“Located in the center of the universe,” as the store’s tagline lovingly puts it, Fremont Place Books is a cozy little independent shop that feels very much the center of something. The store is divided into a couple of rooms, lit with great displays and a wonderfully diverse gathering of books. To be certain, the space isn’t really designed for author readings, which, in this case, strangely made for a more intimate evening. Among other endearing quirks, a bookshelf runs down the center of the main corridor splitting the “audience” neatly in two. Todd and I sat on a nice little elevated nook backed by children’s books while people got comfortable in a few chairs, on the floor and everywhere in between.
Over thai food earlier in the evening, Todd suggested we abandon the traditional poetry reading model where one poet reads and talks, covering their entire set before passing the torch on to the next performer. I agreed. So, after a brief introduction by the incredibly kind store owner, Henry, Todd and I set the space. We would read back and forth, a few poems at a time, attempting a conversation in verse. Poems could call to each other directly or tangentially. We could banter a bit and improvise often. It’s a model Todd uses regularly in the reading series he curates back in Minnesota, aptly titled Verse and Converse.
The structure allowed us to respond to the room, looking up at the scattered faces—to customize the shape of the evening on the spot. It seemed to keep the listeners more animated as well, never allowing them too get to comfortable with one approach or voice. Sometimes Todd would stand to read his poems or recite them from memory. He also passed a stack of his books out to the audience so they could read along and feel the work of the words on the page. I sat, leaning forward on my knees, reading from a binder clipped manuscript of newer poems, knowing fewer of them by heart.
Our styles, both in presentation and on the page, played well together. Todd saved me from the trap of heaviness by reading some lighter poems, of which I don’t have too many. He also read the best sex poem I know of—a spicy piece—and everyone was blushing because it was that good. Even with our different voices, we both favor a rich musicality in our poems, something that, I like to think, makes us poetry cousins.
The evening began as a good conversation should—naturally and with something to say. And as we wrapped up it felt as though we had come to some understanding, some new ground. Todd graciously ended—or tried to end—with a new poem recited from memory. He blanked on the last two couplets and we all laughed as a room of friends. The space was absent of the pomp or ego I often feel at other poetry readings (if not from the poet, then from the host or members of the audience). Sure, there was reverence on occasion, but with pretension removed the poems could do their talking a little more easily and it seemed that everyone had a better time.
