I Used to Think I Couldn't Be a Poet

I guess it's time for me to share some of the writing that I claim keeps me so busy. I have a show this week, at which I will be performing this piece, so......while you read, I'm going to go practice!!

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I used to think I couldn’t be a poet
Because I hadn’t struggled enough --
Hadn’t earned my stripes.
Because me and my three brothers all had the same parents,
And we lived with them both.
My mother didn’t beat me while cussin’ me to high heaven and my father didn’t sell drugs.
I had never eaten a mayonnaise sandwich,
Played in the street without shoes
or
Lived in one of the recognized, under-developed, soon-to-be-gentrified neighbourhoods in a major metropolitan.
My family was only poor enough to go without cable or a home phone for a spell
Sometimes our water ran cold from the tap, but there was always water
And there was always a tap
As a fixture in the bathroom of a house we had never been evicted from.

I used to think I couldn’t be a poet
Because I didn’t have a political stance behind my words.
I was part of no un-televised revolution – just self-revelation
And a resolution to be a producer of peace.
I had no stories of sit-ins, set-ups or set-backs at the hand of “the Man.”
No conspiracy theories to share
No colours to wear bearing the symbol of my allegiance.
I thought it
Because my verses lacked an essential racial undertone
Intertwined with pride, marginalization, historical references.
Because to strangers, my voice without my face often leaves them wondering about my race.
Because I have not often felt the frustration of overt discrimination
Nor the reported solidarity of racial unity.
Because I went to school with children who looked like me
And who didn’t,
Worked with those that looked like me
And those who didn’t
And it rarely dawned on me to care.

I used to think I couldn’t be a poet
Because I wasn’t an extreme feminist
Because I shave my legs and date men and believe in chivalry.
Because I spell "woman" with the word “man” embedded therin,
Love me some high-heeled shoes and acknowledge the power of flirtation.
I have had my heart broken by a man or two
But never my jaw
And have found a way to forgive the two who had used their maleness and my unattended drink to their benefit...
Because I wasn’t angry enough
To scream “f you” to all the XYs in the room.

I used to think I couldn’t call myself a poet
Because I hadn’t developed my poetry voice.
I hadn’t mastered the rhythmic staccato,
Roller-coastered inflections,
Intonation that leaves
You
Begging for the next word.
Because I hadn’t yet learned how to woo the crowd
And sometimes my poems rhymed.
But not in that cool Black Ice kinda way…
I didn’t feel my subjects were deep enough,
Nor were they commercially sellable.
Because I wasn’t as lyrically creative as home-grown Drake
Wasn’t quite confident enough to pull off sexy
And, hell, I wasn’t even that funny…

All I had were my stories to share

So I stopped trying to be what I thought a poet should be.
Stopped trying to be a poet
And just was…

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Until next time, 

The Single Chick

Vision boards: far sighted, far fetched

I look at it everyday.  It's the first thing I see after I swing my legs over the side of the bed and peel my eyelids back.  It's my vision board.  For anyone who is unfamiliar with the concept of a vision board, think of it as a visual representation of all of your life's dreams.  I have cut out words and pictures from magazines and newspapers, real estate catalogues and travel brochures.  It is a 4-foot pink square of bristol board, covered in the images of all of my (yet unmet) hopes and dreams.

Words like "My amazing, successful, kick-ass, fabulous life!", "persistent excellence," "finding balance," "your dreams are possible," and "falling in love" are glued to images of a bikini-clad body, L'arc de Triomphe in France, the pyramids, a 1 ct. brilliant-cut diamond, a BMW, the floor plan of my dream condo and, of course, a bookshelf full of books....with one book circled and labeled "written by me."

I believe in the law of attraction as much as the next guy, but I'm still trying to figure out how to make that vision into my reality. 6 days/week at the local gym, sweating until I look like a greased pig and what I have to show for it is 5 lbs less, a broken toe and the inability to wear my super sexy stilletoes to the boat cruise I'm going on tomorrow.

Somehow, I think the pyramids are still a way off...

So how helpful are vision boards?  Do they serve to keep us motivated and focussed, working towards the things we claim we want to have? Or are they simply reminders of all of the things we currently lack in our lives?  The optimist in me wants to bet on motivation and the belief that if I can see it, I can achieve it.

So that being said, how exactly do I start working on my ring???

Until next time,
The Single Chick


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Six Word Saturday is a weekly event at Show My Face. All you need is six words....any way you want to dress it up is up to you! Click her button to visit Cate and see what everyone else has to say.

Stood up, fed up

I got stood up recently. Twice, in fact. By two different men. Within one month.

I was surprised the first time it happened....hurt, actually, because I kinda liked the guy.  We had been on one fairly fantastic date and then - BAM - out of seemingly nowhere, he doesn't show up.  I chalked it up to some rare, flesh-eating disease that must have rendered him hideous and he was just too embarrassed to face me or to talk about it.  Then, when I got stood up the second time, I checked the news for a segment on the pandemic that was sweeping across the population of single men in Toronto. Symptoms: failure to follow through on commitments, inability to dial or text, and, in rare occasions, completely vanishing altogether.

It was a long shot, but what else could it be?

Not even my male friends could offer a reasonable suggestion as to why this would've happened to me. And twice, no less.  I am considered, among my friends, to be a rather attractive, intelligent, witty and fun, career-oriented, ambitious woman and all-around cool chick.  Not clicking with someone is one thing, but setting a date and then bailing without communication is a whole other kettle of fish.  I'd really like to know if there is a way to avoid the type of guy that would commit such and offense.  The two in my experience seemed completely normal and quite into me.  I never saw it coming.

And I guess I still don't really have any answers to this conundrum.  I don't plan on giving up on dating completely, but how attractive is the disclaimer:

"If you plan on wasting my time after I've found a sitter for the evening, at least give me a heads-up so, I can do something else with the little free time I have.  Thanks."

...?

In the meantime, I'm checking references.  Allowing my friends to do the matchmaker thing that they like to do, but only with people they've known to have at least an 85% follow through rate.

I'm also keeping one eye on the news for signs of my suspected pandemic.

Until next time,
The Single Chick