Poetry Slam at Four Moons Café

Summer 2008

by Connie Lakey Martin

     Standing at the counter of Four Moons Café, waiting for my Caramel Latte, I stared at the sign-up sheet for a poetry reading and, while the waitress blended and stirred, toyed with adding my name.   I wondered if anyone would want to hear poems by a baby boomer?  There was no age limit, so I signed myself up, paid for an outrageously priced coffee and walked out the door thinking to myself, well, you crazy girl, what have you gone and done.
     I had some stashed poems, but to walk into a café of complete strangers and read?  Why would I do this?  What was I thinking?  The coffee seduced me.
     Poetry is what you read alone, right?  Perhaps being with other writers and hearing their poems would be a learning experience.  When I tell friends about my poetry, they say, “That’s nice. I wrote a poem once.”  
     Poetry to many is just a fancy pastime.  So at the office I decided not to mention my upcoming poetic adventure.  But when my coworker asked what I planned for the weekend, I replied, “I’m going to read my poems at the Four Moons Café.”
     “That’s cool," they replied, “I wrote a poem once....”
     Saturday arrives when I am to read my poems at the café.  That morning I asked my husband “Will you come and support me tonight when I read my poetry?”
     “What?  Like you support me in yard work?”  He knows I know, he’s not into poetry.
     Later that morning, my daughter comes to visit with my young granddaughters.   I walk them to the park while their mother goes shopping.   The 14-year-old talks about school and I toddle after the two-year-old and try not to think about reading that evening.  Perhaps I’ll just skip it. I don’t have to do this.   But when my daughter returns to collect the grandkids, I announce, “I’m going to read my poems at a café tonight.”
     "Mom, that’s so cool!  What are you going to wear?”
     “Jeans, I guess.” 
     “Jeans?  Shouldn’t you dress up for that?” 
     “Sarah Palin wore jeans on The Tonight Show.  I can wear jeans at the Four Moons Café.”
     “I’ll post on Facebook you are reading tonight,” she says. 
     I’m thinking crowd control.  It’s a small café.  
     It is 3:00 p.m. and my palms are sweaty.  In a few hours I’ll be reading in front of who knows how many, composed of what?  Teenagers?  College kids?  How many people actually signed up?  Perhaps they won’t have time for me to read.  Yeah, I’ll just go, order a cup of expensive coffee, sit down and observe the gathering.  If I left early, who would miss me?  I was having serious doubts about my moment in the sun.  Maybe poems are better read alone.
     Finally, setting aside all fear, I showered, hot-curled my hair, and studied my closet that held absolutely nothing trendy.  But, I did locate my jeans.  Wished I had not gotten my hair cut that week.  Always looks better the second week.  I left the hot curlers in too long, my hair was poofy.  One look in the mirror, I saw a bewildered, slightly overweight baby boomer with big hair wearing jeans.  I grabbed my folder of poems, waved goodbye to my husband working in the yard, and set sail across town to the Four Moons Café.
     I parked close to the front.  It will be dark when I leave.  Crime has occurred here.  That would be an unhappy ending.  Ending?  This was just beginning.  I walk into the café clutching what I consider some of my best poems and scan the place for others who might be there for the reading.  There’s a young fellow maybe 20 sitting alone, staring at his laptop.  Is he composing?  Checking his bank account?  Reading email?  An older man sits with a woman at a table.  But that’s it.  Are they there for the poetry read?  I should just go and ask them, get acquainted, but I don’t.   Chicken.  There are two large leather couches, a couple of comfy chairs, and three small round tables.  I choose one of the tables facing the TV hanging from the corner of the room playing CNN.  It is 5:50 p.m.  There are only four of us.   I pick up a brochure titled, no surprise, Coffee News, to appear preoccupied.  Finally, a young woman walks over and begins moving furniture around. 
     “Hi, I’m Stephanie,” she says.
     “Are you here for the poetry read?” I ask.  
     “Actually I’m the manager,” she gushes. 
     “How many are signed up?”
     “Four, I think. Would you like some wine?” 
     What I want is to gather my poems and dash out, because I am terrifically nervous, wondering why I’m here, when I could be home working in my office writing a poem to be read alone someday by a friend who wrote a poem once. Anywhere but here. 
     It feels like poetry suicide.
     Stephanie hands out cards with numbers on them to three people who will act as judges.  There are two young workers behind the counter grinding beans and stirring coffees permeating the café like Brazil in a cup, which would make any poem smell and taste full-bodied.
     “May I have your attention,” Stephanie says, holding her wine in one hand, the sign-up sheet in her other.  “We have four poets tonight.  We will have three rounds.  After each poem is read, the judges will please hold up their cards indicating their vote.”
     Stephanie calls my name first.  Great, so much for leaving early.  How bad can it be?  I’ve lived through childbirth, root canals and job reviews.  I asked for this.  I walked right in here carrying my poems and asked for this.
     So I read what I consider one of my better modern prose non-rhyme poems.  I am not used to speaking this poem, only thinking it.  It feels different hearing it.  I kind of, well, like it.  I wonder if others are liking it too.  Just when I was beginning to relax and enjoy the process, my poem ended.  Everyone applauded.  I sat down and Stephanie asked the judges to hold up their cards.  I didn’t look.
     Next was the young man who had been staring into his laptop.  He smiled flashing his braces, younger than I first thought.  His poem rhymed.  Rhyme?  Really?  Doesn’t  he know poems aren’t supposed to rhyme nowadays?  Where had he been?  Oh, yeah, he hadn’t really been anywhere, had he?  He was young, probably never exposed to worldly prose.  Had to admit it was sweet, and when he was done they clapped louder than for me.
     The next reader was another young man.  Again, rhyme.  He knew it totally by heart.  It was long, but he obviously enjoyed the sound of his voice, because he took his long, sweet time.  But rhyme?  Seriously?
     The last reader was a woman, perhaps in her 30's.  How did I get to be so old?  She read from a handmade booklet held together by ribbon.  Her poems were serious and sentimental and, yes, oh yes, they rhymed.  No!  Exactly what planet were these poets from?  Someone should enlighten these writers on the progression of poetry.  Rhyme left us a long time ago.  It went up the hill with Jack and Jill.  You can think bigger than rhyme.  You’ve got to write poetry people can’t understand the first time, so they will read twice, then read again.   Rhyme gives it all away.  Modern prose makes you imagine the intelligence of a writer who could write in such unimaginable fashion.   But I am a wild poet child of the 60's.  No one understood us then either.  
     After all three rounds, Stephanie announced the winner as the young fellow with the laptop and braces.  We were all treated to free coffee.  We shook hands, congratulated the winner, exchanged copies of our poems and emails.  We promised to stay in touch. 
     I never heard from any of them again.  And not long afterwards, Four Moons Café closed. 
     But I’m still open for a good poem.  Preferably non-rhyme.  With coffee.

Keep Heart,
~Connie

June 2024