By Martin Anton Smith
They had gone to a lot of trouble.
They’d found the essence of their thoughts.
The essence was roughly an even split,
Between frontal lobe firings,
And the stuff that conjures up onto the page from seemingly nowhere.
Yes, this ‘conjuring up’ is an artistic cliche, but it’s still a true phenomenon.
So, they captured their truth – they wrote it down, whittled it some more or some less.
They read it out loud, their works showed that they had succeeded.
In knowing who they are,
& courageously showing you their fine wares.
How do you know this?
There’s a certain energy that pervades to the reading & artistic words.
It is a signature if you will.
You hear & feel the signature, & there is no question –
The artist made something from nothing –
It is an alchemy of warmth rooted in a private truth.
It’s a pity the un-listeners missed it all.
But I shouldn’t complain – this is the nature of the ‘audience’.
Some are there to learn from ye, some are there to burn-ye,
Some are there to dig-ye, some are there to shout at ye.
It is indeed a ‘two sides of the same coin’ apparition.
Alas alas & yes it be,
At an the open mic poetry night,
You cannot pick your audience,
And they cannot pick thee.
So the dissapointment is democritised.
It’s designed to be a masochist’s wet dream.
When something bad happens everyone loves it –
When something good happens – everyone hates it –
& on balance, everyone leaves satisfied.
Anton Martin Smith Writer 