Observable Readings
The Art of Book Signing: Three Genres
Wednesday, July 13, 2011 at 09:07 PM
By Chuck Sweetman
If you've ever bought a book at a poetry reading, you know that purchase entitles you to a personal audience with the poet-a moment of good feeling and connectedness in which to explore the mysterious bond between reader and writer, to exchange gratitudes, and to share an inscribed token in memoriam. Or not.
"For Chuck," David Lehman signs my copy of his Daily News, with the economy of a bestselling author eyeing the line snaking out to the sidewalk, high noon in a Manhattan bookstore. Lehman's note is a particularly bobbed version of an already svelte genre of signature. Call it the parade wave, as in: "With all best wishes, Claudia Emerson." "Great pleasure meeting you here, at Sewanee, Alan Shapiro" (who splurges with a location). Glenn Mott writes, "A night in St. Louis. Good wishes." Given the pints and conversation which extended that memorable evening, I could have sworn he'd thrust an exclamation point after St. Louis
Though as a book buyer I have sometimes brought little imagination to the signing table myself ("I enjoyed your reading"), I'll admit to wanting that exclamation point or some gesture befitting a crafter of words. Tim Seibles obliges: "Let the alphabet be a lantern." He has surely offered this all-weather advice before, but it's more than enough. I thoroughly enjoy the adroit little genre of the set-piece, a repertoire of riffs that gives texture to the signature. "Anywhere but in the mamby-pamby middle, eh?" writes David Clewell in his The Low End of Higher Things. In Now You're the Enemy, James Allen Hall plays off his title, offering me a surprising (and I would have said unlooked for) assurance, "For Chuck, a friend, not an enemy." Taking a looser and wittier shot at his title, The Martini Diet, Gaylord Brewer exults: "This diet works, Baby!" with not only the exclamation I heard in Glenn Mott's note, but also a quick, practiced sketch of a martini glass-complete with an olive!
This is not to say that there is no room for improvisation ("With all best wishes and thanks for my first book plate," Lynn Emanuel jots on a placard after her books have sold out), just that it must be a comfort to have something on hand. "Welcome to the Republic," writes Martin Espada on the title page of his The Republic of Poetry. At first, I squinted at this suggestive little set piece. Is Espada telling me that I have only now arrived at the Republic? And is Espada its emissary, or has he declared himself its head? But, despite my self-consciousness, I like the revolutionary quality of it-makes me want to don my beret and patrol the coffee houses, scouting the latest intelligence from Poetry's front lines. Sure, other listeners were conscripted with the same slogan, but my admiration puts me in a suggestive mood, and such notes easily conjure expansive feelings of solidarity.
If you're a writer yourself, aspiring or experienced, you know the intimate genre of the insider. Some are teachers, masters, or mentors, offering recognition and encouragement.
"Here's to your own poems," toasts Carl Phillips from the head of Poetry's table. Andrew Hudgins commemorates our workshop at a writers' conference: "Nice to meet the man whose poems I first admired." Other insiders are friends or peers, offering the relaxed but crisp salute of the Republic. "It was wonderful to meet you and visit your world," writes Stacey Lynn Brown. "Here's hoping our paths cross again and again in this small poetic world." Richard Newman jives: "Best of luck with your jump shot and your own work!" In an allusion to our old graduate school days, Noel Sloboda quotes T.S. Eliot's inscription to Ezra Pound: "il miglior fabbro" (the better craftsman). Lavish compliments are the coin of this realm and best understood as gestures of hospitality, a brushing aside of all competition and aesthetic difference. "For Chuck, my fellow traveler at Sewanee," writes Greg Fraser. "With great admiration for your imagination and craft, and with great hope that we stay in touch."
For me, at least, here lies the large promise of poetry, writ small at the corner of a title page: the simple wish for an ongoing, meaningful enterprise among those whose effort and understanding make it worthwhile. . . . "For my partner in poetry, your friend Jonathan."
Welcome to the Republic indeed.