Being Sad Doesn't Make You a Poet
And Being a Poet Shouldn't Make You Sad
Her response imprinted on my memory: A quick oh no face followed by "Just don't bring down the room..."
I had just answered "poetry!" to the question posed: Are you performing anything at the open mic?
In that wary response it occurred to me that for some, perhaps many, the initial reaction to "I'm going to be reading some of my poetry!" is a conjuring of dread, the impending doom of being subjected to painfully tired metaphors attempting to romanticize just how hard or brutal or downright sad life is, ya know? And it's all sooo deep because it's so sad and true.
But like...
I fell in love with poetry for doing the opposite. I've fallen (and continue to fall) in love with poetry that jump starts my pulse, makes me aware of my breath, makes me giggle, makes me long, makes me say "uh!" and snap my fingers, stomp my feet, and--every so often--let out the coveted YASSSSSSSS.
Re: poetry that does the opposite of "bring down the room," it suspends it on held breaths and waves of "mmmm..."s check this one out:
And if that's not enough, give this one a whirl:
Am I Right??
Poets, let's not forget: we are powerful. We can bring down a room sure, we can drown it in self-indulgent sadness sure: words can cast crystallized heartbreak into something like amber and it will feel soooo important...
But we can also teach heartstrings to sing. We can coax corners of lips to crack goofy smiles, and lead minds to dance down the shoulders of highways of the hilarious and profound.
Poets, let's raise the room more often than we bring it down.
And if I do say so myself, at that open mic, I did not bring down the room; I made it cheer, smile, and whoop. The poem? I guess I'll let ya read it ;)
For When Your Sexy Underwear Gets a Little Too Small:
...buy another pair!
You don't have to fit into the lace of what you once were, You don't have to fill the back of your drawer with 'used-to-be's.
You are a shape shifter, a skin shedder, you ride the moon like a roller coaster.
Your colors don't stay in the same curves, your lines don't fit the same forms. (because guess what)
You are allowed to grow.
Plus, new underwear is the best.
©SamieJoJohnson
About the Creator
Samie Jo Johnson
Yo! I'm Samie Jo! An actress/poet/playwright who enjoys traveling, coffee, and musing over big/deep questions. From the Rocky Mountain region originally, currently based in Seattle.
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