A Shot of Poetry, Please

In Savannah, there is a group of writers who hang out and make things happen, like having (in)famous writers from out-of-town (and sometimes already-in-town) come into town to read words put together in good ways, talk about word-related topics, and have cocktails. The main event is called Seersucker Live, and it is generally a Good Time. It was at one of these events that I met Daniel Handler for the second time, and had the opportunity to give him some artwork I had made with letterpress proofs of the broadside my college press made for his book Adverbs. I hope he managed to get it home without getting any of the cocktails on it.

The only downside to this is having to pay for the event. But there is a remedy, and it is called Seersucker Shots. Held at the Book Lady second-hand bookstore, this is a free monthly (bi-monthly? my time-keeping ability is steadily degrading) event featuring two or three poets at each event. The Book Lady is exactly what you want from a bookstore: shelves nearly to the ceiling (it's a low one), well-worn armchairs and a couch, a tiny garden, a few displayed typewriters, a tiny coffee bar, winding rooms, and so many books you just don't even know where to start. And yet they manage to re-arrange the shelves in the main room and squeeze in a podium, a guy with a keyboard, and lots of folding chairs (and the armchairs and couch). It is always crowded, and by the end, there's usually someone standing outside the door, peering in because it's literally too full to open the door and let them in. This event also offers a small selection of wine, beer, and/or champagne. The hosts (poets themselves, recently engaged - that is, he proposed to her at the end of the reading last Friday) are the incapable-of-staying-on-script B.J. Love and the delightfully witty Erika Jo Brown. It is convivial gathering. And here is my own poetry shot to tell you about it.


Seersuckershots

close your eyes and the world is spinning in the words.
we are drunk on poetry.
every line is a shot, and we are reeling at the end of the stanza.
there is nothing but the swirl of consonant vowels through the room.
the faces are thirsting, and the poets pour.