Looking across the room at all of the talent before me, I began to wonder how such a community exists. Each artist promotes one another in a heap of warmth as they stand up courageously to share their wisdom and thoughts. I took a seat near the back to not disturb the commitments and drifted into the words of our local creatives. Many stood bravely at the microphone and spilled their fears and hopes. Some poets brought a darker take on our reality, while others found the whimsy of our world. I was happy to see some old faces as well as new voices. The mix of community and art is always welcoming, and I had a fantastic time listening. As each poet read their works, I immersed myself into their lyrics and fell heavily into each one.
The Poetry and Spoken Word evenings are hosted by Wandering Poetry People each Tuesday night from 7-9 p.m. at the Chattanooga Brewing Company. The information can be found on the Facebook group, Wandering Poetry People. This was my second appearance, and I plan to make many more. After some laughter, clapping, and snapping, my friend Sophia Rowe gathered her bravery and walked up to the mic. She shared a picturesque poem about nature and friendship. It was a hit, and she was very happy to have mustered up the strength.
Encouraged, I stood from my chair and decided on a whim to present a poem of my own. Reading there at the mic was nerve-racking and I feared I was shaking. I tried to read slowly and steadily, as the room was quiet, but full. The experience was thrilling and terrifying. Sharing my inner thoughts with the room in front of me, I even forgot to share my name. But the happiness and encouragement I received after shook all my nerves away. Everyone was very kind and welcoming. The community welcomed me with open arms and sparked my passions more than I thought possible.
I used to have trouble with poetry. I hated writing it, reading it was a pain, and dissecting it was too much. But recently I fell in love with the smooth rhythm of spoken words, the ones in which you are left wondering about your perceptions. I started to dive a bit more into poetry after my first open mic attendance. I learned to love the freedom of the writing, with no rules to weigh the words down.
Similar to poetry, the open mic is open to anything. There are no themes or prompts; you are invited to just read what you want - no matter how silly or serious. There’s not really a method to the madness; when you see a break at the mic, head towards it. I highly encourage any creatives out there to take a chance on their local poets and join us next time.
by Page Jenkins
Big Gray Chair
by Brittany Clements
Even when I’m old
and can’t remember anything else,
I think I’ll still remember
the back and forth motion
of the big gray chair.
I’ll remember
the times spent rocking
back and forth, back and forth.
Your eyes peeking up at me,
making sure you’re safe,
and your slight smile
as you doze off into dreamland.
I’ll remember
the nights spent rocking
back and forth, back and forth.
My body glued to the chair,
resisting to put you down and leave you,
despite how exhausted I am.
Instead, I stay there with you in my arms,
as we glide together,
back and forth, back and forth.
I’ll remember
the afternoons spent rocking
back and forth, back and forth.
The sun shining in through the window,
the hustle of the world outside,
while we just sit in that big gray chair,
back and forth, back and forth.
Even when I’m old
and can’t remember anything else,
I’ll still remember
the back and forth motion
of that big gray chair.
Impressions Inside/Outside
by Barbara Seals
Inside Merle stands rigid by the wall,
carefully painted face
sadly grim beneath a hennaed wig.
She wears electric-blue high-top Reeboks.
Soon, Merle believes, she will bear the child of God.
A fake-fur seal coat hides her pregnancy.
Holy Merle, bizarre black Theotokos,
life inside a dream is still-born.
I sit beside him and Roland whispers hoarsely,
“I am the Christ.”
Huge albino eyes, pale as winter
tide-pools,
stare at me.
His face is framed by whitest hair,
like soft-spun hoarfrost.
Roland is an arctic Christ, sovereign
of a frozen land,
a chronic schizophrenic.
Schizophrenia is a disease of the brain.
DSM III-R, Axis I: 295
Lucy has a chronic brain disease.
Born to a mother who never wanted her,
raped by an uncle when she was five,
Lucy slipped from her axis when she was sixteen
and dangles in a loveless void.
Did the madness outside somehow creep inside?
Curled now in a corner of the chair,
she pleads with dark voices that berate her
and does not hear me.
On the bench Rebecca smiles at me politely,
her steady gaze, unsettling.
Last year she plucked out her eye to please an angry god.
Her left eye now is made of clear blue glass.
30 mg of Haldol daily have exorcized her demon.
She could live outside,
but Rebecca feels much safer inside.
Outside I gulp cold, sharp air
and watch a hawk circling high above
in sky so blue it burns my eyes.
Reality is a tender, tenuous thread
separating inside from outside.
Shards of Light
by Jann Sullivan
Blinded by the darkness
of night, sleepless and
alone. Mind churning with
nothing and everything.
Pacing the house
my eye catches a bowl resting
on the kitchen table, filled with
thousands of shards of the
glass I dropped on
the hard ceramic floor.
If I swallowed them, would the pain
inside be more real? Picking it up,
running outside and tossing them into
the darkened sky, the shards
turn into stars
that glimmer and fill
the night with cones of light.
Breathing again,
I see clearly.
