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Sunday, November 14, 2010

When a Poet Brings The FIYAH!




Last night, I went back to my roots, my origin, my native, the place where my words first caught that fire of attention and the promise of ambition. Last night, I returned to my primal mission: POETRY.


Readings are something I once did frequently, before little magazines, publication and noveldom intervened and became a part of my immediate scene. Readings can be extremely cool when you get into the head-groove of them.

For this event, I wanted to give my drummer some... but my drummer was giving me nothing, but drama. I called. No word. I left messages. No reply. It was looking like I'd be reading all by my lonesome.

See, my drummer, Abdul, can truly play. This cat slaps skins and takes you back to those days of Nubian warriors being welcomed home to their villages. I mean, when this cat plays, he takes you away on the wings of a rhythm.

But Abdul was busy playing the cool mute who was not computing my messages.

So, I rolled, stag, Metro style, got on my train, and tried to breathe in smoooove easy waves, going over my lines, mentally clocking my timing, as the train soon made its next stop... and… BAM! The last cat who boarded was lugging a huge conga. Ah yes! The Drama's over. That last cat's my bwoi, Abdul! Now, I feel as if I can spit! We give each other dab. We riff and we rap, and we’re ready to make our poetic attack, and get that party started correctly.

The place, the spot, the den, the boite was this joint in lower Connecticut. It was done up in cool retro café-style, where along the brick walls lay black and white snaps and posters of cats, chicks and poetic deities like: Ginsberg, Kerouac, The Beats and dem, Amiri Baraka, Maya Angelou, Jayne Cortez and Nikki Giovanni, just to name a few.

Like always, I‘m a bit fritzed, a bit frazzled with frenetic nerves and energy. Abdul? He was just maxin and relaxin with a cool-azz lounge.

The show began, precisely at 8:30PM. And like, Whoa! From the jump, I was stoked, I was hooked.

That stage was the breeding ground of some fiercely hot mad talented spoken word artists, all finessing and flowing, all verbing and vibing with ratta-tat-tat ballistic styles, poeting on serious issues and kickin' this mad powerful shit.

I sit and I listen, and soon become an enthralled and enthusiastic member of this poetic marathon.

But suddenly, I feel small and unworthy. I feel all fake and fraudulent. Me... with my frail-azz phonics, seriously considering just vacating that place.

I was sixth in line. This fifth chick was doing her slick linguistically rich mad urban mama drama monologue, complete with high-pitched SCREAMS and shit... and I felt the intensity of this maddening nerve thing, this swerving-in-my-belly thing combined w/ this frog-in-my-throat thing, the semi-freak-out-just-beneath-my-skin thing... mixed with that I don't think I can cope with this whole judgment thing!

Gawd! I hate that feeling!

But it was way too late to do anything-- other than to breathe, yo... just breathe in easy in waves. Breathe baby. Breathe with me!


Then, the MC, Zeke, 'The Vociferous Puerto Reek' cat was back at the mic, and he was loudly introducing ME.

Abdul went on first. He set his mighty congas in place. Then, some invisible hand (God?) pushed, nudging me forth and I followed behind him.

Inside the high-yellow glow of a single bright spot, I stepped to the mic, cleared my throat, hoping something other than a croak, or smoke emits, but I KNOW it's Show-time, dammit!

Nerves, be gone, yo! You on, yo! Madness, begone! Yo Lin! You KNOW you can do this, yo!

And so, I did it. I spit, I riffed, I waxed, I poeted and, yes, I lyricized:

“Actors Acting

We act the mack, the clown, the hack.
We act, we wax, all hip and romantic.
We act as if
Our bullshit
Didn’t stink.

We act coy
We act shy
We act cool
We act fly
We act lies
And half truths
In that quest to
Knock boots

We act happy
When we’re sad
We act calm
When we’re mad
We act slick
& get tricked
By our own
Acting bag. “


And Abdul’s right behind me, keeping his steady rhymic beat. BOOM-CHA-BOP, BOOM-CHA BAM! BOOM-CHA-BOP, BOOM-CHA-BAM. Am I master of this verbal domain? Oh, yes, mos def, I am, mane! I am cool groit… and street-battered soul. Yes, yes, yo! Yes, yes, yo! I am truth-bringer and metaphor slinger. Yes, yes, yo. Check me out, yo!

Photobucket



And the words and drums all merged, so fluidly, so beautifully.

Shoulders moved. The room too became fluid, yes, fluid like me, like he, like us, like we.

And I’m gazing into this amazing sea of faces, eyes all attentive. They are feeding me waves of affirmation!

People are nodding their heads, yo. People were feeling my vibe, my stee-lo. And me? I’m testifying most tenaciously. I am in my zone. I am feeling alive! I am fi-yah and sometimes, I am ice. I am all this unleashed anger and hushed sensitivity. I am a poet, dammit! A poet, in his own rightful element! When a poet's busy poeting, he or she ain’t sweatin’, ain’t stressin’ about shit!

I am on, yo! I am a drum, and a beat. A voice and a flow.


And then… before I knew it, my flow was done. The jig was up. Finis. WTF!? Where had the time gone? Had I riffed too fast, or gone on too long? Had I said too much, or not quite enuff?

