Poetry on the menu

Hey, how are you doing, my name is Walpoet,
and I’ll be your poet for his evening and the remainder of this piece.
Looks like we have some poetry on the menu.
So, please, take off your coat, kick back, relax,
and I hope you brought your appetite for these poetic verses.

Next, let me tell you about our specials,
because for starters, we have a delicious and delectable delicacy
full of alliteration with a dash of assonance slowly heated,
and aimed to keep you seated at the table begging for more.
As for the entree?

Don’t worry, I have something truly amazing.
Sauteed metaphors on a bed of similes,
sprinkled with a dab of personification,
enough to make your plate stand up and dance for joy.
Oh, so you say you’re’ practically starving.
Well that’s perfect because for dessert we have flambeed hyperbole,
enough for you and 40 of your closest friends.

Wait, so you don’t understand the menu?
Well, then say no more fam, let me explain.
I know that poetry can sometimes feel out of touch or out of reach,
like a high-end menu from a restaurant you can barely pronounce.

And you might think it raves too much about love or how the world is
essentially falling apart right before our eyes.
Or you also might think that poetry has nothing to offer that Netflix
and chill can’t already take care of.
But I beg to differ.
Because you know what?
The art that lives and breathes on your wall is poetry.
The Spotify playlist of your favorite tracks is poetry and the motivation
for your love making sessions to last at least 3 songs is also poetry.

And I’m sure you’re saying, that’s what any poet would say.
Yes, but typically not so graphically.
But according to the Oxford languages dictionary that breathes inside of my laptop,
any intense sense of beauty or emotion can be poetry.

Which means the first time you had your heart broken was poetry.
But I know what you’re saying;
how can my heart being ripped apart from my chest and then being served to me on a charcuterie board by my first love be poetry?
How can crying alone in a parking lot at 11:00 PM in my run down Nissan Altima,
at age 20 after a nervous breakdown be poetry.

But it is.
But then it’s also a first kiss, and the sight of your newborn child.
And can even be the touch of God.
But for me, it’s definitely setting a stage on fire with just my words and when me and an audience are sharing a telepathic connection while they’re laughing at every punchline,
and each word I say means something.

And it’s hard to explain a feeling that overwhelms
and inspires creativity or the need to spark change.
But I can tell you, whether you believe it or not.
Poetry is a necessity.
it lives inside of all of us waiting to come out when we most need it.
It is our food, but not just any food, it’s food that nourishes the soul.

Because poetry, when it’s done well,
is not just edible lines that we take in and defecate out.
It is our compass, map, and raft
And poetry when it’s done well is our survival gear
and reason to persevere when everything else inside of us,
screams to just give up and quit.
And I hope this poem was done well!

Because in this world full of infinite beauty and pain,
poetry is something that we can use more of,
but most of all is something that we all need.

Poem

How do you know a poem is ready?

When the words in your poem start to backspring off the page,
like cliff divers in Hawaii landing in the Pacific Ocean.
Then you know your poem is ready.

When adrenaline rushes through your veins as you read your poem aloud while you perform for a ten person open mic but perform it the exact same way,
you would for a sold out audience at the Lincoln theater.
Then you know your poem is ready

When you feel every line, every beat, and the rhythm of your words start to sound like a seasoned salsa conjunto,
with claves and el guiro spinning each other around on the dance floor,
followed by the blaring of brass trumpets,
right up to the 10 minute conga solo.
Then you know your poem is ready.

When your poem is a mixture of chaos,
humor and pain and yet it all makes sense.
Then you know your poem is ready.

When your poem snores loudly like a grizzly bear outside your tent, knowing at any moment, when it wakes up, all havoc will ensue.
Then you know your poem is ready.

When your poem shines as brightly as a supernova in the night sky.
Then you know your poem is ready.

When you don’t really need to ask
anyone, is this any good?
Then you know your poem is ready.

Because we all know, you’re not satisfied with that sleepy poem, that can barely keep its eyes awake poem..

And we know you’re not satisfied with the, uh.. …
I think it’s a pretty good poem.

Because if you’re gonna write a poem,
why not go for broke,
why not let your poem deliver a fatal knockout blow like Ryu in Street fighter,
hearing Haduuuuuken as your words lift up their arms in triumph on the page.

And if you’re gonna write a poem, why not let the poem tell you what you’re gonna write instead.

Trust the process, because the poem knows….

That it’ll open its eyes.
Lift up its head.
Stretch out its legs,
find its balance.
Don’t overthink it.
Don’t be a drill sergeant
Poems don’t respond well to orders,
They hate being micromanaged.
They need breathing room, leg space.
They want independence.
To know that they’re loved.
A place to call home.
This I know.
Trust me, I know.
But how do I know?
Because your poem is ready.

Not your typical poet

I am not your typical poet.
I don’t speak only in rhyme,
and bongos don’t magically appear,
when I have something important to say.

I am not your typical poet.
Poems don’t just come to me after viewing the constellations.
Nor do I have the urge to live amongst the trees.

I am not your typical poet.
I don’t have an MFA,
but I do have enough poetic vision to fill up a Thanksgiving day parade float.

I am not your typical poet,
because typical poets may find my writing to be shallow,
selfishly focusing on myself,
when I should be writing about nature and the spiritual being.

See, my poems are mostly grounded in reality,
except when words like ladybugs crawl up my arm and rest on my shoulder,
waiting for the perfect time to cannonball jump on the page.
Or interrupt me when I’m eating empanadas de queso at 8 AM on a Saturday.

And sometimes, these words don’t let me sleep,
prying my eyes open in the middle of the night and forcing me to create art that only other atypical people will appreciate.
And maybe that’s who I choose to write for,
create for, bare my soul for.

People who have had doors slammed in their face time after time,
but refuse to stop, trying, believing, and dreaming.
People who don’t know how to be anything else but themselves.
Because at the end of the day,
maybe we shouldn’t want to be typical,
and just maybe we should just want to be original instead.

Walker Valdez is a Bolivian American spoken word poet, educator, and teaching artist from Falls Church, Virginia. He holds a B.A. in English (Performance Media Concentration) from Marymount University and a M.Ed. in Special Education from George Mason University. He has performed throughout the DC area including at the Studio Theatre, Gala Hispanic Theatre, and the Rayburn House Office Building. He was recently a featured poet on the Zona San Antos Podcast (San Antonio, Texas.) Mr. Valdez hosts a monthly open mic, “Coffee House Poetry”, at Grace Episcopal Church in Georgetown, and is a teaching/performing artist for the Heard non-profit arts organization.

Featured image in this post is, “Siebenpunkt-Marienkäfer (Coccinella septempunctata) auf Blüte im FFH-Gebiet “Viernheimer Waldheide und angrenzende Flächen” By Stephan Sprinz – licensed creative commons via Wikimedia Commons.