A Rich Night at Pauper's

Logrolling by Hogtown scribblers is common, especially among the small press. I don't like it one bit, but given how small the city's literary scene is - writers don't exactly flock here as they do to London or Paris or New York - it was inevitable that at some point in this blog I would praise a writer I know personally. So, guilty as charged, mea culpa and all that. But poetry lovers should be paying attention to Luciano Iacobelli and buying his books.

At the Art Bar reading at Pauper's Pub last night Luciano was alternately funny (anyone who can link Pythagoras and not eating beans deserves a standing O whether the poem's any good or not), mordant and philosophical, but at all times squarely in charge of his material and the process of poetry. He read poems both old and new, including a gem from his collection Book of Disorders from Quattro Books. A sample line from said gem that I'll never forget: he cut and stitched his own ornithology. Luciano is one of the publishers at Quattro and also runs Lyricalmyrical Press, just so you know. In December he has a new collection out called Mexico, and the if sampling we heard last night is any indication then it will make a fine Christmas-Hanukkah-Diwali-Kwanzaa present for the literary on your list.

Also reading last night were Ian Hanna and Steve McOrmond. Unfortunately for Steve I couldn't hear him well so I'll reserve comment for another time. I heard Ian well enough, however, and he showed both a wry humour in his urban - but not urbane - observations, and deftness and certainty with love, lost love and longing - not subjects many Toronto poets tackle these days, definitely not the men - that was achy but never cloying or mawkish. Or in other words Ian has a mental distillery that is every bit as good as those who make us gin and vodka: pure and true.

All three poets enjoyed a full house at Pauper's on Wednesday night - I even saw the young woman behind the bar applauding - but the venue still won't do. Some of the booth seats are no good at all since they face away from the microphone; the bar seats are iffy: last night I watched the poets read through a thicket of beer taps; and there's no stage, not even a small one. Also appearing for the first time was a new host. I don't remember her name but her initial outing wasn't very good and her mangling of certain names inexcusable. Maybe it was nerves or inexperience, so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. But if she hasn't improved after a couple of more tries Art Bar should find a new-new host or a new-old host. I'd chose Cathy Petch, the best in the latter category.