so, last week, i stopped by corner coffee (a place that has great latte art) on a thursday evening, because i needed to download something and we don’t have broadband at home, just yet.
i happened to sit down at three till seven in the evening, in the second room, and was oblivious to what i was getting myself into: open mic poetry night.
so i’m sitting here (actually, not here, at a different table — nearby where i am now, but not the table i’m at now, but i digress) checking email, and downloading a PDF that i need and poetry night starts all around me, and the guy in charge reads a poem then opens it up…
cue the crickets.
he gets back up and has to beg and plead and finally some older gentlemen brings a book of poems up — turns out it’s his own work, wow! — and reads a couple of very pleasant pieces about winterish stuff and sits down and i liked them a lot.
then someone gets up and leaves, and the guy in charge yells after him “hey thanks for staying” and everyone laughs and i realize i can’t leave.
i’m stuck there, cause i do not want to be yelled at and everyone to laugh at me too, because i actually like this open mic thing and love the idea of it all and don’t wanna seem rude and such.
the guy in charge reads another poem and begs more for people to read and no one does and i have to leave and so…
i start talking: “um… hi, my name is chris, and i didn’t realize this thing was going on tonight, and i can’t stay, but i have decided to read something”, which seemed to generate a feeling of warm approval from the room (of about twenty people).
i find the piece i wish to read, stand up, powerbook in hand, and go up to the microphone.
and the cellphone rings.
i say into the microphone: “that’d be my fiance”
i answer it, and tell her that i’ll be home soon — everyone laughs.
then i read my poem “desire”, which i’m going to post in my next entry.
after that, i’ll post some poems everyonceinawhile, and maybe even find myself inspired to write new ones, though not because i’m depressed, but simply because i miss writing.
we’ll see — my poetry, when i’m not depressed, tends to blow, so maybe i won’t write new ones.
anyway, here comes desire.