mmdccclxxxix

“Performing” One’s Own Work

Haven’t we all felt the disappointment
of watching the movie version of a novel we
absolutely adored? Perhaps only until you see 

the film? Or maybe you adored the novel even
more afterward? I can tell you that the anti-
dote—or perhaps the reverse effect—is read-
ing a written adaptation of a movie that
was never anything written in the first
place (besides a screenplay, I assume).
Let’s take Tron, for example. Or, better
yet, let’s actually forget I mentioned that.

Is this why I dislike poetry readings so
often? Granted, they are mostly just,
at least the rare events I actually at-
tend these days, social events. And,
let’s just face it, poets make the
most socially awkward groups that I
have encountered in any setting. Math
squadrons, perhaps? Chemistry nerds?
I suppose there are a lot of anti-social
folks out there trying their best, I should
not let myself get too carried away here.

But let’s just say that you happen to be one
of us: i.e., a member of the poetry team. Or that
extra-rare admirer from a non-poet who neverthe-

less chooses to hang with our team. And, let’s say 

you have a favorite poem by—let’s make this perfectly
easy to grasp—a personal favorite living poet. And
you get all ready one evening or weekend after-
noon to attend the reading of this hero of yours,
and right off the bat the hero poet begins to read
your absolute favorite piece of theirs in the
most ho-hum, hum-drum manner. Or perhaps 

even worse, reads it in that trite way many
poets read their own poems when standing in
front of the few of us who get ourselves togeth-
er just to attend such things. It might be a game-

changer, am I right? My most...modern... example,
or at least one that I am comfortable enough to re-
lay, is contrasting a performance or a studio re-
lease by Kanye West to the daily ding-bat non-
sense that erupts from the same mouth from
which that musical/rap sublimity apparently
emits. It leaves me confounded; dumbfounded;
worrying about his sanity and if whoever raised
him is actually bearing witness to this (if so, the
poor dear(s)!). With him, I can usually ignore the non-
stop barrage of crap given the fact that I can listen
to the albums in my own home. But this is a con-
undrum I ponder quite often (too often, I am
sure most would say). Or, sometimes—and
this too, I know, seems quite debatable—but
what about the similar phenomenon that can
occur in the same general neighborhood as
heroes who have penned some of the greatest
novels or poetry or emitted some of the best
rap or vocal bravura or performed some of
the greatest on-screen or off-screen perfor-
mances to date. Be it my opinion or yours
in such cases, surely it gives one pause.

But mostly it makes me want to jump out
of my seat and drag the reader off the stage
(or at least away from any podium or micro-
phone), pick up that which, now in mass-
produced print, was once penned by this
dodo, and read the damned thing myself.
The way it was actually meant to be read,
of course.