“Mmmm.” A dozen voices in unison. Heads nod, claps splatter, polite, but well intentioned. “Wooo, Jenny!” One guy does the snapping thing. By the third reader, I begin to anticipate the Mmmm, an exclamation of knowing approval. After every poem: Mmmm. By coincidence, this happened a couple of weeks ago during an interview. A strong candidate, great experience, but my brain hung up on her Mmmm. For every question we asked: “Mmmm, good question… Mmmm, let me see…” I missed her answers. I obsessed over the Mmmm.
Tonight, the Mmmm is deserved. The poems are great. Every one of them. The reading continues, my heart sinks. I’m out of my league. These guys can write! Happy I brought nothing to share. Mmmm, nods, clap, clap, clap.
~ ~ ~
This visit, for me, was years in the making. A night at a poetry event two decades old. The first Friday of every month, shops up and down the strip serve cheap chardonnay and cubed cheese in a communitywide effort to attract shoppers. People browse, drink, then move to the next store. We skipped that scene, went straight to the Ragged Edge. We bought our drinks, jasmine lime green tea for Susan, a decaf black eye for me.
Black eye: a cup of coffee laced with two shots of espresso. Baristas sometimes give me that look. ‘What’s the point of decaf espresso?’ I say fuck you, just give me my coffee, but silently, in my head. The girl behind the counter didn’t blink an eye. She only charged me for one shot.
I appreciate the coffee shop’s name. Ragged Edge, a clear visual to illustrate the effects of over-caffeination. When I was young and idealistic and abused caffeine for sport, I hoped to open a coffee joint called Jitters with flickering neon sign. An ode to being wired. This predated triple caramel macchiatos and skinny chai lattes. Shops served brewed coffee and espresso. But I never got beyond the name and couldn’t have ridden the coming specialty drink wave, anyway.
They packed them in at the Ragged Edge. Susan and I grabbed the last seats, two thirds of a couch not facing the stage, my head twisted ninety degrees for two hours. Mmmm. Clap, clap-clap, clap. Twice last year I printed a poem on Friday afternoon and stuck it in my pocket. By dinner time I chickened out. As nervous and embarrassed to tell Susan my plan as I was to stand on the stage and read.
I told Katy, one of the organizers, over and over, “Yeah, I’ll need to get in there some month to read.” Years ago, I asked if people ever snuck in prose. “What would happen if I showed up with a flash piece?”
She frowned, “I wouldn’t do that.” And I never did.
As the reading let out, Amy and Dave, friends we arrived with, insisted I should participate, that I could hold my own. Susan agreed. When we got home, I read the poems on my blog. I think I’m right. The First Friday crowd inhabits a higher level, but now I’ve got something to shoot for.
Photo by Mihai Vlasceanu on Pexels
The Other Stuff 
I have to admit I agree with Susan and your friends. I have a niece who writes poetry, and I know she is often afraid to share them. But her poems are great—probably more so than she would admit. Now, I don’t think I would have found the courage either, but then I am a coward about public speaking. Anyhow, poems touch people’s souls. But people are individuals, and your poems might have been the ones to resonate with an individual or two. I hope you participate next time.
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Food for thought, Diana. I honestly don’t feel stuff compares. I’ve probably only written a dozen poems in my 13 years as a blogger. I was thinking about trying to cue up some poem writing in the future to see what comes out. But thanks for your confidence in me.
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I’ve felt that vibe. What the hell. Give it a whirl next time.
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In college, I took a creative writing class. My first submission was a poem about a junk yard fire I saw as I drove through Baltimore. When I finished reading it, everyone just looked at me with blank stares. One guy said “I read down the first letter of every sentence to see if it spelled a secret message.” This is what I envision happening at the ragged edge. I’m sure I’ll get there, but right now it feels like a stretch.
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oh boy. i went to free poetry writing workshops sporadically on Sat afternoons for about 3 years at Young Chicago Authors before covid. every once in a while I’d sheepishly recite. always got a lotta snaps if i used the f bomb cause no one expects that from a white hair. Truly honestly loved the budding rappers and spoken worders. the most diverse activity I’ve ever encountered. i miss it.
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Ah, benefits of big city living. This poetry night is the only thing of its sort in my tiny town, but about 30 people we there and almost everyone read.
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There’s a coffeeshop chain on the West Coast now called the Jitter Bean 👌
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Ah, clearly stole my idea. Does the neon light flicker like it’s running out of gas? That was where I wanted to go with it.
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WHAT a great idea! Hahaha!! 😂
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Naming a coffee joint Jitters with a blinking sign… 🤌 <- chef's kiss.
I used to attend open mic spoken word nights at a bookstore in the Loop area, here in Stl. I remember my first one, I was 3 glasses of wine in and then it was my turn and I swear the butterflies had razors for wings. I stuttered over my poem, sweat under the lights, and kept clearing my throat. You wanna torture a poet? Tell them to read the poem the wrote an hour before the gathering to a mass of professionals who do it for a living. LOL
I survived, I even had some people come up and congratulate me on not running out of the spotlight. I found out that night that poets, from all walks of life, are awesome people. I was given advice, praise, and tips on how to beat the nerves of reading to a group. Picturing everyone nekkid isn't one of them. 😆 Breathing, focusing on how you want your words to be received, and seeing yourself speaking amongst your peers helps.
People who attend and are judgemental… are there for the wrong reasons. Poetry for some is breathing and there are critics that would steal the air from your lungs if they thought it would propel them ahead. I guess that goes for life too in a sense. At least that's what the poet in me believes.
Maybe revisit that coffee shop thing, that's definitely a good idea. Seems like gold waiting to be struck.
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The coffee shop isn’t going to happen. Too old, I can’t bust my butt like that in a kitchen any more. In fact an established pizza place in town is for sale and I’ve always wanted to own one since I started my working career in a Shakeys in the 70s. Can’t do it. I’ve got an eye on retirement and I’m feeling mighty lazy these days. Maybe I can own a restaurant in my next life.
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What would you call your restaurant….nvm don’t answer that. Eyes are always watching and ears are always listening. Lol keep the name safe.
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