So, I'm thinking of green referring to acting like a newbie, wet behind the ears, not acquainted with how the world works. As a poet or a writer that can be quite problematic when it comes to performing or sharing your work. You look after something, nurture it to life, worry and change the words half a dozen times and then you field it out to everyone for their opinion - but what if the world hates it, chews it up and spits it out. Not everyone has the backing that we have at the Open Mic Nights, our little haven at Café Number 5 where we will supportively applaud the opening of a paper bag if you do it poetically because whilst this may not be your finest work, who knows what the next piece could bring?
But then again, you don't want to be so green that you act arrogantly and expect praise for work that could do with substantial changes being made. Why field it at an open mic if you believe it to be perfect. Submit it to a competition if you think it is that good. Open mic is for experimentation and discussion, not for showing off. Take criticism well, or again, the dampness tucked away behind your ears will be evident. Certainly do not ruin an event by handling criticism in the way that John McEnroe handled an umpires decision. In a room full of artists, artistic strops are pointless, ineffective and amateurish.
And so with that little thought I'll leave you with the totally unrelated poem below about trying not to be green in the world of shoddy bedfellows!
No, no, honestly, I mean it, that’s absolutely fine.Please, feel free to stomp and tread right there.That sandy coloured welcome mat across my lifeIt's not wearing through one bit and it isn’t too threadbare.I do enjoy it when you deign to treat me in this way,My masochism really knows no bounds.Feel free to tear my heart in two and rip it up in piecesAt your convenience, you know, whilst you’re on the rounds.You need me out by nine you say, quicker would be better?No problemo old chum, this was nothing, pass me my underwear.I’ll be on my way just now in last night’s frock and tired make-upBut don't worry, I would never dream of expecting you to worry or to care.Just because I wear my battered heart upon my ragged sleeveIt doesn’t mean to say that I’m stupid, daft or green.It’s just my way of handling, processing, feeling the emotions I can't express,Painting us - that's me and you - in a glittering rosy sheen.
