Last night, I went and saw Thabani Tshuma perform a 30 minute set as the featured poet at Passionate Tongues poetry, held monthly at the Brunswick Green pub. It was hosted by MC Michael Reynolds who I was glad to see in good health, after a bout of being unwell, and also many other friends of mine were there: Brendan Bonsac, Lian, Ocean, Layne, and Tammy Nguyen, to name a few. It was a brilliant night of plenty brilliant poems shared, and I myself got up on stage towards the end of the open-mic segment of the night.
I had written poem spending just 15 minutes of my time, earlier that after noon and as unedited and spontaneous as it was, it ended up being quite an excellent poem, delivered patiently by me, as I got of stage, Layne and also Steve Smart, another MC of the poetry scene, shook my hand in approval. I felt quite proud of myself. "See, I'm only creative for 10 minutes a day.." I told my Lian as they were surprised to hear how I always deliver poems written shortly before the poem's performed. "I gotta put it to use, you know, otherwise I run out!" Lian laughed.
I have shared the final version of the poem at the end of this post, I tried to include the bits that I improvised as I read it off my phone on stage.
See, here's the irony of self-conciousness. When I was writing, and also when I was performing my poem, I was only concious of my task at hand, i. e. My poem and its recitation. And even when I got off stage, all I had to go off on was the reaction of the people to my poem. But as the night continued, Thabani and Tammy shared copies of their footage that they had taken of me, as I was on stage. Which had an interesting derailment to my thoughts and mood; I have attached a photo Tammy took of me for reference.
In this photo, looking at it now, all I see is myself, quite a handsome man at that, I should say, with my own personal fashion sense and features as I know to be my own. But last night, I quite struggled with a grasp of self conciousness really washing over me. Last night, my thoughts were critical of the fact that I had rested my hand on my heart to calm my nerves. I was also critical of the fact that I had bent my left foot inwards, but had been too shy to fix it, and engulfed in the moment, how my posture looks quite awkward. Also, feeling a bit bloated last night along with the thickness of my hoodie and also the lighting, my stomach looks a bit protruded too.
It's so ironic how these aspects of mine that I currently see as quite adorable and wonderful, last night, under the spell of impulsive self conciseness, i struggled to see as beautiful! As a person on a journey of healing and self love, I found it necessary to address those thoughts to myself, to eradicate the stigma of such.
See, I had to come home to almost hold myself as I fell asleep and I meditatively thought the sentence "you are so lovely", as I dozed off. I even gave myself a little kiss on my forearm, all acts I felt the need to do, and felt quite amazing to allow to happen. Maybe it's these nightly rituals that sometimes look like that, that has contributed to me being able to bounce back from such insecure impulsions! That, I cant say for sure, but I'm just so glad that im at a point in my life where I am able to see the beautify in me , even after temporary bouts of not being able to do so. It is that exact fact that gives me the confidence to be vulnerable in the manner of this blog post, for I plan on achieving plenty more progress in the ways that I am able to show up for myself, in self acceptance, and self love.
Who am I?
Who am I, without my skin?
Without my ability to feel on the back of my neck, the whispering wind?
Without my ability to feel the tendons on the top of my foot, moving?
In sequences, and melodies, like the keys on a piano, one after the other, occasionally skipping
and simulnateously twitching in chords and cadences from time to time?
As I move through life,
As I dance,
As I lift,
As I sink into life,
And existence,
As i sink and drown..
In what I can't comprehend and quantify
In what i cant fumble around with words
In what i cant articulate
In what my touch and movement cant tell?
Like the taste in water, intensifying in sweetness the more thirsty you are,
Like the rustic taste in an afternoon wind, being different from a morning wind..
If i were to stick my tongue out against it, the sun makes it taste more sour..
So what am I?
Without my ability to experience that?
What am I if i no longer can exert myself physically
What am I if i no longer can swing a pick axe
Or wield a shovel?
Earlier today I swung my shovel really hard in to a pile of rocks and it got stuck in there. I told my co worker that the shovel now is my excalibur and that I am king henry
And, its really funny how the truth can sometimes make people laugh
So who am I?
Who I am without my anger? My flickering thoughts?
Who am I without my passion, my dedication, my fearlessness?
who am I? Without my Nothingness?
So I ask myself
What is anger without injustice,
What are thoughts without coincidence?
What is passion without death,
And what is courage without fear?
What is man without woman,
And what is a gender, without a self?
I wonder..
If i really exist...
If i am nothing but someones memory
Someones thought
Someones imagination
Passion
Humour
Love?
So, in fields of dispassion, i hope the shields of my words can somehow carry me through..
And in times of hunger, i hope that my generosity can break some bread with those around me too
For even if I never existed, and everything i ever uttered be a lie, and all my ambitions been untrue
The day i stopped worrying about myself, and stopped to look around, i started seeing all this in Everyone else around me too
So I cant help but see myself , within everyone in every location that I happened to pass through
And like some exotic fermented liquor
That is a thought that my heart recently brew
-baby sparky 💕
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