Poetry Whores

"Eve was the only woman on Earth who did not have to wait for love," an attractive young woman in a black flapper dress declared from the front of the stage, in the front of the room, in front of the velvet chaise lounge, on which Rafael and I sat listening attentively at 10:30 on Friday night.  The people surrounding us, attired in their best alt-cabaret frocks and shabby tuxedo jackets, nodded knowingly.  How true.

The woman onstage was the opening performer at the Poetry Brothel, a monthly happening in a West Village bar that touted itself as "a new and dreamlike twist on a poetry reading."  Rafael and I sipped our Negronis and vodka cocktails, respectively, and took in the scene from our perch.  A woman named Oola slyly slipped Rafael her calling card.

I found myself in conversation with a shy, slight man named Ben.  Ben introduced his companion, a small woman wearing a pompadour and a heavy vintage coatdress.  "This is Taryn," Ben said.  She glared.  "Lora Lee," she corrected him.  She pulled from her pocket a handful of small pamphlets, each no larger than a passport.  "These are my poems.  I'll be selling them later," she explained.  "How much?" Ben asked.  "Ten dollars each," she replied.  Ben laughed.  "Bullshit."

Rafael and I each took our turn cutting a deck of tarot cards.  "Think carefully," the woman who would read our cards directed us, "when you're cutting the cards, and keep in mind the moment where you are, in your life, right now."  We concentrated and followed her instructions.  "This card is the three of cups," she explained to me.  "This is a cheerful card, a very social card.  But do you see this?  This is the eight of cups, reversed.  You might find yourself stuck in life, repeating the same mistakes over and over."  "That reading sounds pretty ominous and negative," I ventured.  "I wish I had only happy news for you," she replied.

Various poets took their turns on the stage.  Lora Lee.  A woman wearing a feathered headdress and Courtney Love-smeared red lipstick.  A man whom the emcee called "The Butler."  Each poet had well-practiced diction, and each had intriguing things to say about love and life.  Mostly love.  A small band played haunting music between readings, accompanied by the sultry voice of a female lounge singer, which in fact emanated from a short, bearded man.

Two men sporting thick-framed eyeglasses complimented my new Annie Hall glasses, which I had worn particularly for the occasion, as well as Rafael's oversized, tortoiseshell frames.  We thanked them and returned their compliments.  One of the men surveyed the room and observed, "There's probably about ten thousand dollars' worth of eyewear in here."

The Poetry Brothel had cost fifteen dollars to enter, but this cover charge included a gold Mardi Gras dubloon, good for one free private poetry reading.  These readings (which were actually, thankfully, only semi-private) occurred in a back room, shielded by heavy curtains and barricaded with a velvet rope.  I decided to cash in my coin.  "Taryn, help her out," the man in charge directed the poetess in the vintage coatdress.  She led me to the back room to meet The Butler, a twenty-nine-year-old man actually named Matthew Yeager.  Matthew read me a lovely piece called "Black Socks, White Socks," about, presumably, the deep sense of ambivalence that accompanies maturity.  Fascinated as I am by any person with a creative, non-legal job, I grilled him about his work for as long as I thought polite.  He revealed that one of his pieces had been chosen for publication in The Best American Poetry 2005.

Rafael had been equally impressed with his own private reading.  "I bought this for ten dollars," he said slightly sheepishly, revealing a booklet of poems.  We agreed that that the personal readings were probably the peak experience of the Poetry Brothel, and accordingly we decided to leave shortly afterwards.  Walking away from the bar, Rafael showed me a tiny scroll of paper, onto which a short poem had been printed in delicate type.  The poem was signed by Oola, and she had dropped it, until now undetected, into Rafael's jacket pocket.