Etiquette for Soliciting Poetry Readings by Guest Blogger Joe Weil

 

This week, I’m happy to introduce (or re-introduce) you to poet Joe Weil.  If you're a long-time blog follower, you may recall Joe's previous blog contributions (click on the titles below to read):

Advent Reflection by Joe Weil

Spiritual Poetry

I’ve known Joe since 1981 and have long admired his amazing poetry, his quick wit, and his uncommon intelligence.

Joe was born and raised in Elizabeth, New Jersey and has been described by The New York Times as personifying that town: "working-class, irreverent, modest, but open to the world and filled with a wealth of possibilities." After atttending St. Mary of The Assumption grade school and high school, he worked the graveyard shift at various factories for more than 20 years, mainly at National Tool and Manufacturing in Kenilworth, New Jersey. During this time, he became involved in hosting poetry readings in both New Jersey and New York, and founded the literary magazine Black Swan Review. He is currently a lecturer in the creative writing department at Binghamton University. He and his wife, the poet Emily Vogel, have two children—Clare and Gabriel (Gabriel is my godson).

Often, when I conduct workshops, I’m asked how poets go about getting readings. Readings are important to those of us who write. They offer opportunities to share our work "up close and personal" and to connect in real "poetry time" with our audiences. As a reading series director since 1998, I think I've probably "seen it all" when it comes to poets looking for reading venues. There are definitely "dos" and "don'ts."

When I saw that Joe had written something about exactly that, I knew I wanted to share it on this blog. So … here it is, with my thanks to Joe for his permission to post it. 

Enjoy, learn and, hopefully, get some readings going.

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Etiquette for Soliciting Readings by Joe Weil

1. Before sending a brochure online or hard copy of what you have to offer as a featured reader, it's always good to get an email address and send a query letter to the host asking if he or she or they wouldn't mind getting a brochure or packet via online or hard copy. These are materials. A simple packet may include:

a web site address where they can behold your glory, or, if sans web, a packet of sample poems, brief bio, a nice JPEG, list of previous readings and name of the book you may be trying to sell. You can also include press clippings, an actual video of you reading, anything you think will impress the host. But first inquire. Don't bombard anyone. As a host of readings for over 20 years I hated the hard sell. The poets who were good never pressured me. Remember some series are booked a year in advance (this seems to be the fact of funding and organization), so, if the host does not book you right away, be patient, and, if the reading is near you, why not go and support it? Do the legwork. If there's an open, read a poem in it—one really good one. Half my readings came from initially reading in the opens.

2. Make sure, if you're doing several readings in an area that, you don't book in such a way that you diminish one series for another—in short, try not to read within 20 miles of the same series at least three weeks before the gig. If you're reading in Philly and New York City, or some other place crowded with readings, then that's a different ball game. Show up early. Don’t pull the “show up late and therefore be the headline feature.” I hate when poets show up late for their own gigs. It's all too often a power game. They want to control the event. If you are late, call and let the host know you're lost or brain dead or whatever. Don't just flutter in with your three names and your Ezra Pound cape.

3. If possible stay for the whole event. Be gracious if there's an open, stay and listen. What you receive for your graciousness and presence exceeds any snobbishness or loathing you might experience. I HATE snobs whose elitism exceeds their talent. If you're truly a genius, I might tolerate it. Otherwise, I'll never have you feature for me again because you took off and left the people who came to see you high and dry. If you have to leave early, please be slavishly apologetic about it. I love slavishly apologetic. Even when it’s insincere, I prefer it to "Sorry. Have to go! See you later!"

4. Never, ever, over-read! Under-read by about a minute. If someone gives you an hour, they've made a pact with boring. Can you honestly hold a crowd for an hour without the little coughs and groans mounting? Never, never, say: “Four more poems!” or “Two more poems!” or anything other than "This is my last poem." I hate when I'm sitting there and my attention span is already stretched into transparency and I hear: “four more poems.” NOOOOOO! Don't do that to me (or to any other sentient creature).

5. Practice your readings, get an idea of how much time each of your poems takes, including intro, chit chat, etc. Good chitchat is part of the performance. Bad chitchat (such as a five minute speech before a haiku) is awful. If you're going to riffle through pages looking for a poem (and we all do that sometimes) be coy and flirtatious and as attractive as possible while doing so. Adjust your glasses, take a sip of water. Use that space to center the audience. Don't just fumble.

6. If possible, include one poem by another poet—a favorite, preferably one you know by heart. Dylan Thomas filled half his famous readings with the works of other poets.

7. Keep a log of how your set went. Keep track of how many books you sold. Observe the crowd. Old, young, academic, townspeople?

8. Right now, people underplay reading, but it’s the best way to reward your publisher for putting out a book—get out there and sell it.

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Joe's books are available via Amazon.com—
no poet's library should be without at least one! 

 Click on the titles to order.

The Great Grandmother Light

Painting the Christmas Trees

The Plumber's Apprentice

West of Home (with Emily Vogel)

Gabriel, Emily, Clare, and Joe

MORNING AT THE ELIZABETH ARCH 

By Joe Weil

The winos rise as beautiful as deer.

Look how they stagger from their sleep
as if the morning were a river
against which they contend.

This is not a sentiment
filled with the disdain
of human pity.
They turn in the mind,
they turn
beyond the human order.

One scratches his head and yawns.
Another rakes a hand
through slick mats of thinning hair.
They blink and the street litter moves
its slow, liturgical way.
A third falls back
bracing himself on an arm.

At river’s edge, the deer stand poised.
One breaks the spell of his reflection with a hoof
and, struggling, begins to cross.

(Reprinted by permission of the author.)