that of complaining about being there. The poet was introduced to us in the crowded back café of the bookstore. His name was Maurice Kilwein Guevara, a poet from Colombia who teaches University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. I did my freshman year of college at UW-Madison, so I immediately perked up. I was like, okay, this guy’s legit, he’s from Wisconsin. But then he walked up to the podium where he would read from, and he was wearing jeans, tennis shoes, a big black and orange Harley Davidson t-shirt, and was kind of scraggly in appearance. He looked exactly like my elementary school principal, but under-dressed. I was surprised by his appearance. When I knew I was going to a poetry reading, I expected some prissy guy in a suit and a light blue button-down shirt. This wasn’t that.

I’ll take you in chronological order of what I was thinking during this reading. First, he started by saying that he knew we were here because we had to be, but that his goal was for us to have fun by the end of his time at the podium. Kind of a good icebreaker, but right off the bat, I felt like he was trying too hard. Anyway…on to his poems. He read from his post-mortem collection a poem from the point-of-view of a pathologist. It was morbid and gross, and the description was phenomenal. I knew exactly what he was describing, and the overall quality of the poem was very smooth and lyrical, as a poem should be. When he was done reading this gruesome poem, and everyone around me had disgusted looks on their faces, Maurice Guevara said playfully, “Yay!” It was kind of awkward, and kind of funny.

He read a poem called “Dorothy Dear,” which was the Wizard of Oz, but set in New York. He read “When the Light Turns Red.” This poem had a lot of description, and this description focused highly on the senses. Maurice told the audience after this poem that “the poet is the professor of the five senses.” His poetry, especially this one, had a lot of Spanish influence. Some lines or phrases would be entirely in Spanish. A student asked him afterward how he decides what will be in Spanish, he just said it depends, and sometimes the Spanish just fits lyrically better out loud.

Then he chewed us out for not clapping. [He explained that at most poetry readings, it’s considered distasteful to applaud between poems, but his philosophy was that if you liked it, you should clap. So then we clapped awkwardly after each poem.]

Then he kind of switched genres into prose poems. He described these as being more lyrical than flash fiction, but longer and more story-like than some other poetry. He read “Augury of my Death,” then a poem a about ants, then “Sometimes I Listen to a Song 6 Times,” and ended with a funny poem about Hector the Colombian.

His advice and insights about poetry included Live the poem. He thought we should really feel the poem and integrate it into our being. He also said, Rhyme if you wanna rhyme. He basically said that any poetry teachers who think rhyming is corny or elementary are wrong, and that rhyming definitely has its place in good poetry. And finally, fittingly with his somewhat off-the-wall character, his message to us was that our responsibility as human beings is to resist the school system whacking out our imaginations. He figures that our American school system ruins the creative minds of a lot of young people by molding it into certain of way of thinking, and following a certain routine all the time. And we should resist this, and write poetry, and be happier people. Interesting—that has some merit, but overall, I don’t really buy it. We can be routine-loving Americans with not a ton of creativity, and still be happy people.