Poetry Post
Jan. 7th, 2006 12:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreBut sometimes I do like to post it. I know most people hate poetry, and with good reason.
I hope to read at my small town open mike tonight, which I haven't been to in over a month. My favorite host is working this evening, so I expect a friendly reception.
For the last 4 or 5 times I've read, people have requested that I read A Love Poem For New Orleans, or as they call it, "That one about the French Quarter." The poem isn't even that old, and I'm getting tired of it.
Before I wrote that one, the crowd favorite was "Cajuns in Houston." I wrote this one about a friend I used to work with. Sarah used to talk about her weekends with her Louisiana friends and cousins that all lived in close proximity to her, and I wrote this about them.
Sarah is originally from a small town outside of Lake Charles. She mentioned her hometown frequently, but for the life of me I could never find it on a map.
"What's your town called again?" I asked her one day.
"Iway," she said.
I typed in "Iway, Louisiana" into my search engine and came up empty handed.
Realizing that words are sometimes spelled differently in the state just east of Texas, I asked her, "How do you spell that?"
She responded, "I-O-W-A."
I stared at her. "That's pronounced I-oh-Wah," I said.
"Not where I'm from it's not," she responded matter of factly.
There was no point in arguing. I have found that it's best not to argue with a Cajun, anyway. Trust me, you will not win.
Before she left our company, I gave her this poem and told her how popular it was at my coffee house. She loved it.
Since it's not about any of you, I hope you at least like it a little. To those who have never met a real live Cajun, it might not make much sense. I refer to these Cajuns in the poem as "expatriate Cajuns," because they live outside of Cajun country. Culturally speaking, they are worlds away from anyone else.
By the way, if you ever do get the opportunity to meet up with some real live Cajuns and go drinking with them, don't pass it up. It will be one of the most memorable nights of your life, I promise.
Cajuns in Houston
A band of expatriate Cajuns
lives inside the Loop 610,
trying to wipe the swamp
off of their souls.
Born on the bayous of Louisiana
they like living deep in this city
where the bars are within walking distance
and weekends home
for funerals and weddings
are only a few hours drive.
They talk about food
the way other people
talk about sex,
they like it hot
and they like a lot of it
and when it's good,
well, talk about good!
They go on about beer
the way other people
go on about love,
they can't imagine
living without it;
it makes them complete,
and they aren't embarrassed
to say so.
Then, when they've had enough beers,
you can't understand a word they say.
They aren't exactly speaking French,
but it's not like any English
you've ever heard before.
Laid back Texan that I am
I can't imagine that anyone
can have that much passion
and not collapse from exhaustion;
passion about food and drink
and love and music;
I get tired just listing
to them go on about it all
and I can't figure out
if all of the booze
serves as fuel for the passion,
or if they use the drinks
as a precaution
to water the passion down
so that they don't explode.
They don't want to go home,
they tell me, they like it here;
the heat and humidity
are like where they came from,
they even have a bayou
to hang on the banks of.
They like the Texans
that they meet in the bars;
they'll even take one home occasionally
I suppose to teach them about passion
Cajun style -
which might be a bit more
than the average Texan is used to,
but it's nothing a Texan can't handle.
True dat, the Cajuns say, True dat.
They open another beer
and raise it in a toast,
Laisse le bonne temps rolle, Houston!
You see, the Cajuns bring le bonne temps
with them
where ever they go.
-Nina Erickson
(c) 2006
I hope to read at my small town open mike tonight, which I haven't been to in over a month. My favorite host is working this evening, so I expect a friendly reception.
For the last 4 or 5 times I've read, people have requested that I read A Love Poem For New Orleans, or as they call it, "That one about the French Quarter." The poem isn't even that old, and I'm getting tired of it.
Before I wrote that one, the crowd favorite was "Cajuns in Houston." I wrote this one about a friend I used to work with. Sarah used to talk about her weekends with her Louisiana friends and cousins that all lived in close proximity to her, and I wrote this about them.
Sarah is originally from a small town outside of Lake Charles. She mentioned her hometown frequently, but for the life of me I could never find it on a map.
"What's your town called again?" I asked her one day.
"Iway," she said.
I typed in "Iway, Louisiana" into my search engine and came up empty handed.
Realizing that words are sometimes spelled differently in the state just east of Texas, I asked her, "How do you spell that?"
She responded, "I-O-W-A."
I stared at her. "That's pronounced I-oh-Wah," I said.
"Not where I'm from it's not," she responded matter of factly.
There was no point in arguing. I have found that it's best not to argue with a Cajun, anyway. Trust me, you will not win.
Before she left our company, I gave her this poem and told her how popular it was at my coffee house. She loved it.
Since it's not about any of you, I hope you at least like it a little. To those who have never met a real live Cajun, it might not make much sense. I refer to these Cajuns in the poem as "expatriate Cajuns," because they live outside of Cajun country. Culturally speaking, they are worlds away from anyone else.
By the way, if you ever do get the opportunity to meet up with some real live Cajuns and go drinking with them, don't pass it up. It will be one of the most memorable nights of your life, I promise.
Cajuns in Houston
A band of expatriate Cajuns
lives inside the Loop 610,
trying to wipe the swamp
off of their souls.
Born on the bayous of Louisiana
they like living deep in this city
where the bars are within walking distance
and weekends home
for funerals and weddings
are only a few hours drive.
They talk about food
the way other people
talk about sex,
they like it hot
and they like a lot of it
and when it's good,
well, talk about good!
They go on about beer
the way other people
go on about love,
they can't imagine
living without it;
it makes them complete,
and they aren't embarrassed
to say so.
Then, when they've had enough beers,
you can't understand a word they say.
They aren't exactly speaking French,
but it's not like any English
you've ever heard before.
Laid back Texan that I am
I can't imagine that anyone
can have that much passion
and not collapse from exhaustion;
passion about food and drink
and love and music;
I get tired just listing
to them go on about it all
and I can't figure out
if all of the booze
serves as fuel for the passion,
or if they use the drinks
as a precaution
to water the passion down
so that they don't explode.
They don't want to go home,
they tell me, they like it here;
the heat and humidity
are like where they came from,
they even have a bayou
to hang on the banks of.
They like the Texans
that they meet in the bars;
they'll even take one home occasionally
I suppose to teach them about passion
Cajun style -
which might be a bit more
than the average Texan is used to,
but it's nothing a Texan can't handle.
True dat, the Cajuns say, True dat.
They open another beer
and raise it in a toast,
Laisse le bonne temps rolle, Houston!
You see, the Cajuns bring le bonne temps
with them
where ever they go.
-Nina Erickson
(c) 2006
