I first heard (and panicked) about “Poetry Night” from Superstition Review’s student editor-in-chief, Erin. She sent me an email some random day in late-February explaining our collaboration with Combs High School and how they were going to be having a nighttime reading dedicated to poetry.
Awesome! I can’t wait to cheer on the students and featured poets!
As I continued to skim her email, my eyes honed in on some bit about the featured readers--poetry editors?
She wanted the poetry editors from S[r] to be the featured readers—and guess which role I had filled this semester!
My fingers twitched as I rushed to send her an email--Do we have to read our own poetry? Because I could totally read something from like Percy Shelley, or maybe someone contemporary: Lucia Perillo, Mark Bibbins--I recently read their poetry collections for my honors thesis.
Or maybe my mother’s poetry…
I waited for a response, my grin cracking, eye (sometimes left, sometimes right) twitching—only when I thought about what I had already agreed to. I was above the earth about to sky dive from the plane, and my body had already leaped from metallic safety while my brain was still debating on what to do.
Erin’s email a week later--original poetry.
Sharp breath. Send—my official bio and headshot and the two poems I was bravest to read: 1) the “strongest” (according to my professor/mentor) I had written thus far and 2) the one poem to be published by, well, anyone.
Within two weeks, Combs had already created and distributed a flyer with the three featured readers—and my face was shined brightly in the spotlight-center.
Several weeks later and it was almost poetry night. I had been planning to distract myself up until the day of. However, Erin had decided to send another email, this time confirming that I was, indeed, still going, but that she totally understood if I was too uncomfortable and wanted to cancel.
I bit my lip, a dozen excuses running through my thoughts—I have a test to study for, a paper due, a book to write, the world to save! All of these ran right into a brick wall: the flyer announcing me as a featured reader. My headshot smiled at me—a mug shot for the event I had ditched, its eyes pointing, accusing, pitying.
How could I give-in to such a selfish desire? Besides, when would I ever again have this opportunity to read my poetry to a willing audience (I certainly wasn’t going to seek it out)?
I told Erin that I am still going—present tense to steel my resolve—that I am excited (but nervous!).
I didn’t think about it after that—not when I edited the poems I had chosen, not when I stayed up too late the night before, and not as I showered and left to go to that “miscellaneous event.” Poetry Night implied “poetry” and “reading”--miscellaneous meant “no big deal” and “You can do it!”
A forty-five minute drive and five minute walk later and doors opened into a cafeteria lit by Christmas lights and fake candles. There was a cloth tent on the other side of the room and literary (paper) flowers adorning the tables. As Erin, Skyler, and I entered the room, we were approached by some of the students helping with the miscellaneous event.
“We’re so glad you made it.”
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
In a dream, they would have been adoring fans after my autograph, or in a nightmare, creepy alien-possessed gatherers. But the sun was still up, and the cafeteria was decorated as a daydream. The student hosts showed us around to food, $10 event shirts, tarot reading, and the stage, in front of which we got first row seats.
Erin, Skyler, and I sat in nervousness and awe for a couple moments before unanimously deciding to distract ourselves with food. We charged at the cheese, toasties, and sweets. Working at the cheese balls crusted with almonds, Skyler and I glanced up into our own faces. Individual flyers of us glanced back down at us—my head shot (not mug shot) beamed at me. The three of us sat at a booth and scarfed down our food, waiting for the Poetry Night readings to start.
After an hour, student hosts announced the first, second, third, and so on, readers and performers for open mic. They sang or read about love, sadness, nature, and magic. I focused on their words rather than on my own thoughts. When it came for the student hosts to read their poetry, my brain introduced each person with Hey, they can do it—they’re more nervous than you and they’re doing it.
Eleven student readers counted down the thirty minutes until my and the other featured readers’ debut. The first reader read a beautiful five part poem (though I remember my nervousness more than his poem). He giggled as he finished and walked quickly off the stage. The Poetry Night host, Jess, mentioned how much she enjoyed his poem, and then, “Elizabeth Hansen is our next reader.”
No thirty-second pause or tangent—just a nod to come to the stage.
The little bit of calm I had built up before now crashed down under a new wave of anxiety. My feet were oddly solid as I climbed the stairs (no chance of tripping), but my upper body fluttered, my head bobbing above it all. I silently unfolded my two poems, gripping the podium beneath the paper—I couldn’t read it when it shivered.
After a brief intro, I began, my voice smooth despite the flexing of my throat. As I read word-by-word, line-by-line, and finally poem-by-poem, I finished.
Now what?
I was sure if I were in a movie I would’ve heard crickets.
The audience applauded, and I clunked down the stairs back to my seat, the performance now a fog of nerves and words jumbled in memory. It was my first reading as a poet—and I was too nervous to remember how I did.
Hmm, something to remember for next time.
I am glad I had taken advantage of the opportunity to read to a live audience—one that varied in age and exposure to poetry.
