On June 1, 2025, after receiving an unexpected invitation to Jennifer Firestone’s Poetry on the Porch reading, I made the trek out to Midwood from Manhattan with my partner Jessica—whom I often drag to readings, despite her general disinterest toward poetry that’s not mine—to hear Eileen Myles and Charles Bernstein read. We arrived early, sat on chairs positioned in the grass before a beautiful blue house. Strangers walked behind us on the sidewalk, looking over, curious about what the event was.
I settled in, observing the crowd gathering. I spotted Eileen and a family friend and now poet friend of mine, Michael Ruby, getting food at the hors d'oeuvre table. Too shy to go up to them, even though I’d spoken with them many times before, I took in the surroundings, a tree-lined street with massive houses (in New York City!)—ours, blue with white trim, a wraparound porch supported by gorgeous white columns atop a wide white and brown staircase. On the porch, a few seats, some books for sale, a bench swing, a lone mic centered above the stairs, and tons of people I’d never seen before.
I saw one of my professors from Brooklyn College, Mónica de la Torre, arrive. —What are you doing here? —What are you doing here? —Eileen invited me, I ran into them at the Poetry Project a couple of weeks ago. Mónica proceeded to run around, say hi to friends and colleagues and grab food. After a few minutes, Jennifer took the stage, asking everyone to sit and prepare for the reading. At that moment I saw Michael again, said hi, that we would talk after. Quickly, he showed me his new book, Sounds of Summer in the Country. In it, a poem titled “A Cricket”—a page full of “ti”s and asterisks indicating cricket noises and pauses. That was the whole poem. We laughed. I thought it was genius. I didn’t know you could do that.
Eileen read first, reading a long poem for the recently passed Alice Notley, shedding pages from their stack onto the floor as they read. The audience was in awe. While Eileen read, an unknown (to me) toddler kept approaching them with snacks that he had taken from the hors d'oeuvre table that they were definitely not going to eat—they probably fell on the floor or were in his mouth before he handed them over. The audience laughed.
Before the reading, Eileen mentioned that a hat was going around the audience for babysitting money for their new dog, Charlie, that they wouldn’t have been able to come if they hadn’t got a sitter, that it cost $40. I had two dollars in my backpack that I found on the ground a few days earlier. I put them in the hat.
After Eileen, Lila Zemborain read in Spanish, with her son Lorenzo Bueno translating her work into English. Charles read third, commanding the stage as usual. I wondered what it would be like to be invited to read among poets such as Eileen, Charles, Lila, surrounded by an audience of poets who are close friends.
Following, Jennifer mentioned that there was a film and artwork by artist Astrid Dick inside. After chatting outside for a few minutes, everyone made their way inside to a long table in the entryway holding Astrid’s zines and paintings. We listened to her tell us about them, and eventually make her way over to the projector in front of the bay window in the living room, where we watched her experimental piece including sound and text. She talked about it after, before dismissing the audience. On my way out, I took a zine from the table. I thought it was genius. I hope to make zines one day. I hope to make art films one day.
Once outside, I ran back into Mónica and Michael. Mónica introduced me to Lila and Michael introduced me to his friend, the Executive Director of the New Orleans Poetry Festival, Sean Munro. We chatted for a bit: —How is your program? —What are you doing in New York? —Will you come to the New Orleans Poetry Festival? —Here have my card. —We’re best friends, Sean is staying with me for a week. I felt a strong connection to the New York City poetry scene, then. I felt as if I were a part of it.
Throughout the day, I took notes in the Notes app on my phone. I wrote the poem I found looking from my notes shortly after. It didn’t take long and hasn’t been edited much since. In the poem, you can find Mónica (her), Sean, Michael (you), Charlie the dog, the unknown child giving Eileen snacks, Astrid’s (art maga)zine, as well as my longing to be a successful poet like Sean, Mónica, Michael, Eileen, Lila, Charles. I was an observer during that event, but also, by being there, was becoming part of something.
Emily Shafer is an incoming MFA candidate in Image Text at Cornell University, holds an MFA in Creative Writing, Poetry from Brooklyn College, and teaches first-year writing at CUNY. She is the author of it’s too early for poetry (Proper Tales Press), I found looking (above/ground press), and publications in poets.org, The Brooklyn Review, periodicities, and more. Born and raised in Rochester, N.Y., she lives and works in New York City. @emilyshaferwrites / www.emilyshaferwrites.com
