I had seen the mysterious poster around campus but never processed what it meant. "Poetica." Then I got curious. Apparently, they served cookies at this event. "Poetica: 10th Floor Library Tower." A little sketchy, but I mashed the 10 button. "Poetica: 7:00 PM." So it goes. The doors opened, and I found myself among professors, maybe 15 in all, and perhaps 5 students.
So, I raised my hand. Approaching the lectern, the focal point of the room, my hands shaking a little, I said, "Hello, everyone, my name is Kevin Garner. I'm a freshman English major—" and immediately, I switched to the heaviest Southern drawl I could possibly summon from the depths of my heritage. "I reckon I'm gonna read a poem titled 'Butter.'" I rattled off this old high school poem from memory, and though it lacked the polish of years of study, the depth indicative of one who has experienced the world, or even the coherence to leave people with food for thought, my poem seemed to excite the room. They applauded as if to say, "Yes! Student involvement!" We concluded that night's "Poetica" with some closing remarks from Dr. Melton. As for me, I caught the Poetica bug.
For the next few semesters, I would go to Poetica, write poems solely for the purpose of presenting at Poetica, and practice short stories until I could orate with precision some absurd tale before the professorship. They got to know me in this way, and one day, Dr. Melton pulled me aside.
"Kevin," he said. "Would you be interested in hosting Poetica?" I think I almost died. "Because I was thinking that more students would get involved if students were running this thing. Here's the email address of Matthew Kemp. He's interested in the possibilities, too."
I took the slip of paper, eyes glancing about the scene, and said, "Excellent."
And so began a new chapter at Auburn Montgomery. After a few emails, Matt and I began operations to foster student involvement.
"We need sensationalist posters," I said.
"And Facebook groups." Matt paused. "And cookies. We've gotta have cookies. Without cookies, this is all pointless."
"Agreed."
We plugged Poetica through every cheap medium we could. We had no shame, no fear, and no regrets. We switched the location to a much more highly trafficked area on campus, and we kept advertizing. We talked to students personally. We told friends, family, pets. When the first Poetica under our joint efforts began, we counted around 30 students and around the same amount of professors as before. (Sorry, no pets showed up. So it goes). Every Poetica thereafter had around 50 students or more. Eventually, we encouraged artists, graphic designers, filmmakers, and musicians to join and showcase their talents.
One such fellow marked the milestone of our efforts. "Hello, everyone, I would like to play you a song." The musician proceeded to turn on a Gameboy and take out a melodeon. We knew right then that we had succeeded in something by far most excellent.
Poetica became rowdy, fun, dynamic, notorious for being an "Open Mic" where people could act silly, controversial, serious, sad, slaphappy, or just plain poetic. I guess you could say we made Poetica more accessible to our peers. As a result, the venue had experienced a paradigm shift from contemplative and thoughtful to this free-for-all outlet for creative expression.
In the end, we're just students trying to make our experience at Auburn Montgomery that much more meaningful and fun, trying to grow as writers, trying to learn boldness in public presentations, trying to make a difference, really.
And we're not too terribly special. We just wanted to see things happen, to witness people coming out of their shells and revealing the secrets that our day-to-day experiences push down. So, we organized. We worked together, we hosted, we acted like fools, we spammed social sites and doors with fliers, we even utilized campus funding for student groups and got pizza for a few shows, and now, we can say with confidence that while our approach is different, the mission is the same. Poetica. We have cookies.
Listen Up, English
Micah Dean Hicks
Hey, English, come here for a minute. I need to tell you some things. This is for your own good. Remember at that party when someone told you they really liked District 9? You said you thought it was good, too, for what it was. If you don't stop doing things like this, you're never going to be able to get a date.
Look, English, you've been doing this for years. Every time someone brings up a movie or book that they're really excited about, you sneer at it because it's not literature. You tell them not to be so excited, that it's not like Yeats or Morrison or Borges wrote it. But you forget that it wasn't that long ago you were sneering at Morrison and Borges, too. And remember, English, when you were a kid and lay in your bed all day reading Goosebumps books? Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about.
You see the thing is, you would never have picked up Bram Stoker if you hadn't read Anne Rice in high school. Don't be ashamed, English. This is exactly what I'm talking about. And don't say guilty pleasure. I hate when people feel guilty about loving books.
Maybe next time someone is telling you how much they like Twilight, you shouldn't go hide in the bathroom and quote Milton until you feel purified. You don't have to like it. You can still think it's trash if you want. It probably is. But you should respect the fact that someone would be so excited about a book that they can't help but tell you about it. Remember what that was like? Maybe ask them what they like about the book. Maybe the things they love in Twilight will make you remember things you love in Dracula, and you can tell them about it. Maybe they'll go home and read Dracula, and you will have made that happen.
Now English, calm down. Even you have to admit, being this snooty makes you lazy. Remember that night on your front steps when that girl was trying to remember the wheelbarrow poem? You quoted the whole thing to her, feeling so proud of yourself, and then she told you she'd always hated it, because she felt like her six-year-old nephew could have written it. She didn't see the art. You felt such a need to tell her why W.C. Williams' work was beautiful—and you know that it's beautiful—but you couldn't do it. No one had ever asked you to defend him before. You've thought about it since, and you think you could tell her now. But you won't have that chance again. You blew it, English.
I'm not telling you that some books aren't better than others. But knocking comic books, pop music, movies, and genre fiction just because of what they are is a little lame. You're missing out on some beautiful stuff. And worshiping all these literary greats without taking the time to really think about what they're doing well—or poorly—isn't doing you any favors, either. English, even you know Shakespeare told the cross-dressing joke so many times it stopped being funny. For hundreds of years it hasn't been funny. Stop laughing because you think you're supposed to.
I'm just trying to help you, English. I think you're fantastic. I want everyone else to think so, too. You've got so much going for you. Stop screwing it up.
