A small art gallery called the Mudpuppy in my town celebrated its 1 year anniversary by organizing its second open mic poetry night today. The group as a whole, has as its goal, the promotion of art and creativity in the community.
As the Amherstburg I knew as child continues to morph into the Amherstburg I live in today, I am always amazed and inspired by the efforts of the people of the town to express what it means to live in this little stretch of riverfront civilization.
Fancy restaurants, little pubs, "Snack Attack" (may it rest in peace). I love that they come into being, regardless of how long they exist or their commercial success. But the mudpuppy and this poetry night filled in a little part of the whole in my being that was left by the disappearance of Boblo, Bruins Bakery, the bowling alley and the movie theater. Tonight I found something I was ready for, and apparently, so were many others.
Published poets, both local and formerly local (Penny-Ann Beaudoin, Dani Couture and Robert Earl Stewart) shared the mic with unpublished locals like myself and my cousin Lorraine. (to name those who's names I can remember. There were more, and they were great)
Julie read a poem I wrote for the occasion called "Seeds". I accompanied her on the shakuhachi.
It was a wonderful night, and it illuminated the soul of this town and its people. Thank you to all who made this such a wonderful event.
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Seeds
Spring air, freshly warm. It still has that new car smell.
So young, this season stumbles in awkwardly, table to sofa, like a wobbly infant.
Even now, in the midst of birth and potential..... Summer is dying.
Leaves of gold, brown and red spy on children in the park, concealed behind a mask of chlorophyll.
THESE are the cool winds of Autumn, Incognito. Distorted. Played backwards like a Pink Floyd album.
And yet... the odor of cut grass overwhelms.
Distracted by the smells brought forth by propane flames, I head out in bare feet,
Willfully ignorant of the end that awaits.