Now if I could just get a handle on that anxiety…
Awesome! I can’t wait to cheer on the students and featured poets!
As I continued to skim her email, my eyes honed in on some bit about the featured readers--poetry editors?
She wanted the poetry editors from S[r] to be the featured readers—and guess which role I had filled this semester!
My fingers twitched as I rushed to send her an email--Do we have to read our own poetry? Because I could totally read something from like Percy Shelley, or maybe someone contemporary: Lucia Perillo, Mark Bibbins--I recently read their poetry collections for my honors thesis.
Or maybe my mother’s poetry…
I waited for a response, my grin cracking, eye (sometimes left, sometimes right) twitching—only when I thought about what I had already agreed to. I was above the earth about to sky dive from the plane, and my body had already leaped from metallic safety while my brain was still debating on what to do.
Erin’s email a week later--original poetry.
Sharp breath. Send—my official bio and headshot and the two poems I was bravest to read: 1) the “strongest” (according to my professor/mentor) I had written thus far and 2) the one poem to be published by, well, anyone.
Within two weeks, Combs had already created and distributed a flyer with the three featured readers—and my face was shined brightly in the spotlight-center.
Several weeks later and it was almost poetry night. I had been planning to distract myself up until the day of. However, Erin had decided to send another email, this time confirming that I was, indeed, still going, but that she totally understood if I was too uncomfortable and wanted to cancel.
I bit my lip, a dozen excuses running through my thoughts—I have a test to study for, a paper due, a book to write, the world to save! All of these ran right into a brick wall: the flyer announcing me as a featured reader. My headshot smiled at me—a mug shot for the event I had ditched, its eyes pointing, accusing, pitying.
How could I give-in to such a selfish desire? Besides, when would I ever again have this opportunity to read my poetry to a willing audience (I certainly wasn’t going to seek it out)?
I told Erin that I am still going—present tense to steel my resolve—that I am excited (but nervous!).
I didn’t think about it after that—not when I edited the poems I had chosen, not when I stayed up too late the night before, and not as I showered and left to go to that “miscellaneous event.” Poetry Night implied “poetry” and “reading”--miscellaneous meant “no big deal” and “You can do it!”
A forty-five minute drive and five minute walk later and doors opened into a cafeteria lit by Christmas lights and fake candles. There was a cloth tent on the other side of the room and literary (paper) flowers adorning the tables. As Erin, Skyler, and I entered the room, we were approached by some of the students helping with the miscellaneous event.
“We’re so glad you made it.”
“We’ve been waiting for you.”
In a dream, they would have been adoring fans after my autograph, or in a nightmare, creepy alien-possessed gatherers. But the sun was still up, and the cafeteria was decorated as a daydream. The student hosts showed us around to food, $10 event shirts, tarot reading, and the stage, in front of which we got first row seats.
Erin, Skyler, and I sat in nervousness and awe for a couple moments before unanimously deciding to distract ourselves with food. We charged at the cheese, toasties, and sweets. Working at the cheese balls crusted with almonds, Skyler and I glanced up into our own faces. Individual flyers of us glanced back down at us—my head shot (not mug shot) beamed at me. The three of us sat at a booth and scarfed down our food, waiting for the Poetry Night readings to start.
After an hour, student hosts announced the first, second, third, and so on, readers and performers for open mic. They sang or read about love, sadness, nature, and magic. I focused on their words rather than on my own thoughts. When it came for the student hosts to read their poetry, my brain introduced each person with Hey, they can do it—they’re more nervous than you and they’re doing it.
Eleven student readers counted down the thirty minutes until my and the other featured readers’ debut. The first reader read a beautiful five part poem (though I remember my nervousness more than his poem). He giggled as he finished and walked quickly off the stage. The Poetry Night host, Jess, mentioned how much she enjoyed his poem, and then, “Elizabeth Hansen is our next reader.”
No thirty-second pause or tangent—just a nod to come to the stage.
The little bit of calm I had built up before now crashed down under a new wave of anxiety. My feet were oddly solid as I climbed the stairs (no chance of tripping), but my upper body fluttered, my head bobbing above it all. I silently unfolded my two poems, gripping the podium beneath the paper—I couldn’t read it when it shivered.
After a brief intro, I began, my voice smooth despite the flexing of my throat. As I read word-by-word, line-by-line, and finally poem-by-poem, I finished.
Now what?
I was sure if I were in a movie I would’ve heard crickets.
The audience applauded, and I clunked down the stairs back to my seat, the performance now a fog of nerves and words jumbled in memory. It was my first reading as a poet—and I was too nervous to remember how I did.
Hmm, something to remember for next time.
I am glad I had taken advantage of the opportunity to read to a live audience—one that varied in age and exposure to poetry.
Now if I could just get a handle on that anxiety…
“Every tomorrow has two handles. We can take hold of it with the handle of anxiety or the handle of faith.”
–Henry Ward Beecher