ninanevermore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ninanevermore) wrote2006-03-12 12:48 pm
ninanevermore) wrote2006-03-12 12:48 pm
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Another weekend, another poem. Don't everyone get too excited, now.
It's been awhile since I posted one. I went to my open mic last night and read for the first time in ages, despite the light crowd. My only stipulation is that I have to see at least one unfamiliar face if I'm going to read, and there was one woman there that I didn't know, so I put my name on the list.
Mike J., the host last night, used to always introduce me as "The Poet Laureate of Tomball," until the night that I pointed out to him that I actually live in Pinehurst, the unincorporated area north of Tomball. So now he calls me The Poet Laureate of Pinehurst, which I like a bit better. Tomball is a small town/city on the Northwest corner of the big city that is Houston. It has a mayor, a town council, a fire department, a school district and all the things that a real town ought to have. There may well be a real Poet Laureate of Tomball, probably the sister-in-law of one of the city council members, but that person is not me.
Pinehurst, on the other hand, has a post office, two convenience stores, an antique/junk store, a liquor store, a Baptist church, a beer joint and me, the unofficial Poet Laureate. That's about it. Blink as you drive up that state highway, and you will miss it.
I started my set with a cover of "Small Change (Got Rained on with His Own .38)" by Tom Waits. I introduce any piece written by someone else that I read as a cover, since this is a venue for musicians and I am the only spoken-word artist who frequents it. I when in Rome, you speak Italian. When you are on a musicians' mic, you speak musician. It's polite. The Tom Waits piece is a spoken word piece on his 1976 album Small Change, I just did it without any music in the background, though a saxophone would have been nice provided it did not overpower my voice. It's a fun piece to read, even if my voice is the complete opposite of Tom's. I can only hope that I inspired one of the young barristas or the kids in the back corner to check Tom out.
I followed up with a new poem that probably needs a couple of more re-writes before I post it here called "Coffee Shop Haunt," about my intentions to haunt that particular coffee house after I die and what sort of mischief I will be up to as a ghost. I then did an older poem that I wrote back in college, in my poignant-grief period, because I sometimes enjoy the stunned poignant-grief faces the audience makes at the end of one of these poems. Then I needed something to close with. I never close with poignant grief. I prefer to close with laughter. Laughter should always follow grief, and it should come before it as well. Laughter makes a good bookend to negative emotions; as long as you have it to hold you up you can survive what hits you in the middle. I asked the audience if they had any favorites.
"Do the sexy one!" Tim the harmonica player shouted, which made his wife hit him on the shoulder. I guess it's his favorite. Everyone else asks for "A Love Poem For New Orleans" but Tim always asks for "the sexy one."
So I closed with "Lyric-Tease," a.k.a., "The Sexy Poem." It's not about sex, for the record. It's about a lust for language, about the act of writing and performing poetry. It's a fun one to close a reading with, because it has a great take-a-bow sort of closing line. Without further ado, here it it is.
Lyric-Tease
With voluptuous language,
I jiggle and gyrate
with words and phrases -
never quite revealing all -
keeping metaphoric pasties
and linguistic g-strings
over all the key points.
I slide up to your psyche,
hoping you feel a swell -
that little push from the inside -
pleasurable,
and a bit uncomfortable, too;
If I move just right,
I can make you crave me;
I can make you love
and want to try to save me.
But I'll dance here
until my words sag
and my phrases aren't so firm;
I'll try to titillate
until I'm booed off the stage -
a tired old tease artist
at the end of her page.
- Nina Erickson
© 2006
My apologies to the guitar player who was there last night with his 11-year-old daughter. Your face was aghast when I read this, but I doubt she's too corrupted. God knows, I grew up listening to my mother's Country and Western Music, which has more lyrics about sex and drunkenness than any other genre of music around. If my own innocence could survive that, then your little girl is still the unsullied angel she was when you decided to bring her to the open mic with you earlier that evening. I promise.
Mike J., the host last night, used to always introduce me as "The Poet Laureate of Tomball," until the night that I pointed out to him that I actually live in Pinehurst, the unincorporated area north of Tomball. So now he calls me The Poet Laureate of Pinehurst, which I like a bit better. Tomball is a small town/city on the Northwest corner of the big city that is Houston. It has a mayor, a town council, a fire department, a school district and all the things that a real town ought to have. There may well be a real Poet Laureate of Tomball, probably the sister-in-law of one of the city council members, but that person is not me.
Pinehurst, on the other hand, has a post office, two convenience stores, an antique/junk store, a liquor store, a Baptist church, a beer joint and me, the unofficial Poet Laureate. That's about it. Blink as you drive up that state highway, and you will miss it.
I started my set with a cover of "Small Change (Got Rained on with His Own .38)" by Tom Waits. I introduce any piece written by someone else that I read as a cover, since this is a venue for musicians and I am the only spoken-word artist who frequents it. I when in Rome, you speak Italian. When you are on a musicians' mic, you speak musician. It's polite. The Tom Waits piece is a spoken word piece on his 1976 album Small Change, I just did it without any music in the background, though a saxophone would have been nice provided it did not overpower my voice. It's a fun piece to read, even if my voice is the complete opposite of Tom's. I can only hope that I inspired one of the young barristas or the kids in the back corner to check Tom out.
I followed up with a new poem that probably needs a couple of more re-writes before I post it here called "Coffee Shop Haunt," about my intentions to haunt that particular coffee house after I die and what sort of mischief I will be up to as a ghost. I then did an older poem that I wrote back in college, in my poignant-grief period, because I sometimes enjoy the stunned poignant-grief faces the audience makes at the end of one of these poems. Then I needed something to close with. I never close with poignant grief. I prefer to close with laughter. Laughter should always follow grief, and it should come before it as well. Laughter makes a good bookend to negative emotions; as long as you have it to hold you up you can survive what hits you in the middle. I asked the audience if they had any favorites.
"Do the sexy one!" Tim the harmonica player shouted, which made his wife hit him on the shoulder. I guess it's his favorite. Everyone else asks for "A Love Poem For New Orleans" but Tim always asks for "the sexy one."
So I closed with "Lyric-Tease," a.k.a., "The Sexy Poem." It's not about sex, for the record. It's about a lust for language, about the act of writing and performing poetry. It's a fun one to close a reading with, because it has a great take-a-bow sort of closing line. Without further ado, here it it is.
Lyric-Tease
With voluptuous language,
I jiggle and gyrate
with words and phrases -
never quite revealing all -
keeping metaphoric pasties
and linguistic g-strings
over all the key points.
I slide up to your psyche,
hoping you feel a swell -
that little push from the inside -
pleasurable,
and a bit uncomfortable, too;
If I move just right,
I can make you crave me;
I can make you love
and want to try to save me.
But I'll dance here
until my words sag
and my phrases aren't so firm;
I'll try to titillate
until I'm booed off the stage -
a tired old tease artist
at the end of her page.
- Nina Erickson
© 2006
My apologies to the guitar player who was there last night with his 11-year-old daughter. Your face was aghast when I read this, but I doubt she's too corrupted. God knows, I grew up listening to my mother's Country and Western Music, which has more lyrics about sex and drunkenness than any other genre of music around. If my own innocence could survive that, then your little girl is still the unsullied angel she was when you decided to bring her to the open mic with you earlier that evening. I promise.
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I actually have an aunt and uncle that have lived in Tomball for years.
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BTW: How's the songwriting coming? I know, I keep asking.
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No new songs have come into my head lately because they all know that Joe would screw them up so they're afraid to be born. It depresses me.
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The place I read only sells coffee, but I'm starting to suspect that ol' Tim has a few beers before leaving the house.
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