by (c) Nin Harris 2012

Cadence, she said.

Cadence and rhythm
and meter; timed glottal stops
for some and an almost
child-like singsong for others.

Sitting at the back in poetry readings
listening to other poets express
their words through the music of their own
voices, I am struck silence.

I do not write poetry for a year.

Cadence, she said.

Solitude births poesy;
I exhale when I read, then I inhale –
gulp and let cadence envelope me.

A one-woman poetry reading in a messy bedroom.

This is how my words are birthed.

—
Note: This is a sister-poem to Shame, both are about attending open-mic readings.

(c) Nin Harris 2012

Rapid words escape lips
and I both fume and exalt
at the fury and the cadence and the rhythm
of another’s innermost everything.

I have not had that freedom –
my words are etched in
the silent dark to sometimes
be spread out to others;
often ignored.

I imagine me at open mic;
shy, rotund, stammering,
the south east asian
accent interfering with diction
my double chins merging
into themselves and into
the apprehension of cruel wit.

I imagine the immediacy of
my words disappearing off
the parchment and ricocheting
against the cold malice
of a microphone;
the shame of my
Otherness amplified
for ridicule.

—

Note: This poem is the ghost of a memory of attending my first open-mic event and does not represent me as I am now. It is left intentionally raw.