In Which the Poet [choose your own adventure]

After checking the sign up sheet this morning, I felt like throwing up, but instead I skipped breakfast and went into my studio. I might still throw up.

If you know me you know I love, no I can't open my mouth without reading poetry. My own poetry, the poetry of beloved poets, poems for every occasion. It's probably my favorite thing, other than feeding people and hosting parties and it would be a dream if someone would pay me to only read poetry.

I don't want to read tomorrow though, I feel intimidated I feel out of my league. Like my poetry is juvenile and mawkish. Like I don't know why I ever thought I'd be good at this.

Now yesterday I was full of determination. Forget about these other writers, this is not a competition. Why do I have to hold myself against the standards of others? All I have to do is read my work, it was enough to get me here so surely it is good enough to read aloud to these other artists. Now today I am imaging all sorts of ways to avoid this exposure of myself and the possibility that my voice will shake under scrutiny. I look at my poems on paper and they seem so naked, so pale by comparison. Like a house with the foundations and wiring exposed. Like a house held together by paint.

So I grabbed Swan by Mary Oliver sat outside in the sun and read several of the poems out loud. Competing with the ever babbling river. I came back to my studio. And I'm thinking today I will just sit outside in the sun and read poetry out loud. To myself to the river to anyone overhearing it. And I will read my own and time my readings and prepare for this reading, which is much more of a big deal in my head, the way I prepare of all readings.

Because isn't this the year where I learn to follow through? Where I stop avoiding things and stop running away when the pressure builds? Where I get to the point, finally and it doesn't feel so comforting to sabotage myself? You can't move anyone if you are paralyzed by fear.

I promise there will be another post later this week, in which the poet will describe all the ways in which she has adventured out of her cautious and doubting self, tales of weekly Karaoke and the slightest hint of romance... so much revelry you won't be able to stand it.

"Sing, if you can sing, and if not still be musical inside yourself."
--Mary Oliver, More Evidence