n.b.

Someone recently asked me if I knew what "N.B." stood for. I told her I thought it was "nota bene" which means to take note or note well. After a quick verification via internet, she told me I was right. Oh yes, every time I am correct, I note it well.

I went to my first poetry slam in probably over a year on Monday night. In a darkened bar, I sat at table next to my friend Slim who was competing and I felt strangely at home. Strange that it has been so long since I've been in attendance for such an event and yet, it is as normal as a poetry slam can be normal. I watched my friends stand behind the mic one at a time, standing in a spot I used to occupy on a regular basis, saying words that left their impressions like fingerprints on my brain. I was in awe. In awe that I know people who have such eloquence and profundity. I was also in disbelief that there was once a time that I was the eloquent and profound one. That I once rubbed shoulders with the urban soothsayers who turned the masses out into the world from the bars turned auditoriums, hearts burning with inspiration and ears smoking from wisdom heard. One of those people was me. I was one of those people who walked off stage with eyes following and whispers exchanging on the ingenuity of my work. And now here I was, like a grandma watching kids climb the jungle gym at the park, peering with misty wonder as she asks herself when was the last time her hip didn't hurt and that she could hang upside down by her knees.

I stopped performing poetry because I got scared. I was afraid that I couldn't say anything new. When poets would speak of revolution, all I heard was the same words going in circles, THAT kind of revolution. I didn't want to be the fish tank that recycles the water. I would have liked to be a spring. I didn't want to deal with the insecurity of a new piece, innards exposed, fresh ideas deemed elusive and too esoteric for people to bite into. I kept writing poems for myself, for the boyfriend, for no one to hear but anyone to read. When you hold a poem in your hands, you can cuddle with it until it makes you feel turned on or rejected. The "page poems", as poets call them, worked for a while, but now I can't even remember the last poem I wrote and if I think for a moment, it sucked. I've forgotten that my poetic mind is a muscle and it needs exercise.

When I see my poetry friends, they ask me if I've been writing. I tell them I started a blog, as if it was something special. They tell me that they miss my poetry. I miss it too. And so, I am heeding their advice, not that they offered any, but I will glean what I need from their comments to start writing poetry again. Nota bene.