Performance Poet
A finalist from our first Writing Challenge!
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Creative
Within that club of egos, I had found a friend. He talked to me of glory and made me want to join. So I sent a few gold coins and received a nonsense letter. I must be a member! In a group of names, I am the unclean one, the token unpublished poet; there always must be one.
From humble beginnings and through many glasses of wine, my friend the painter encouraged me to lie. He encouraged my decadence and made me feel alive. But a club needs money and a space is not forthcoming, so my friend the painter arranged a picnic within the shadow of Mt. Macedon. Over telephone lines and written word, he told me of his plan, to have me as a wandering poet in this entourage performance. I was chuffed to be asked and glad to help out.
On a sunny day, I packed up a few rhymes with my favourite soggy sangers and headed out to greenery. Through mystical mountain scenery on hard bitumen road, I found the banner blazing and joined a happy throng.
But what do I see? A poster at the gate making people take notice. Offering all the delights on show: wine, food, music, a nude model, sculpture, and me – performance poet! In those 15 seconds of stunned glory, I nearly wanted to be born again and I straightened my “hippy” waistcoat and looked inside my hat. I am not even famous, but that day I felt like I was. The painter had made a little stage for me to stand upon and I mounted it with trepidation, fortified with wine.
I looked out upon the faces of artists and hangers-on and launched into my poetry getting better as I went on. I did the one about welcome and one about sorry love and finished with “Garden of Treasure”, that will keep them sane. After each was some applause, gaining momentum with each new rhyme, and I finished the first “act” wrapped in kind comments and lively congratulations.
Now I don’t want to explain the madness or ruin a good prose and I don’t want to pump myself up for all to see, but each time I mounted the stage, people stopped and listened and looked. If performance is a holy tragedy, I was a martyr that day.
As the sun was sinking and everyone was moving on, I rested with my friend and nodded at knowing looks and good-byes.
What a day of discovery and warmth from my peers. It gave me new strength to write more and new avenues to follow. Breathing in that clear air, I opened up my soul and had an appreciative audience to watch the bare bones. That vague feeling of poetry classes and clutching for right words ceased in the rapture of riving recognition.
Now I know sway ...
Within that club of egos, I had found a friend. He talked to me of glory and made me want to join. So I sent a few gold coins and received a nonsense letter. I must be a member! In a group of names, I am the unclean one, the token unpublished poet; there always must be one.
From humble beginnings and through many glasses of wine, my friend the painter encouraged me to lie. He encouraged my decadence and made me feel alive. But a club needs money and a space is not forthcoming, so my friend the painter arranged a picnic within the shadow of Mt. Macedon. Over telephone lines and written word, he told me of his plan, to have me as a wandering poet in this entourage performance. I was chuffed to be asked and glad to help out.
On a sunny day, I packed up a few rhymes with my favourite soggy sangers and headed out to greenery. Through mystical mountain scenery on hard bitumen road, I found the banner blazing and joined a happy throng.
But what do I see? A poster at the gate making people take notice. Offering all the delights on show: wine, food, music, a nude model, sculpture, and me – performance poet! In those 15 seconds of stunned glory, I nearly wanted to be born again and I straightened my “hippy” waistcoat and looked inside my hat. I am not even famous, but that day I felt like I was. The painter had made a little stage for me to stand upon and I mounted it with trepidation, fortified with wine.
I looked out upon the faces of artists and hangers-on and launched into my poetry getting better as I went on. I did the one about welcome and one about sorry love and finished with “Garden of Treasure”, that will keep them sane. After each was some applause, gaining momentum with each new rhyme, and I finished the first “act” wrapped in kind comments and lively congratulations.
Now I don’t want to explain the madness or ruin a good prose and I don’t want to pump myself up for all to see, but each time I mounted the stage, people stopped and listened and looked. If performance is a holy tragedy, I was a martyr that day.
As the sun was sinking and everyone was moving on, I rested with my friend and nodded at knowing looks and good-byes.
What a day of discovery and warmth from my peers. It gave me new strength to write more and new avenues to follow. Breathing in that clear air, I opened up my soul and had an appreciative audience to watch the bare bones. That vague feeling of poetry classes and clutching for right words ceased in the rapture of riving recognition.
Now I know sway ...
Falling Like Angels
By Daniel
The pain that I feel, this place that I’m in, these four walls closing in…
Creative
ISSUE NO. 23
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2 MIN READ
As This Time Comes to an End
By Punkin
As this time comes to an end, I wonder which way the next will bend. The earth and moon will do their thing, I’ll embrace everything.
Creative
ISSUE NO. 23
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2 MIN READ
‘God, I Am Deeply Sorry’: A Poem for the Prisoners We’ve Lost
By Triste
To all the prisoners who have ever spent time away from the ones they love.
Creative
ISSUE NO. 23
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1 MIN READ
‘Tingers’ and the Squirrel Box
By Sara
In Creative Learning we get to see some amazing stuff made by talented people. The best part is hearing the stories behind how creative projects have come to life.
Creative