File this away in: “Things I Had No Clue Were Happening in Birmingham”.

My friend Tracy Watts recently revealed to me – and between poets it’s always somewhat of a confession – that he does some writing.  And that he reads some of his poetry at Books, Beans, and Candles (located in Southside just above where 20 splits).  The first Tuesday of every month is open mic night.  The shop also apparently hosts the practices of the Magick City Sirens, a group that – if they’re a going concern – I’d love to interview.

This last Tuesday, I went to see Tracy and hear some of his stuff.  I saw a “FLARF” license plate on the way over; unrelated, yarble?  In sum, I heard two guitarists, three singers, three poets, at least one drummer, some reasonable Ziggy Stardust and a stealthy acoustic version of Cake’s Meanwhile, Rick James.  Everything’s hit-or-miss, of course, but generally a good-natured good time with a notably inclusive and non-critical group.

Romantic movies often focus on the moment two people meet because audiences like to watch the sparks.  Angry fights are one thing, but I find it more enjoyable to watch constructive interactions like first kisses.  The best moments of the night came from some newfound give-and-takes.  I think it’s important for artists of any stripe – we’re so often soloists – to remember the value of collaboration.

Two girls joined forces for (I think) the first time to do Jolene.  Tracy got to try performing his work with a good drummer.  It writes as a bit cliche, maybe, but a little background music magnifies the power of almost any spoken performance.  And I’ve never watched live poetry read with drums, so not so old hat for me.  Easily the most special of the night, though, was a good performance of Jewel’s You Were Meant For Me that coaxed spontaneous singing out of pretty much every girl in the room.  Unplanned and unanticipated.  Audience members almost always make the best background singers.

Thanks to Tracy for including me, and some of his work follows:

Locust Husk

There was a locust husk
On my door frame this morning.
This empty shell seemed to stand sentry
Like some Geiger gargoyle.
In seeing it my mind split
Split into the continuum of
Then
Now
Next

As kids we used to revel in the hunt
Building small, alien armies,
Locust husks our armored soldiers.
They were our summer-time treasures
And lasted as long as the heat
Fighting our imaginary battles.
The survivors honored in the boxes
Where such childhood treasures were kept.

Now with adult eyes,
This discarded shell
This outgrown skin
Brings pause and dim remembered
Childhood delights.
Now
Now I see the sign of growth
Life which crawled forth from
A sarcophagus of it’s own creation.

What’s next for this small creature
Which emerged larger
And yet weaker for a time
Softened until the passing of
It’s own life hardens it once again
Making it stronger and ready
For more growth
Ready again for
Next
Now
Next
Having left then behind
And shaped by it.

The Hatred of Mirrors

I am filled
Overwhelmed
By
The hatred of mirrors.

The silvered surface
Shimmering moonlight
From within a pane
Of glass.

Pure silver light
And I can not hide
There is no concealment
From the mirror

It’s always there
This image
From the light
And I feel
The hatred of mirrors

The plain images
From another world
Here
Now
Solid
Real
True
And with sadness
Comes the realization
That it isn’t
Not really
A hatred of mirrors.