“Open Mic Surgery” Successful

When Brian Robinson entered the side room of Never Ending Books, he greeted everyone seated there as if they were old friends, and most of them probably were. Robinson’s weekly Tuesday night Open Mic Surgery event, a poetry open mic, is all about fostering community and poets building each other up, not just as poets, but as friends.

“I think it’s important to have free open mics,” said Robinson. ​“Everyone should have the experience to be creative and test the waters in front of a live audience.”

Robinson has been running Open Mic Surgery for almost two years. It’s a ​“totally free-form, anarchic open mic,” with no sign-up sheet, so anyone can participate whether planned or spontaneous. He sees Never Ending Books as the perfect venue for the endeavor, because of its position as a community space, and a free space: there is no pressure to buy a book when you enter the store.

“I’ve described it as the last remaining space that feels like the 1990s,” Robinson said. ​“It’s art centric, and seems to attract weirdos, which is a good thing.”

In the spirit of all that is creative and a little bit weird, Robinson opened the night by attempting to read a section of the Idiopathic Spinal Surgery Post-Op Instructions, found at the bookstore, in a poetic manner, which went over very well with the crowd.

Next, he read an elision poem written in 1998. An elision poem is one in which the last syllable of the last word in a line becomes the the first syllable of the first word of the next line, i.e. ​“Son of a bitch I cut my finGer- / ‑trude Stein.”

Paula Panzarella read next, from a poem found in an old book on a shelf that she had written in. This prompted the group to discuss different types of notebooks and places to write poetry. Robinson said that he himself favored cheap spiral notebooks, saying, ​“I like turning something mundane into something cool.”

Frank Panzarella went next, with a haiku inspired by springtime. ​“Spring flowers blooming / Nature says to me in spite / Haiku! Gesundheit,” he read, pronouncing ​“haiku” like a sneeze.

The discussion of springtime trees and allergies prompted a larger discussion about Pyrus Calleryana Chanticleer, a tree which infamously smells of semen. ​“We learn so much as a community when we ​‘come’ together,” joked Robinson.

“Really spunk‑y,” added Mathew Stokdyk.

“This is part of the writing process,” said Layla Hansen, as the group laughed and attempted to think up more puns.

Andrew Conroe read next, with a poem about his recent 50th birthday. He expressed his frustration at the mixed messages he received, with some people acting as if a 50th birthday was a big deal, and other people downplaying it. The result was a poem entitled ​“Age is just a number, and the numbers have it in for you,” about the feeling of being attacked by aging.

Then came Amari Rogers, who performed their poem ​“Sunday I’ll Love Amari Rogers.” They expressed how busy their life had become recently, saying, ​“I was wondering what I used to do for fun, and then I remembered, I used to come here.” Rogers’s verse was melodic and flowing, featuring lines like ​“The sun rises the same way we age / Unrusted and unknowing.”

Layla Hansen told Robinson that she owed him ​“a slightly twisted poem,” and what she read ended up being dark in all the right ways, thought-provoking to the extent that Robinson had to pause in his hosting duties to contemplate it. ​“Am I to blame for this emptiness?” she read. ​“For this drained pen?”

Matthew Stokdyk was inspired by Frank Panzarella to read his own Haiku-esque poem: ​“Brash bamboo / Flexing in my grip / Rain shower.” Next, he read ​“Summer Song,” which he described as ​“Prufrock-esque and vaguely doggeril.” The poem was reminiscent of Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited, conjuring up scenes of ancient columns, flowers, wine, and lost loved ones paired with lost youth.

Robinson concluded the night by reading a poem from 1998 that he wrote while working in a computer store. The store sold and also mended various types of technology, although Robinson said ​“we had to stop selling the Apple Newton because the people who bought them were such dicks.” He described long hours waiting for customers and writing poetry, which led to the creation of the one he read, a Dr. Seuss-style romp called ​“Sodom and Gomorrah Go to the Zoo” (Yes, he knew that Sodom and Gomorrah were places, not people). The poem opened with the words ​“It was a happy love goblin time,” and continued in that fashion.

At the end of the night, most of the poets stuck around to catch up and talk about everything from poetry, to their personal lives, to more puns about semen trees. Open Mic Surgery isn’t just about the poetry, it’s about the people. And the people were building a community that transcends both the page and the bookstore, to create lasting friendships that linger as long as a line of poetry, hanging in the air.