Open Mic Night at Rustic Treasures

Rustic Treasures
At Rustic Treasures, Bona and her husband operate a little café and antique shop, opening their store as a community meeting place. Laurie, who I met a few weeks ago at Mosaic, lives nearby and invited me along to an open mic night, to read some poetry.

I was intimidated, because seriously, it was like Def Poetry Jam up in there. Dennis, a dance teacher and graduate of the College of the Arts in Philadelphia, flowed like nobody’s business! Off the top of his head, he came up with one piece, sung and spoken, on the false constructs of whiteness. After that one, the audience echoed the chorus he sings to the children in his dance class, to make them pay attention: ‘one, two/zip your lips’ ‘three four/sit up straight’ and he riffed on Saturday morning cartoons.

Su, fiftyish, did his thing on the drums, accompanying the performers.

Laurie has a beautiful voice, her melodies had rich undertones and soulful vibrato, that played around the notes like an expert

And then there was me.

I like to paint pictures with sound, or try to take readers on a journey in images. I play with words, but I don’t know that I have the rhythm and warmth of these performers. I’m still experimenting, trying to find my own voice, but it definitely felt lukewarm, intellectual and abstract. Like Yeats at the Apollo

Still, I’m trying not to make too much of it, maybe stultified, strangulated, twisted self expression is interesting too. I don’t have the quick wit of Jenae (her stage name), who read a piece about ‘niggas who won't stop to give her a ride, unless they want something from her'

That does not translate well onto paper. And my words did not translate well into spoken word.

This is one of the poems I read last night:

I do not speak of love at all

Words do not cross dysthymic silences
I stand at the sink wash dishes eat
Through one pleasant day
To the next
Live as well as I can
I volunteer sometimes, I recycle

This is not a question upon which the universe turns
I live well enough, more than, in fact.
Filled up with throbbing nameless sad
A good enough life
Should be sufficient
Wanting more is selfishness
Shame on me for this discontent

I do not speak of love
Say nothing that tells of this skin this body
This want of touch warm holding arms skin
On skin breathing hot

Quench melancholy with more wine, movies, music

I do not speak of love at all.



Whatever, it was incredibly life giving to read, and to listen, and to enjoy the rhythm and sound and people. Rustic Treasures will be seeing a lot more of me, I plan to see a lot more of it. I do need to be more fun, I'll try to read something more upbeat next time.