They Don't Make Poetry Like Patti Anymore

The lights dim with a single spotlight on the stage shining on a lonely microphone. The room cheers, welcoming the poet to the stage. The poet flips through their tattered notebook before landing on a page. They arch their shoulders back, lift their head to meet the eager eyes, and take a deep breath in…

Poets of the 1970s East Village art scene were known for pushing boundaries, sharing eccentric ideas, and captivating audiences with their stories. The downtown poetry scene defined the East Village, and brought us legendary poets like Patti Smith, Allen Ginsberg, and Bob Dylan. The area is currently known for its high rents and gentrified bars, but it was once the hub for struggling artists and “hippies” alike. Is poetry still alive in East Village?

East Village poets were celebrated for their free spirits and individualism, possessing them with the power of creating art for their own sake and not caring what anyone thought of them. In the preface of his book Flowers of Evil, French poet Charles Baudelaire said it best:

“Any poet who does not know exactly how many rhymes each word has is incapable of expressing any idea whatever… poetry is like the arts of painting, cooking, and cosmetics in its ability to express every sensation of sweetness or bitterness, beatitude or horror, by coupling a certain noun with a certain adjective, in analogy or contrast.”

If Baudelaire saw today’s most popular poetry books—like Rupi Kaur’s Milk and Honey, he would probably be rolling in his grave.

Wow. Groundbreaking. Sylvia Plath could never.

The underwhelming “Instagram Poetry” that is fed to us online isn’t created through pure passion, but for mass consumption. Most modern day poetry books are formulated to be an “easy read” for consumers. The use of buzzwords, being only a sentence long, and excessive use of line-spacing to create an aesthetically pleasing format are made with one purpose: to sell. The ideas don’t cut past surface level. In fact, they’re spoon-fed to us— no thinking or analysis required. Just snap a photo of the mostly blank white page and post it to your IG story or VSCO to make your feed look nice.

*Open Mic sign outside of Under St Marks Theatre*

There are numerous poetry clubs in East Village that hold open mics throughout the week, Under St. Marks Theatre being one of them. Under St. Marks—which is quite literally under St. Marks Place—is at first very hard to find. There is no big fancy sign outside, or even any real entrance at all. The only indicator is a group of artists huddling around the dark stairway leading to the tiny basement theatre. A group of New Yorkers from all walks of life; a community coming together for an enlightening Tuesday night.

The community shuffles down the stairs into the old, dimly lit theatre. There are only four rows of seats, which exude an intimate and welcoming atmosphere. The poets, comedians and musicians form a line to sign up for their seven minutes of boundless artistic freedom. Just like poetry clubs in the 1970s, it’s a room of interesting characters supportive of one another’s self-expression, encouraging each other to experiment and take risks.

Now, I’m going to be real with you. A poetry prophecy did not stumble onto the stage, but the artists who did get up on that stage gave me something greater; something new. The musicians played original music that had lyrical substance and folk rock influence—classic 1970s East Village. One artist filled his seven minutes with an intense, directionless monologue: something about a Jewish serial killer in Nassau County, being a psychic in the circus, and ending his story by screaming and falling to the floor.

The dingy basement theatre holds the essence of the East Village art scene I know and love. It radiates authenticity, originality, expressionism, and, most of all, passion. The poetry and art scene may not be alive on the Internet, but it sure is still booming in East Village.