Hosting a poetry reading isn’t easy. Throw in a few dozen restless, beery beatniks and the situation can get downright bizarre—even hostile. For the past six years, I’ve been the host of The Raving Poets. It’s E-Town’s longest-running weekly poetry series, and one of the few in Canada that regularly features a live band. As host, my job is to hold the night and create a safe space in which poets can do their thing. I don’t always succeed.

In my 300-plus readings, I’ve heard a broad spectrum of spoken-word material. I’ve seen and heard every shitty, clichéd thing you’d expect at a reading, and a few that defy description—including, but not limited to: painful rhyming couplets delivered with zero enthusiasm. Fifteen-minute, top-of-voice political tirades that lose the audience after minute one. Horrifically pornographic, misogynistic rants delivered with chilling detachment. Blatant Kerouac ripoffs that the poet hopes the audience doesn’t notice, or doesn’t know their Kerouac well enough to spot. (As if—it is a poetry reading, after all.) One poet flagellating another’s bare back while reading. A not-so-titillating striptease. Poets too stoned to finish their pieces. Once, while reading his poem, a guy pulled a cheeseburger out of his back pocket and ate it.

But scattered amidst the tired vocabulary choices and assorted craziness, there are always truly beautiful and moving moments—often all on the same night. Such is the grab bag of the open mic. For every poet who mentions “their soul,” there’s one who tears the roof off with a killer delivery. For every sex-drenched, best-left-to-a-diary confession, there’s a piece that moves the audience to tears. For every young, beret-wearing epitome of invented experience, there’s a fortyish mother of two holding her own. I don’t like everything I hear. On some nights everyone sucks, but it’s my job to keep the thing afloat. On rare nights—on the best nights— poetry readings can be downright holy. If the Raving Poets band is kicking it out, if I’m in my groove and keeping the energy up, and if the poets are stoked, a reading feels like a long backseat romp: loving, and a bit nasty.

Artists in general can be difficult, but poets are impossible. They’re mercurial and they drive me nuts. I’ve been called an asshole by ego-mad bohemians. Poets have burst into tears because they didn’t show up in time to get on the sign-up list. Sometimes a poet stretches the five-minute time limit to 15, much to the chagrin of the dozing audience. But I always endeavour to maintain my cool. At the end of the night, I know what to do. I thank the poets—even the girl who delivered the rhyming couplets. I thank the guy behind the bar. I thank the band. I thank the universe for creating poetry. Do I get any thanks? Anybody ever buy me a drink or offer me a toke? Of course. I get my nods. When the night is done I go home with a smile. I’ll do it again next week.

The Raving Poets hold open mic every Wednesday night until May 28 at the Kasbar Lounge (downstairs, 10444-82 Ave.) Sign-up at 7:30 pm, show at 8 pm.