This last month, I attended two open-mic events. One was mostly a poetry-reading event; the other was a little bit of everything (music, poetry, even tap dancing). As of this writing, I have already put three more such events on my calendar.

This is kind of a big deal for me. It’s one thing to post pictures and words on the Internet; it’s another to get up in front of a room of strangers to read those words, especially when those words say something about me and my life and how I am making my way through the world.

The first event I attended was devoted to works about people who had been killed by law enforcement. It was one of those things I would have been too intimidated to attend of my own volition; fortunately, I was invited by a friend of mine (also a poet, among other things). By a weird stroke of luck, it took place the day after I made my first drive in a little over three years to visit my mom (she lives 75 miles away, and I have a history of panic attacks), and then injured my arm. With the triumph of the previous day’s achievement and the pain from a very sore arm to distract me, the anticipation of my turn to read was not as anxiety-provoking as it could have been.

Although I should not have been surprised, given that it was an event geared towards writers, I was amazed at what I was hearing. The folks who went before me (both invited guests and open-mic participants—I was one of the latter) not only had great material, but also had great presentation. I had to keep reminding myself that they had more experience at this than I had, that what I was going to read was just as valid, and that the audience would forgive any mistakes I might make.

When the friend who invited me began the first of her poems, my first thought was, ‘I can’t follow this!’ But, going back to the previous paragraph, I reminded myself that what I was going to read was just as valid, and that the audience would forgive my relative inexperience at reading my work in front of an audience.

Finally, my turn came. I successfully held back the temptation to try to explain what I was about to read, and just started reading. Partway through the first poem, I came close to losing my voice. I was also conscious that maybe my reading was a bit too intense. But I kept going. It came back. I finished. Applause. I read the second one, and then the third one. Applause, and applause. I returned to my seat. I felt flushed, but relieved that I had done my part, contributed to the collective conversation.

After the last of the participants had read, and the event finished, I said my goodbyes, and headed home to tend to my recently injured arm. As I left, one of the other participants remarked that he liked what I had read. I thanked him, and left.

The second event was really my backup. I had intended to go to an open-mic event in another part of town, but traffic was so horrible that there was no way I was going to get there in time—plus I was really nervous, which would have made it practically impossible to sit through a traffic jam in any event. So, I turned around, and headed to the place where I would end up spending the evening.

Of course, where I would have arrived late to my original destination, I arrived early to my backup destination. Fortunately, their offerings included beer, so I ordered a pint of stout, and settled in to wait for the festivities to begin.

When the sign-up sheet was brought out, I waited until the first person had signed up, so that I might have a better idea of what to expect. Then I resumed my wait…

As it turned out, the open mic wasn’t just for poetry. The folks who signed up before me were there to play music. They played a folk song from Finland, then something else. They had a couple of extra minutes, so they played one more thing.

Then my turn came. With it being my first time at this particular place (where everyone else seemed to know each other), I picked three relatively ‘safe’ poems to read. By ‘safe’, I mean that they were not especially revealing, and there was more of an emphasis on humor (or at least whimsy). I probably didn’t come anywhere close to the seven minutes I was allotted, but that was okay with me. I got a decent amount of applause, I didn’t make any major verbal stumbles, and I got my turn out of the way early. Then the next performer sang two unfinished, but very self-reflective, songs. Okay…I thought. Something to remember for next time.

The rest of the evening was almost entirely music. Folk songs, Randy Newman songs—even tap dancing.

The most impressive of the folks who followed me was a woman named Marla (I think). She reminded me a bit of my mother, except perhaps a few years older, a bit skinnier, and with a small patch of her closely cropped hair that had been dyed fuschia. She sang a couple of original songs on her guitar. While she didn’t have the greatest voice, or play any chords per se, she played the crap out of that guitar—put everyone else who had come before her to shame. Damn.

Before I left, the tap-dancing woman told me she’d enjoyed my poems. As I was leaving afterwards, one of the other audience members told me the same thing.

The next day (yesterday), I felt surprisingly wiped out. I had planned to go to another open-mic event that evening, but decided instead to stay home and re-charge. So, after a trip to the grocery store, I stayed home and made soup.

So, it may be that I am being a bit ambitious in putting those three events on my calendar. But I’m going to give it a shot…

(30 January 2015)