The first time I went to Geno’s–the basement bar next to Margarita’s, on Brown Street in Portland–it was about a year ago and the place was packed. I’d been around poets before, of course, but I’d never been around this breed of poets. Mad poets. Poets with wild hair and wilder eyes, poets with rhythm, poets with wit, poets with questionable hygiene, poets whose words were inspired by voices the rest of us didn’t hear. Mad poets and Geno’s go hand-in-hand.
This week, the crowd at Geno’s was a little tamer, but no less charged. Organizer Peter Manuel, who recently earned his MFA in poetry from USM, started the night off with a reading entitled “The Oversized Ambition of a Wannabe Singer.” Manuel’s approach to poetry is from the stance of a rock star; the words are rhythmic, provocative, rich with musical references ranging from Brittany Spears to Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Once Manuel resigned from the stage, several locals followed. The nice thing about?open-mic at a place like Geno’s is that?there’s a chance to listen to a good range of?writers, from those who’ve been doing the poetry thing for years, whose experience and passion for the craft are readily apparent, to those who are just starting out. One of those more experienced poets is Jay Davis, whose book of poetry, entitled “Whispers, Cries and Tantrums” was recently published by MoonPie Press.? Davis read three pieces, including a?work rich with black humor?entitled “Snow Angels” and a political rant about the nature of business and bullshit in modern America. Davis joked that his new book was available for $8, but he would “consider trading for meaningless sex.” Since I’m trying this whole new writing-for-a-living thing, I’m pretty low on cash; by the time he’d finished reading, I was giving the trade option serious consideration.
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USM graduate student Sara Treible also read three pieces. A cup of coffee becomes an erotic adventure in “Being Served Coffee While It Rains Outside,” while “The Crossroads of Western New York,” captures the melancholic search for self in the anonymity of middle America. The beauty of Treible’s work lies in her ability to transform the mundane to the magical. A typically uninspired scene we’ve all been part of at the local fair becomes a feast for the senses:
“…the Americana/sideshows went on into the night smelling of grilled meat,/spun sugar, beer and cigarettes put to rest in trampled dry grass.”
Following Treible was headlining poet Robin Merrill, also a USM grad student in poetry. Taking the stage in swanky rhinestone-studded pants, Merrill has a presence that invariably stops all chatter in the bar. Opening by reading a selection by Tess Gallagher, the poet then transitioned to her own work. I’ve been sitting here trying to put into words exactly what it is about Merrill’s work that consistently makes me want to go back and hear her read again. I think it’s this: She writes things that we’ve all felt, or thought about, but would never have been able to convey with such humor, eloquence, or depth. In her poem “Johnny Cash Died Today,” Merrill writes with an honesty that is arresting for its courage, its willingness to be sentimental in a world where sentimentality is typically shunned. That courage is consistent throughout Merrill’s work, and is precisely what keeps her poetry from ever becoming schmaltzy or melodramatic. It doesn’t hurt that Merrill is funnier than hell. Following a series of darker pieces chronicling the lives of the at-risk kids with which she works, Merrill lightened the mood with “Cool,” a poem that is essentially about how fuckin’ cool Robin Merrill is. Written and read by someone else, the piece might be mistaken for arrogant; instead, Merrill’s self-deprecating smile and unerring word choice ensure that we the audience are right there with her: She is really fucking cool.
Merrill finished off her reading with a tribute to Geno’s, which will be moving to an as-yet-undetermined location before winter is out. The poem, entitled “Geno’s Pants,” explains Merrill’s swanky, rhinestone-studded pants, while simultaneously celebrating the spirit that is uniquely Geno’s.
Yep, these pants have hit the road
They’ve given bad readings and good readings.
They’ve read to women who loved me,
to men who hated me and to old ladies
who were afraid of me.
I carry poems in these pants.
These pants give me the guts I need
to get up here and read.
So what would these pants do
if Geno’s moved tomorrow?
Where Geno’s goes, these pants follow.
Geno’s open-mic poetry night happens the last Thursday of every month. Cover is $3; sorry, folks, you gotta be 21 to get in.