Carousel
by Hollie P. Stockman
Life is like a carousel
It has its ups and downs
And may just take you ‘round
Enjoy it while the music still plays
Love, laugh, and embrace the day
The Right Word
by David Demro
To the kind person
I crossed paths with
at Mabbitt Spring Trail:
when I described
the cold weather
as acceptable,
what I really meant to say
was tolerable,
before wandering off
seemingly lost
searching for
the right word.
The Poetry and Spoken Word evenings are hosted by Wandering Poetry People each Tuesday night from 7-9 p.m. at the Chattanooga Brewing Company. The information can be found on the Facebook group, Wandering Poetry People. This was my second appearance, and I plan to make many more. After some laughter, clapping, and snapping, my friend Sophia Rowe gathered her bravery and walked up to the mic. She shared a picturesque poem about nature and friendship. It was a hit, and she was very happy to have mustered up the strength.
Encouraged, I stood from my chair and decided on a whim to present a poem of my own. Reading there at the mic was nerve-racking and I feared I was shaking. I tried to read slowly and steadily, as the room was quiet, but full. The experience was thrilling and terrifying. Sharing my inner thoughts with the room in front of me, I even forgot to share my name. But the happiness and encouragement I received after shook all my nerves away. Everyone was very kind and welcoming. The community welcomed me with open arms and sparked my passions more than I thought possible.
I used to have trouble with poetry. I hated writing it, reading it was a pain, and dissecting it was too much. But recently I fell in love with the smooth rhythm of spoken words, the ones in which you are left wondering about your perceptions. I started to dive a bit more into poetry after my first open mic attendance. I learned to love the freedom of the writing, with no rules to weigh the words down.
Similar to poetry, the open mic is open to anything. There are no themes or prompts; you are invited to just read what you want - no matter how silly or serious. There’s not really a method to the madness; when you see a break at the mic, head towards it. I highly encourage any creatives out there to take a chance on their local poets and join us next time.
by Page Jenkins
Big Gray Chair
by Brittany Clements
Even when I’m old
and can’t remember anything else,
I think I’ll still remember
the back and forth motion
of the big gray chair.
I’ll remember
the times spent rocking
back and forth, back and forth.
Your eyes peeking up at me,
making sure you’re safe,
and your slight smile
as you doze off into dreamland.
I’ll remember
the nights spent rocking
back and forth, back and forth.
My body glued to the chair,
resisting to put you down and leave you,
despite how exhausted I am.
Instead, I stay there with you in my arms,
as we glide together,
back and forth, back and forth.
I’ll remember
the afternoons spent rocking
back and forth, back and forth.
The sun shining in through the window,
the hustle of the world outside,
while we just sit in that big gray chair,
back and forth, back and forth.
Even when I’m old
and can’t remember anything else,
I’ll still remember
the back and forth motion
of that big gray chair.
Impressions Inside/Outside
by Barbara Seals
Inside Merle stands rigid by the wall,
carefully painted face
sadly grim beneath a hennaed wig.
She wears electric-blue high-top Reeboks.
Soon, Merle believes, she will bear the child of God.
A fake-fur seal coat hides her pregnancy.
Holy Merle, bizarre black Theotokos,
life inside a dream is still-born.
I sit beside him and Roland whispers hoarsely,
“I am the Christ.”
Huge albino eyes, pale as winter
tide-pools,
stare at me.
His face is framed by whitest hair,
like soft-spun hoarfrost.
Roland is an arctic Christ, sovereign
of a frozen land,
a chronic schizophrenic.
Schizophrenia is a disease of the brain.
DSM III-R, Axis I: 295
Lucy has a chronic brain disease.
Born to a mother who never wanted her,
raped by an uncle when she was five,
Lucy slipped from her axis when she was sixteen
and dangles in a loveless void.
Did the madness outside somehow creep inside?
Curled now in a corner of the chair,
she pleads with dark voices that berate her
and does not hear me.
On the bench Rebecca smiles at me politely,
her steady gaze, unsettling.
Last year she plucked out her eye to please an angry god.
Her left eye now is made of clear blue glass.
30 mg of Haldol daily have exorcized her demon.
She could live outside,
but Rebecca feels much safer inside.
Outside I gulp cold, sharp air
and watch a hawk circling high above
in sky so blue it burns my eyes.
Reality is a tender, tenuous thread
separating inside from outside.
Shards of Light
by Jann Sullivan
Blinded by the darkness
of night, sleepless and
alone. Mind churning with
nothing and everything.
Pacing the house
my eye catches a bowl resting
on the kitchen table, filled with
thousands of shards of the
glass I dropped on
the hard ceramic floor.
If I swallowed them, would the pain
inside be more real? Picking it up,
running outside and tossing them into
the darkened sky, the shards
turn into stars
that glimmer and fill
the night with cones of light.
Breathing again,
I see clearly.
Carousel
by Hollie P. Stockman
Life is like a carousel
It has its ups and downs
And may just take you ‘round
Enjoy it while the music still plays
Love, laugh, and embrace the day
The Right Word
by David Demro
To the kind person
I crossed paths with
at Mabbitt Spring Trail:
when I described
the cold weather
as acceptable,
what I really meant to say
was tolerable,
before wandering off
seemingly lost
searching for
the right word.
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