By Katerina Petrou | Contributing Writer

Despite being a poet from the early years of my childhood, performing my art for other people is something I only accomplished recently.

My mother accompanied me to a poetry open mic, knowing that I would force my name on the list. What she did not know was that I would write her name too. I learnt that my mother was the birther of my words during the late years of my adolescence. She does not write as often as I, for I write about the most minuscule occurrences in my day-to-day life and paint them in colours full of emotion and fantasy. Whereas, my mother’s art is fuelled during extreme moments of darkness and light. The loss of her husband, my father, encouraged her to pick up the pen once more and express her grief and healing through a symphony of words.

The host of the event called my name first. With trembling hands, I scurried my way onto the stage and was presented with a microphone far too tall for me. After revealing that this was, indeed, my first time performing, I attempted to explain my nerves. Then, I told a joke, causing the room to laugh and proceeded to recite my poem.

I read the words off my mobile, without making eye contact with the sea of watchers before me. The tremors present within my palms travelled through to my arms, my chest, and my waist, until my legs struggled to keep upright. Certain I was going to collapse in front of these strangers, I focused on the words I was speaking. As I progressed the poem, an increase of emotion and theatre trickled through the heavy waves crashing in my body. Before I knew it, the tide had settled. With the sea sounding like applause and pride, I rapidly returned to my seat. To almost drown was worth it, finding the pride within my mother’s eyes.

With glee and anticipation, the host announced a mother would be following her daughter’s recital. Despite her abundance of confidence and will, public speaking is not a situation my mother approves of placing herself within. As she took to the stage, I prayed she would not break.

And, she did not. It was like watching a bulb bloom into a carnation. Withstanding and layered. There was not one dry eye in that room. Though, only I truly understood the pain behind her words. As she spoke them, I saw flashes of the trauma she had to endure for the ink to run black.

If you were to hear the stories my mother has perpetrated, you would believe her words were false. Fabricated and fictitious. That is how special my mother is. Her presence alone can change somebody’s day. Somebody’s life. The way in which they think.

During the interval, her strength and endurance inspired many others, who were hesitant prior, to read their art. They spoke about love and heartbreak. Illness and philosophy. Everything that makes up our world. The room had an aura of community and comfort. I truly believe my mother did that.

A couple had entered into the open mic, but did not feel capable of reading their poem themselves. Therefore, the host read it for them. It was short, but it was raw. Enough seconds for salt to fall onto my cheeks. They had lost their child. She miscarried. And, it was heartbreaking.

Once the show terminated, a man approached my mother and I to reveal that her words were what inspired his wife and him to write that very poem during the interval. It was as raw as it had felt. Stunned and speechless, we did not know what to say. When he left, I began to cry once more.

Poetry is powerful. It can bring reason to injustice. Sanity to pain. It can bring clarity to a world of grief. Surrounding yourself with others who understand how words can heal and settle a loud mind enriches a life that sometimes feels too heavy to live.

Thank you for taking the time to read this article. Recently, I self-published a poetry collection titled ‘a love letter to myself’. It explores self-love and befriending solitude. Commencing the collection is the very poem that I read at my first open mic, discussed in this article. Please click here if you are interested in purchasing my work. I also own a TikTok account where I recite my own poetry. As well as this, I have a blog where I post journalistic articles, reviews, essays and my poetry, too. Currently, I am working on a short-story collection and two other books for the ‘love letters’ poetry series. Thank you for following me on this journey. You are greatly appreciated.