Advice for Poets Reading Their Work in Public for the First Time

(If you rush through the piece too quickly or quietly, no one will be able to truly hear and experience all the time and effort you took to create your poem.)

• First, take a breath.
• Center yourself in the moment -- this moment.
• Remember that this is your poem.  You created it out of thin air and brought it into the world.  That.  Is.  Powerful.  Remember, you did that! 
• If there's a microphone, put your mouth very close to it before you speak and stay there.
• Speak slowly -- slower than what feels natural. 
• Feel the words in your mouth as you say them.  Accentuate words for emphasis, ride the rhythm, and carry the cadence of this particular piece.
• Feel the words in your body as they leave your mouth and recognize their strength.
• Feel the words through your hands as you speak them.  Let your hands narrate in tandem with your words -- the words that you have lovingly, painstakingly crafted and drafted with intention and precision.
• Take.  Your. Time.  Savor the syllables and sentences and stanzas that you carefully curated.
• Hold the moments in your mouth and in your hands.
• Make eye contact with the listeners in order to increase your connection with them and their connection with you.
• Before you finish, give yourself permission to pause, resonate and ruminate in the wonderment that you created out of nothing for this moment -- this moment that you cultivated and carved out of time for this very purpose and this particular poem.

Magic in the Making

The first time

I remember hearing live jazz

was in college at the

visiting writers series events.

A trio opened each evening

with a set on the theatre stage

to warm up the audience

for the featured

poets and authors

reading that night.

Sure, I had

heard of jazz

and marveled at the

magical moments

when a jazz club

was included

in episodes of

The Cosby Show

when I was a kid.

But when I first

experienced it live,

there was an

internal stirring

and connection

to the combo's

collaboration and camaraderie.

I was glad to be

in the same room

with the magic making

and the makers of the magic.

Connection

My poetry blog

is the vehicle by which

you first felt connected to me.

Now it is the vehicle through which

I must disconnect from you.

One Fine Day

Note: I wrote this on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day last year -- a triply historic holiday.

On MLK Day,
inauguration day,
on the day
that a gay
Cuban-American poet
read a poem
to America,
I am moved
to tears
in the sunlight
of my study,
thankful
for the sunshine,
my books, and
the partner
our dog, cat and I
await, who will
join us after work
on this fine day.

(Why poetry?)

Why poetry?
Because
moments matter.

Why Bother With Poetry

Why bother
with poetry?
Because you're
human.  And,
from time to time,
we humans need
to be reminded of
what's important
in life,
an invitation
to laugh at ourselves,
a spotlight on
injustice in the world,
and permission
to pause, reflect and wonder.

Universe or Bust

I feel like
there are a million
helium balloons
inside of me
waiting to be released
into the world --
stories and statements,
ideas and innovations,
poems and proclamations.
They bounce against
the ceiling of my
heart and mind,
each bulging, beckoning and begging
to be next in line
to launch into legacy;
my life's legendry.

Fresh and in the Can

Sometimes I just know
a poem's about to drop.
It's a feeling not unlike
the feeling I get
when my bowels are about
to move -- a bottoming out
type of sensation
that tells me
I better find
a piece of paper
(or a toilet) fast
because something's
about to plop out.
Sometimes I get that
nervous panicky feeling
when it's "time"
and I can't seem
to find any paper
(or a toilet).
My breathing gets shallow,
my armpits begin to sweat
and my mouth gets dry.

Ever notice that a
delayed delivery
results in nothing but
a constipated effort later?
The more it's postponed,
the more plugged up it gets.
It's better to let nature
take its course
while the urge is fresh.
Things move a lot

more freely that way.

Fortunately, more
times than not,
I find what I need
just in time
to avoid a blockage.

The Reason I Write Poetry

I notice things --
everything.

Then I get

lost in thought

about them --

why they're done,

how often

and by whom --

sometimes

at the most

inopportune times --

during a meeting

with a co-worker,

my tax advisor

or the dentist.

And then I feel

the need to

capture my thoughts

on paper --

so I won't forget them.

And, on most days,

I have just enough

arrogance

to share what I've

put into writing

with someone else,

perhaps to validate

that I'm, in fact, alive.

Ink on Ink

I have a problem
marking in a poetry book.
I can use a pencil, mind you,
to underline, applaud or question
a passage, line or word in a book
of poetry all day long. But I have
some kind of curious aversion
to doing so in ink – as if adding
my ink on the page would
somehow dishonor the existing
print on the page.
Stranger still, I have no problem
using a pen in a work of fiction
or nonfiction. But
a collection of poems
somehow commands a sort of
respect, a sacred care,
a reverent response – like
a sunset or the miracle of birth.

Matters of Intake

I have a friend who devours
poems like she devours
sumptuous chocolate cake --
with a feminine fortissimo,
speedily savoring each serving.

I, on the other hand,
experience poems like I
experience creme brulee or flan --
slowly, deliberately,
careful not to overdue it,
knowing that too much
of a good thing will ruin
the power of the moment.

I do not think either way
is superior -- only that one
approach is better for
that particular partaker.

Even now I am closing
a book of poetry,
instinctively knowing
when to say "when."

(enjoying chips and)

enjoying chips and
salsa, and a new CD,
waiting on a poem

© Amy E. Hall 2007

(running to the computer)

running to the computer
with cereal bowl in hand
to capture this moment

© Amy E. Hall 2007

(I wrote this haiku)

I wrote this haiku
because I didn't have a
new one to send you.

© 2007 Amy E. Hall

(I love this morning)

I love this morning --
tea, toast, cheese, apple
and poetry to start the day.

© 2007 Amy E. Hall

(I am writing poems and crying)

I am writing poems and crying --
so thankful for words and for
love and for loving words.

© 2007 Amy E. Hall

Poet for a Day

I traded my corporate
cubicle for a sophomore
literature class for the day,
reading selections for the
high school students in
my teacher friend's first,
second and fourth
periods, as a guest poet.
Afterward, I spent the
afternoon at a bookstore,
reading the work of
professional poets and
dreaming of the day
that it will be my turn.

© 2007 Amy E. Hall

Bedtime Ritual

When I'm ready for bed, I
turn off all the lights in the
bedroom and retreat to the
bathroom to read poetry.
I sit on the lid of the
commode and read aloud
as my cat stretches out
on the bedroom couch.
She has already called
it a night. Line by line,
I quiet my heart and
refresh my mind,
purging my brain of
the toxins of the day.
Page by page, I am
reminded that there
is more to life than
industry, rehearsals
and housework. I
shed the obligations
of today and, word
by word, feel sleep's
gentle smile return.

© 2006 Amy E. Hall

When I Read a Good Poem

I hold
each
word
for a
moment
in my mouth
before
---- moving
on to the next one, like
one
bite
of creme brulee
after
another.

© 2006 Amy E. Hall