0TSP: Episode One

Speaking my first poem after 8+ years of silence.

Last Wednesday, I visited Kafe Kerouac for the first time to attend the Poetry Cauldron, their weekly spoken word / open mic night.

This is part of the plan for the publishing of The Book* this October. The mission is two-fold: practice speaking poetry and also start to build relationships with those in the literary scene in Columbus.

Initially I had just planned to attend; to embrace the scene with curious ears and not necessarily throw myself into it. 

But in the shelter of a coffee house’s back room, stuffed full of people confidently adding their names to the list - the list! - of those who would be sharing just-one-not-too-long poem that evening. 

Confidently, non-chalantly added their names to the list. It was blasé. Or at least that is how it seemed to me, one that could never be blasé about performing or speaking or taking part. Always an effort, an endeavor, I both felt relieved and unnerved at the sight of all these poets gathering and gabbing so gleefully together and saying “yes. I will say one tonight”.

I feel haunted in choosing this very night to attend - something about this night, where some Columbus poetry legends took up the back row, kindly taunting and heckling, encouraging an atmosphere of camaraderie and devilish joy. 

Something about the night; sweet and warm after a long winter, and the cafe, doused in a layer of intellectualism and longing, and the back room and the group gathered in lines of chairs and stools waiting for the words to begin.

Something about the host, both a poet and a comedian it seemed, loud and abrasive and self-deprecating, a perfect combination of traits to cut through the fat solemnity of the deep words pulled from the souls of those speakers who dared to share tonight with a group of their fellow humans.

All of us are seeking something we might not be able to explain, but we would be able to write down.

Something about it was enough for me. So I carved shreds and morsels from my slowly vibrating heart like a kebab in a late night meat shop, and I put my name on the voice of the host and stood up there too: to be counted and measured and embraced.

One minute later it was over.

And without any objectivity on my part, I have to admit: it went terribly.

Not the poem, or the speaking - or so I’m told - but the feelings, the war zone, the aftermath.

The filtration system in my mind collapsed, immediately and completely, upon finishing. Even after years of tending to my wounds and learning to love myself in theory, I was unable to withstand the torrent of filth my own brain directed at me from some vulnerable place, some withered creature inside of me (child or grown, friend or foe or family - unknown). I felt shame, embarrassment, regret, and hate, all directed about how I acted, how I read, how I spoke, how I looked, in front of all those amazing intriguing people, poets!, that  I admired. 

Devastating. Horrific. While it’s terrible to feel those things, it’s worse to understand that there is some voice in my head that thinks it’s ok to say that kinda stuff. It’s false. And Mean. And Cruel.

Experiences like these mostly lead to complete emotional dysregulation that would then generally lead to a depressive episode.

So see here also: a miracle.

We left the show after it was over and sat in our car parked right beside the venue where I smoked a marlboro smooth and tried to be honest. Matt talked me down and talked me through it.

It was new to share the shame of my inner world with someone who is able to comfort me as it is happening. It was frustrating to be reminded of why I stepped away from the scene and away from words in general - too tough, too vicious, to stay and fight my own unlucky childhood.

So see here also: a resolution.

After a good sleep and a day of work, I recommitted to try again. One poem down, one hundred to go.

Just because the experience made me want to pluck out my own eyes and move to a different state does not mean that I should stop. It actually probably means I have to keep going. Keep digging into this violent creature inside me, determined to rob me of happiness, sanity. There must be some way to calm and cure them of their need to belittle me.

If this all seems dramatic, I need you to know that the drama mirrors the reality. These are my ghosts. This is my haunting. This is horror. This is poetry.

I can see why I wasn’t ready before now to make this step towards publication. Because succeeding in this could mean succeeding in reclaiming a whole part of my life. These acts which take so much out of me but make me feel closer to who I am. This is the horror.

This is poetry.

So see you next week.

rlcg

* The Book I wrote in 2015/2016 after finishing my MA in Creative Writing in 2014. It is called Hauntings at the Hour of Noon, pre-order link coming soon.