If you follow my blog, you’ll notice how frequently I post poetry on it. I am a frustrated poet, hopefully on the transition to non-frustration. Reading poetry is a constant hobby, or habit, and one which I’m always wishing to practice more. Writing my bad poetry is an obsession, which comes and goes. It might sound terribly self-deprecating, but I just can’t call myself a poet, just yet. Still, I’m determined to write.
Like a Mario-Kart Mushroom for my desire to grow in spite of the lack of confidence in my prose, I discovered a wonderful place a while ago, The Poet’s Passage in Old San Juan. My visits to their wonderful Poetry Nights were sporadic, yet each one was an oasis. This last month I finally turned my Tuesday nights into a non-negotiable pseudo-religious event, separated only for poetry and the friends I share it with.
Every time I go, I draw (or somebody draws) a square next to my name in the attendance list, indicating I’m reciting something. At first, I mostly read the poetry of famous, and much better, poets. Theatricality is a comfort zone. Nowadays, I try to focus more on my own material, which is always “dirty”, as I call it to signify its need for reediting and work, even when I get so nervous that a glass of wine beforehand becomes a necessity. This way, I grow, my poetry grows, my words grow, my courage grows, and so on.
(A new friend, José Orlando, took this lovely photo this past Tuesday and gave me permission to use it however I please :-D)