Reading "horror poetry" in the proximity of actual horror
So ... you probably know that this really terrifying thing had been happening all day today in the Boston area -- armed terrorist on the loose, the city under lockdown, the whole shebang. Now, out here in Worcester, we're a little removed from the happenings -- about 45 minutes down the Pike -- but still ... I've got friends all over that area. Friends who heard the gunshots in Watertown last night, who were trapped in their homes or places of employment all day. There's no need for me to tell those stories here -- other people will do that better, elsewhere.
No, I was in Worcester, where I was scheduled to read at a night of "horror poetry" at Annie's Book Stop. I wasn't expecting it to be a big reading, but it was one I was looking forward to. Until, suddenly, I wasn't. Because throughout the day, as the drama in Boston escalated, I found myself realizing that the last thing I wanted was to spend an evening reveling in horror. Part of it was simple empathy, part of it was my own history with violence.
Truth is, I've found the news a little triggery, lately ... which is doubly difficult to deal with when you work at a newspaper. Since Sandy Hook, I've found myself surrounded by abstract chatter about gun violence from people who know little about guns, and nothing about violence. Inevitably, in the face of violence on this scale, someone will make the mistake of saying something in my vicinity along the lines of, "can you imagine how the families of the victims must feel?" It's every inch of my willpower to not inform them that, "yes, I know exactly what that feels like, and no, I hope you never do." Because I've lived with that feeling since I was a small child, when my father died, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy in the world. It's a horrid sickness in your heart, one that never actually goes away. You can learn to deal with it, learn to live with it. You can find ways to be actually happy, but you never forget. One way or the other, it touches every aspect of your life. It's always the ghost in the corner of the mirror.
And sometimes, you have a week like this one, and what on the best of days is a program running in the background of your mind is blaring full-throttle at the center of your attention. The people yammering in media-provided talking points chatter on around you, and you try to tune it out, because the alternative is telling people what you really think, and you just don't have the strength. They won't understand, anyway. They never do.
There's nothing abstract about this sort of violence to me. There never will be. And still, life goes on. You get up, kiss your wife, go to work. If you're me, that includes showing up at the poetry reading you've agreed to do, even though, in all honesty, you'd rather gnaw off your arm than be there right at that moment. A show, after all, is a show, and I'm not in the habit of bailing on gigs.
The reading itself was fine. Small crowd in an intimate space. Mostly some light Gothic stuff and some humorous verse. All perfectly fine. And Dave Macpherson was on the bill, which is always fun. Me? I was a little edgy. Kind of felt like I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. Again, this is my issue, and no reflection on anyone else.
Set list :
"After the End of the World"
"Two Ways of Looking At the Zombie Apocalypse"
"Mina in Repose"
"Atomosophobia"
"Fashion" (my poem for Trayvon Martin)
Not an entirely dark set, but pretty close. I felt it was important to start with the fantastical elements -- the superheroes, zombies and vampires -- and then abandon them for the things that really terrify me. The creeping specter of annihilation. The mundanity of evil. How living in constant fear can corrupt you, turn you into a monster.
I can't remember the last time I felt that intense while I read. It's been a while. Thank God that Macpherson followed me in the rotation, because I think I was making a few people uncomfortable. Which I suppose may well have been my intent, although I didn't think of it that way at the time. At one point, early in the evening, I explained my feelings on the juxtaposition -- reveling in "horror poetry" in the proximity of actual horror -- and explained that, while a reader or listener can find solace in poetry, it's not actually my job as a poet to offer it. Solace is a thing one needs to seize for one's self. My job, in that instance, is tap into whatever truth I'm seeing at the moment, to trace the outline of emotion and hold it up to the light. I think I accomplished that much. I hope I accomplished that much. It's really impossible to say from where I'm standing.
And oddly enough, while I feel a tad guilty for being the buzzkill in the room, I have to admit it was kind of cathartic. Sometimes you give the audience the poems they want, and sometimes you give the audience the poems they need.
And once in a while, when it's really necessary, you give the audience the poems you need. I wouldn't want to make a habit of it, but tonight was evidently my night for that.
No, I was in Worcester, where I was scheduled to read at a night of "horror poetry" at Annie's Book Stop. I wasn't expecting it to be a big reading, but it was one I was looking forward to. Until, suddenly, I wasn't. Because throughout the day, as the drama in Boston escalated, I found myself realizing that the last thing I wanted was to spend an evening reveling in horror. Part of it was simple empathy, part of it was my own history with violence.
Truth is, I've found the news a little triggery, lately ... which is doubly difficult to deal with when you work at a newspaper. Since Sandy Hook, I've found myself surrounded by abstract chatter about gun violence from people who know little about guns, and nothing about violence. Inevitably, in the face of violence on this scale, someone will make the mistake of saying something in my vicinity along the lines of, "can you imagine how the families of the victims must feel?" It's every inch of my willpower to not inform them that, "yes, I know exactly what that feels like, and no, I hope you never do." Because I've lived with that feeling since I was a small child, when my father died, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy in the world. It's a horrid sickness in your heart, one that never actually goes away. You can learn to deal with it, learn to live with it. You can find ways to be actually happy, but you never forget. One way or the other, it touches every aspect of your life. It's always the ghost in the corner of the mirror.
And sometimes, you have a week like this one, and what on the best of days is a program running in the background of your mind is blaring full-throttle at the center of your attention. The people yammering in media-provided talking points chatter on around you, and you try to tune it out, because the alternative is telling people what you really think, and you just don't have the strength. They won't understand, anyway. They never do.
There's nothing abstract about this sort of violence to me. There never will be. And still, life goes on. You get up, kiss your wife, go to work. If you're me, that includes showing up at the poetry reading you've agreed to do, even though, in all honesty, you'd rather gnaw off your arm than be there right at that moment. A show, after all, is a show, and I'm not in the habit of bailing on gigs.
The reading itself was fine. Small crowd in an intimate space. Mostly some light Gothic stuff and some humorous verse. All perfectly fine. And Dave Macpherson was on the bill, which is always fun. Me? I was a little edgy. Kind of felt like I wanted to crawl out of my own skin. Again, this is my issue, and no reflection on anyone else.
Set list :
"After the End of the World"
"Two Ways of Looking At the Zombie Apocalypse"
"Mina in Repose"
"Atomosophobia"
"Fashion" (my poem for Trayvon Martin)
Not an entirely dark set, but pretty close. I felt it was important to start with the fantastical elements -- the superheroes, zombies and vampires -- and then abandon them for the things that really terrify me. The creeping specter of annihilation. The mundanity of evil. How living in constant fear can corrupt you, turn you into a monster.
I can't remember the last time I felt that intense while I read. It's been a while. Thank God that Macpherson followed me in the rotation, because I think I was making a few people uncomfortable. Which I suppose may well have been my intent, although I didn't think of it that way at the time. At one point, early in the evening, I explained my feelings on the juxtaposition -- reveling in "horror poetry" in the proximity of actual horror -- and explained that, while a reader or listener can find solace in poetry, it's not actually my job as a poet to offer it. Solace is a thing one needs to seize for one's self. My job, in that instance, is tap into whatever truth I'm seeing at the moment, to trace the outline of emotion and hold it up to the light. I think I accomplished that much. I hope I accomplished that much. It's really impossible to say from where I'm standing.
And oddly enough, while I feel a tad guilty for being the buzzkill in the room, I have to admit it was kind of cathartic. Sometimes you give the audience the poems they want, and sometimes you give the audience the poems they need.
And once in a while, when it's really necessary, you give the audience the poems you need. I wouldn't want to make a habit of it, but tonight was evidently my night for that.
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