That One Time I Embarrassed Myself At My Own Poetry Reading

It was the mid-1990s. I had re-joined the Phoenix poetry community a couple of years before, having been away living, working, writing, and reading poetry in L.A. and Houston. I was thrilled to be invited to feature at a poetry reading at the Willow House. I had shared the podium with my poetry group at readings in Houston but had never featured solo before.

I was excited and wanted to share my good fortune with others. So, I exuberantly sent out invitations to people who I thought might be interested, as well as to old friends I hadn’t seen since my rock-n-roll days in the 80s. There was no internet. I had lost touch with just about everyone from those days, so I really had no idea if those invitations would end up in the hands of the people I wanted to invite.

I sent some out to folks who had published my work in their magazines or newsletters. I carefully chose the poems I wanted to read. I put together an outfit that I hoped would look nice. Of course, I invited my two close friends, the other single moms I got together with to celebrate holidays and birthdays with our kids or out on the town. I got a babysitter. I was ready.

Only one of my friends could go that night. I was glad at least she would be there. Even though I usually went alone to open readings, I was nervous to be alone when I was the main attraction. My friend insisted we put a cooler with ice and some beer in the trunk of the car. No alcohol was allowed in the venue, so she thought it would be nice to have some with us to celebrate when my reading was over.

I should have known better

After we parked, we drank a beer, and I thought that would be it until afterward; and it was, for me. She stayed with the car — and the beer — and didn’t sit in the audience during any of the reading. I didn’t know she wasn’t going to follow me in. Once I was up on the stage, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t see the faces of anyone in the crowd. And it was crowded.

I read the poems I had chosen. Of all the works I could have taken, there are only three I remember reading. Two were dark pieces I wrote in high school. I published them here on Medium in October. They were “Mommy” and “Doll of Death.” I had a prop for “Doll of Death” — a small rag doll I made into a voodoo doll.

I dedicated the poem to my first husband. I held the doll in my hand as I read in a vindictive voice, waving it around for effect. At the end of the poem, I slammed the doll to the ground and stomped on it.

The other piece was a longer work called ‘My Daemon Lover,” which is now part of a larger collection of poems I’ve been working on for a while called The Vampyre Cycle. “Daemon Lover,” while not really explicit, is very suggestive and sensual. I was right in the middle of reading it, with feeling, when I happened to look into the audience. Usually, I try to look away from my paper as often as possible and sort of look beyond the people without being obvious that I’m not looking directly at anyone.

Remember how I said I couldn’t see the faces of anyone in the crowd? Well, that was true, until this very moment, when I was reading this sexy poem. I looked up, away from the paper, and right into the eyes of an older woman. I was in my mid-thirties, extremely self-conscious, and slightly shy about reading the type of thing I was reading out loud just then, and the woman whose eyes caught mine could have been my mother. I faltered. I tripped over my words. I tore my eyes away and brought them back to the page. I finished the reading.

As soon as I finished reading, I looked around for my friend — the lifeline I had brought with me. That’s when I realized she had not come in to hear me read. I knew she was out there drinking beer, and I felt like I needed one of those right then and there. I rushed toward the door. People were milling about, stretching, and talking during this break before the open reading would begin. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a few people walking toward me, but I kept on walking to the door. I felt claustrophobic, and I had to get out.

I pushed my way through a small crowd at the door. I had gotten out and turned to walk toward the parking lot when I had to stop because someone was standing in my way. As I contemplated how to get around them, a man stopped next to me and said, “Excuse me.” I looked up at him and he said, “Thank you.”

And I said…THIS is what kills me…I said, “For what?”

He answered me, “For the poetry.” I recall muttering, “You’re welcome,” and rushing away to find my car and my friend, who had imbibed all the rest of the beer.

I was so stupid. I was so intent on getting out of there, I didn’t realize that this man was thanking me for the poetry. I didn’t recognize him, but to this day I don’t know if he was someone from my past who I had invited or someone else who received an invitation; a sibling or an old roommate of one of my old friends, or a publisher or editor who had like my writing enough to publish it in their journal.

I didn’t make it back in to listen to the other poets that night. It’s perhaps the epitome of rudeness for the feature not to listen to the other poets. I drove my friend home. From that day forward, this memory will intrude on my peace of mind. I can’t make it go away, and I can’t change it.

I had a moment that was all mine, and I blew it.

I only featured one more time after that, and then it was a co-feature at a bookstore. Then life caught me up in a whirlwind and I didn’t do a public reading for another ten or eleven years. When I did…when I do…I think of that night and an overwhelming sense of humiliation overcomes me. Then I start to read, my voice trembling, and I get through it. I seem to have lost that feeling in my reading.

I haven’t been invited to be the feature reader since.

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This story first appeared in Bouncin and Behavin Blogs on Medium