Last Friday, thechanelmuse and I went to see the Blues for Smoke exhibition at the Whitney Museum. Before viewing Blues for Smoke, which was largely disappointing, we sat in on a poetry reading at the museum. It was bad. Here are my thoughts. If I’ve reached at least one poet/spoken word artist out there, my work is done…don’t do this to people.
Harryette Mullen speaks, and I think:
- Why do they talk in that up-down way?
- How many times you gon’ say that word though?
- I don’t connect with poetry that isn’t written in the way people speak.
- How is this an award-winning poet?
- She’s a bad performer.
Cornelius Eady speaks, and I think:
- I can understand this. Yassss :)
- I love gardenias. (As he recited, “The Gardenia”)
- Please don’t sing if you can’t. Not cute. Not even close.
- Inconclusiveness is unwelcome.
Patricia Smith speaks, and I think:
- She loud.
- She stutters a lot.
- Yuck! I hate erotic poetry.
- Isn’t she a bit old for this?
- Why are people laughing? Not even funny.
- Last part (of “Fame”) was good.
Fred Moten speaks, and I think:
- Babe, that monotone voice is not a good performance device.
- Some poetry should just be read silently, not aloud. Not by you.
- I want Max Brenner’s milkshake & waffles.
Tracie Morris speaks, and I think:
- Last one, thank you Jesus!
- Don’t talk. Just recite.
- (She says, “This poem doesn’t have words.”) HAVE A SEAT!
- I hate when poets sing. (She began singing in an operatic, high pitched, off-key voice.) It makes me embarrassed. I feel angry for being subjected to her horrific indiscretionary pitch.
- The Lord have mercy, Jesus!
- Be over soon. I don’t want to just walk out.
Afterward, that hussie had the nerve to perform with a band! We promptly excused ourselves.