ugly mug

so, i'm in the ugly mug on glassell, across the street from my old office, waiting my turn to read at the poetry open mike. i haven't done a poetry reading since grad school, which means, before i was married -- easily 7 years ago.

blah.

it's almost a mercy that the open mike readings are limited to one poem each, with 4 minutes tops. that way, i only have to feel like i'm going to die from anxiety for one poem. :P

very apropos, this from yezida's post today:

We let writers write and dancers dance because that way, writing and dancing is something "special" that we are not required to do ourselves.

But we are all required.

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. - Martha Graham

God Herself is the building blocks of all creation and the movement of all destruction. We are pieces of these processes, and reflections of vast workings. If we can come to know ourselves and then to connect out, we will better serve the processes of All. We will come to help all beings.

Find your beauty, your violence, your art. Become yourself.

the ugly mug, oddly enough, is the first place i hung out when i moved back down here after i graduated. i traded the owner graphic design skills for a haircut. i introduced my mom, my brother, coworkers, and later, my ex, to the owner -- but stopped coming around after my ex and i split up, because i didn't want to get caught in the Great Division of Friends that happens post-divorce. the owner saw my ex more, and thus, i figured he was in ex's camp. so i never came by, even though i worked, literally, right across the street from this place.

not surprisingly, i got quite a chastening for never coming by. but now i've been scolded, bought an iced coffee, and am pushing myself to take a couple of hours away from work, and do something i haven't done in forever. even though i feel like i am going to die if i get up on the stage and start reading something i wrote.

oh, i hate this kind of horse.

[edit] i got stuck going first on the open mike, which was first on the evening's schedule. yeouch. but i bravely stuck it out. people seemed to like it. i got applause. i think i'll go back next week.

crooked rose

near my iMac, i hung a page from a calendar one of my printers did, years and years ago. this particular calendar was designed like no other i'd ever seen, which is partly why i like it. for example, the month of january had all its days in ogham.

the february page is what i have hanging up. it shows a huge white rose, petals full-blown, as a dark plum duotone with a textured gloss varnish, giving the effect of looking at the rose through the veil. on the page, is the first stanza from dylan thomas' "the force that through the green fuse drives the flower," which is one of my favorite poems. ever. the first stanza is something i think of so much it has now become a personal prayer.

so, this morning, as i was glancing at the page, i thought i'd give you the poem in its entirety.

THE FORCE THAT THROUGH THE GREEN FUSE DRIVES THE FLOWER

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

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