basement poet – foto by Smith
Three comments from last Sunday’s poetic potluck party.
One poet (Steve Thomas) wrote that “i felt like i walked into the soft cotton of acceptance on sunday that there was comfort with a whole world revolving around us.”
I replied “well, poets are after all the center of the universe – that’s why we write verse.”
And a decades long friend (Field Marshall May Midwest aka book artist Melissa Jay Craig) wrote that it sounded like I was needlessly complaining because after all we were putting on an artistic event, had a foreign poet traveling thousands of miles to be with us, had our artistic and poetic peers surrounding and celebrating with us, and that her old boss used to tell her “You’d bitch if you was hung with a new rope.”
I’ve been thinking about that phrase, and I believe I would bitch being hung with a new rope because a new rope would be rougher, stiffer and pricklier with all those new erect rope hairs sticking out poking my neck — I would want to be hung with an old soft used rope so it’d be more comfortable around my neck. I figure if things are that bad, I’d want all the small comforts I could muster.
The third comment was from another poet who when invited to the potluck grinned and said “I’ll bring the pot if you bring the luck.” And did.
my tribe – foto by Smith