But people were clapping—clapping kinda loudly-- and I could feel the love. Zeke, The Vociferous Puerto Rican cat was stepping my way. I guess I was done. I'd read four poems, and it felt like four seconds!


That's the whole trip of this live performance thing. You dread it, up until that very moment, then you're on. Then, once the words come… it seems nothing and no one can stop you. You're a train, zooming, full-speed, a loco locomotive, with one mission, one motive and that is-- to be heard.

And for all the nerves, the highs and lows, I highly recommend it. Take it from one who knows: you'll *never* forget the ride.

Poetry readings can transform me from a reasonably shy and mellow guy into this whole other cat with an arsenal of words, thoughts, actions, verbs, and whole other swerve in my sway. No longer just another cat, stalking the stage in head to toe black, but something dangerous, like a panther, yo! Yes, a panther, in mid-pounce…

Last night, it was big-ups, kisses and embraces, and props of: "you the shit, yo!"


And tonight, it'll be back to work again, back to my lot, back to people placing orders and taking me for granted again. Back to me being this ace-mixologist, this writer wannabe, this part-time poet, with a semi-secret life.

But for one too brief moment, I was fire, baby! FiYAH, I say! Just wish y'all coulda seen me, burn.


One.

20 comments:

Mizrepresent said...

No doubt Lin, i wished i was there but your brilliant recount allowed me to recreate this moment in my mind. Loved it!

Val said...

I wish I had been there too, Lin.

You are very brave. I just don't think I could do it. I know I'd be feeling 10x the nervousness that you described.

I applaud you for getting up on that stage and making it yours.

And I really like 'Actors Acting'. So true.

JSin said...

Great post and blog.

Some fellow bloggers and myself are involved in a movement to help bloggers unite and share our writing and works with the world. If you are interested in participating or learning more about it please contact me (up4dsn@yahoo.com). Thanks!

Reggie said...

Ahhh yeah, that sounds like it was serious good times!!!

That scene is one I've never experienced and always meant too....just never got around to it.

Felicia Monique said...

Love it, love it, love it! I'm already knowing you were/are pure fiyah! So um, I plan to be in NYC next month... Maybe you'll do it again! =)

I was a poetry slam/open mic groupie this past summer, and my current muse is a well-known poet. I'm much too nervous to spit, but one day I will.

WynnSong said...

Wish I had been there Lin.....seeing you in your element....doing YOU....would have been the best....and yet.....I felt like I WAS THERE....

Jason said...

Brotha Pen, I bet that place experienced a higher level of consciousness while you were spitting.

Next time we are going to need you to bring a conga player and videographer, ok homey!

nachalooman said...

Brother Eastside!!
Hot fiyah on the mike! I can see the audience engulfed in your flames, loving every minute!

Moanerplicity said...

@ Miz: Ahhhh... Thank you, my Sista Pen! I wish you were there too, & spittin' YOUR work!

One.

Moanerplicity said...

@ Val:

Thanks Val. Not sure if it's about being 'brave' as much as it's about having a bit of confidence/faith in your gift. Not so much that it makes you vain or cocky (hence, my nerves!), but just enough to want to share it w/ others.

btw... re "Actors Acting": That was just an excerpt of the poem. Glad you liked it.

One.

Moanerplicity said...

@ JSin:

Thanks. That's a wonderful idea. I'll look into it.

One.

Moanerplicity said...

@ Reggie:

As a spectator, it's a mellow way to spend some time. As a reader, well, after the STRESS session, it can be a very rewarding experience.


One.

Moanerplicity said...

@ Felicia:

Thanks, My Sista of The Poetic Pen. I do plan to do it again sometime, just have to prepare some new material.

Please email me about the trip to NYC. Depending on our schedules, it would be nice to hook up & hang.

Meanwhile... *wonders who that current muse might be* (smiles)

One.

Moanerplicity said...

@ Wynn:

Thanks so much, Wynn-man. You KNOW how I'm at my best when in a creative environment... so this was a very cool & welcome change of pace.


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Moanerplicity said...

@ Jason:

Thanks, Brotha Pen. Truthfully, I had all these paranoid visions of croaking/choking & NOT exactly rockin dat funky joint. Maybe next time, I'll roll thru w/ someone w/ a cam. Not sure if I'd share it or just analyze the HELL outta it, tho. I'm usually my own toughest critic!

One.

Moanerplicity said...

@ Anna:

Thanks, Sista Eastsiiiide! Yup. I must say, I didn't exactly suck. That woulda been MAD embarassing. LOL.

One.

Chet said...

Speak of Fiyah the alarming blaze that enthralled us through linguistics. I could feel the words and hear Abdul beat the drum while you attacked us poetically.

Moanerplicity said...

@ Chet:


Thanks, man. It's the combining of energies that work. Like James Brown without his trademark SCREAM, I'm nothing w/out my drummer, yo. (smiles)


One.

CareyCarey said...

Moan, hit my e-mail (I don't know yours), I need a sound mind (and a good writer) to help me draft a letter concerning my grandson(you know the incident).

You may know where I am going or where I have to go when I say the following words "A defining moment in the life of a parent and their 6 year old son"

Teri and the cats of Furrydance said...

You brought us there...but oh so fine it would have been to hear you. If you are ever in the DC area, check out Busboys and Poets...I could see you there