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A review by kenbooky
Aloud: Voices from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe by
5.0
When I was little my father gave me a book of Nuyorican poets. He gave it to me because he wanted to show me the cool beatnik he once thought himself to be. Later, I found out the book was most likely my mother’s. Like so many lies my father told me I had clung onto this one far too long, loved it too thoroughly, hoped it into existence.
This was the book that made me want to be a poet. A book of unabashed longing and sadness and celebratory speech giving and universal roots and community.
This past Monday, my mother and I traveled from Pittsburgh to New York to celebrate my 30th birthday. Of all the itinerary I begged that we make a stop to the Bowery poetry cafe to compete in their historic open mic. With the Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe under renovation, the poet’s now compete within their sister site, the Bowery, a beautiful welcoming spinning stage for burlesque dancers and columned pillars on either side of its readers.
As dinner got to be taking too long, New York I love you but c’mon, I asked if I could run the 3 blocks to the Bowery to secure an open mic spot. When I got there the line had wrapped its way around the building. I begged for any information from strangers what did this mean, how many readers actually got to compete. I was told 15 would secure their spot. At that moment it looked as if I was number 15.
I won’t point fingers or name names (since I can’t) but I watched in horror as some greasy-haired lanky man dapped up a friend and slipped into the front of line.
I did not make the cut but I reluctantly put my name in the raffle for extra readers and sacrificial poets. Somehow, my name was pulled, first. I read. I was so happy to get this chance. It was a fantastic experience I was so well-received by the crowd I networked and met so many incredible writers.
Was this a review of a book? Not really but I’ve gotten so much out of this book I needed to tell others.
This was the book that made me want to be a poet. A book of unabashed longing and sadness and celebratory speech giving and universal roots and community.
This past Monday, my mother and I traveled from Pittsburgh to New York to celebrate my 30th birthday. Of all the itinerary I begged that we make a stop to the Bowery poetry cafe to compete in their historic open mic. With the Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe under renovation, the poet’s now compete within their sister site, the Bowery, a beautiful welcoming spinning stage for burlesque dancers and columned pillars on either side of its readers.
As dinner got to be taking too long, New York I love you but c’mon, I asked if I could run the 3 blocks to the Bowery to secure an open mic spot. When I got there the line had wrapped its way around the building. I begged for any information from strangers what did this mean, how many readers actually got to compete. I was told 15 would secure their spot. At that moment it looked as if I was number 15.
I won’t point fingers or name names (since I can’t) but I watched in horror as some greasy-haired lanky man dapped up a friend and slipped into the front of line.
I did not make the cut but I reluctantly put my name in the raffle for extra readers and sacrificial poets. Somehow, my name was pulled, first. I read. I was so happy to get this chance. It was a fantastic experience I was so well-received by the crowd I networked and met so many incredible writers.
Was this a review of a book? Not really but I’ve gotten so much out of this book I needed to tell others.