Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A story about some poetry.
Last night, I lived. What I mean by that is, instead of going to yet another party, eating free food and drinking free liquor, I went to a poetry club. Ok, I know you may be wondering about the free drinks/food thing. Well, in NYC--I am sure in other places--there is this network of "events". Almost every night there is somewhere you can go and network with professionals, all while drinking and eating. LOL Seriously. I write for this social website called SociallySuperlative.com and they post several of those parties daily, so please, feel free to check it out.
Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming, already in process:
This year, I need to cultivate my creativity. I need to nurse my interests before I lose them completely. I love poetry and last night, I rediscovered that love. I listened to poems that were so abstract, I don't think anyone caught on. I listened to poems that were so potent, I think everyone got goosebumps. I listened to poems so ambiguous, I don't even think the poets knew what they were talking about. And one thing I learned...poetry is whatever you make it.
It is time for me to stop being such a wuss when it comes to my own work and embrace it. I want so badly to share, but I clam up. Not anymore. I have always been more page than stage, but in Two-Thousand and MINE, I am going to be a stage poet because I say so!
I went by myself last night. Nothing out of the ordinary. I have no significant other and most of my friends never want to do anything. LOL But I enjoyed myself so completely. I forgot what it felt like to have fun without the help of alcohol or mary jane. I like that feeling.
I walked in and sat down next to this lovely brown girl with even lovelier brown curls and I recognized her. I said, Eboni, right? She smiled and said yes. I said, I met you last year at Nuyorican. I was the girl that had you sign your book. (She had a chat book of poetry that I carried around with me everywhere I went. It was falling apart. And when she saw it, she cried the happiest tears I've ever seen.) She smiled even bigger and said, I remember! You made my week!
I sat down and we chatted about performing and when she told me that she also has stage fright, I immediately felt ready to perform. I thought most performance poets didn't feel nerves, like they are some hybrid void of any nervous energy. They aren't. They get nervous too. They fight it. I give up. No more. I am going to fight that nervous energy.
Put 'em up!