Firehouse Writers’ 10th anniversary

Good evening, everyone!  Tonight is a special night, because I am going to tell you all a story.  Ten years ago, I am not entirely sure of the month, but it was before October 2015, when I took the first pictures. Anyway, I saw an ad in what I believe was the Boulder Weekly for an open mic poetry night at the Firehouse Art Center.  I was 40 and trying new things, so I grabbed my college Poetry notebook and showed up – alone and afraid.

And that night, magic happened to me.  I met a group of people who loved what I loved.  Who were on a journey of finding their people.  Who were nervous and alone and afraid like I was that night.  That was the very first Poetry night at the Firehouse.  Kim Sorden, who was on the board at the time and loved poetry, made it happen.  During intermission, she was serving drinks in the back, and I found her and asked her if I could be a part of making this happen.

The first writers’ workshop was initially aimed at teens, but a big group of adults showed up. Hence, the Firehouse responded to a community need by continuing it for adults and the occasional teenager. 

I volunteered with David Bailey, Bradley Books, Jessica Rigney, and Dustin Holland in the early years.  We grew into a solid group of people who had one another’s backs with setup, hosting, and teaching.  This became an incredibly welcoming space, and although we aren’t always perfect, we always tried.

On a personal note, I was in the final death throes of a terrible marriage, and the Firehouse was a respite, and gave me a reason to keep going, and gave me community when I felt the most isolated.  When I joined the board, I fought to keep our scheduling and our “Art” represented. I was happy to take over running the program when Kim needed more time for her business.

There have been ebbs and flows, and real growth in this space.  We have had the privilege of witnessing and honoring the lives of late poets – David Bailey and Jim “the man of” Steel.  Throughout my time with the Firehouse, I have worked to try to keep this space a safe place for all people.  I have learned and repeated my mantra, “It’s not about you, Christy.  It’s about the Firehouse.  Let your ego go.”

I have had the absolute honor of having the help of Anthony Sulwer for something like 7 years. He has been my sounding board, my collaborator, my partner in all things Firehouse.  I don’t think the last 4 or 5 years would have happened without him.  He does fantastic work behind the scenes that no one is privy to, and he does it all without fanfare.  During the COVID lockdown, we kept this thing going!  I taught nearly every workshop for two years, and sometimes it was just me, Anthony, Kathy Hall, and Betsy Anderson on Zoom.  We read to the Muppet show squares on our computer screens, to handshaking, muted applause.  We kept the light lit – for anyone who needed it.

We used to rejoice if 10 people showed up, and now we regularly have crowds of 35 or more.

I want to take this opportunity to thank each and every one who comes to our open mics, our workshops, ArtWalk, Filth, events, and celebrations – now and in the past, as they built the foundation, and the future, as they are what we are going to be.

I cannot put into adequate words how thankful I am that you have set your trust in me for so many years, and I hope to serve you all and the Firehouse for 10 more years and beyond.

Finally, I would like to give the first 10-anniversary sticker (I haven’t even taken any for myself yet), designed by our own Martin Dadisman, and offer it as a minuscule token for all the work Anthony has done with my endless thanks.  This whole thing doesn’t happen without you.  There is some other swag on the way, but this will have to do for now.  For you, our amazing, vibrant, passionate community, you can feel free to grab one from the front desk during the midpoint intermission.  I hope it will be a symbol of pride on your water bottle, computer, or car that you are part of this community.  We are what we are because of you.  Happy 10th Anniversary, Firehouse Writers! 

*Special thanks to Martin Dadisman for building community by welcoming poets into his home for regular post-workshop afterparties. 

Thank you to the boulderpoetryscene.com and loveshovelranch.com/bafs/  (Beyond Acedemia Free Skool) with whom we collaborate when we can.

Thank you to all the people I may have missed at lighthousewriters.org/ , southbroadwaypress.org, ArtB4Money, etc. There are so many great collaborators and cross-pollination.  That is what makes us strong, resilient, and able to serve our community so fully. *

Upon 50

For Jessica Rigney
By Christina L. Felton

She moves with unhastened intent.
Her flask in the bag on her hip.
The nip of whiskey she offers.

Her long body.
The inviting length of her legs.
The arch of her back from so many asanas.

She smiles, eyes peeking over frames.
Her skin deeply kissed
By the sun.
Chasing rocks through the desert.
Wind pulling at long grey locks.

She shimmers with pheromones,
A Queen Bee.

The soft scent of patchouli
Lingering after her embrace.

We gather to drink her slow metered innuendo.
Her words chosen with skill and intent.

She lets us glimpse spaces and strokes,
But the whole picture is for her alone.

Sultry at any age,
She moves to and through us,
Reminding us that
sex is part of the human condition.

Black Pearl

10 years ago today, we lost our daughter Lily.  This is a poem that I wrote for her.

Black Pearl

 

You left a jagged shard of your soul

When you left me.

And my soul made a pearl around it

To protect me.

And now I carry our black pearl

With me forever.

Aftertaste

Poetry is the kind of writing that leaves an aftertaste.
Not a nasty aspartame tongue coat like a cheap diet soda,
But sweet like the kiss of your love after they sucked on a cherry Jolly Rancher.
Poetry lingers on the mind for days, altering the way every breakfast, lunch and dinner tastes.
Poetry is the memory of fine wine warm and expanding.
Poetry is dessert savored, and not eaten all at once with gluttonous abandon, but one small spoonful at a time.
Poetry is the aftertaste lingering in our mind, behind our eyes.

Renegade Renaissance Radiance Rosebud

Sometimes we still dream of you,
In the rose garden.

Wrapped in honor,
Clothed in deep dignity.

A beacon in the tough times,
And impervious to the gutter noise.

With quiet humanness,
You lead us to
Our better selves.

With tears we watched you go,
And the horror grow.

Is this our penitence?

How do we right this ship,
O’ Captain,
My Captian?

To Do List for Life

Sipping slow steeped beans on the porch,

 

Before I

Go for a walk,

Passed the garden I’ve tended.

 

Before I

spend the afternoon

Lazy words falling

from my paddles into the lake.

 

Before I

Jump in the car

and touch a breeze in no where

 

Before I

Make the call

to ask how you have been.

 

Before I

Stop by to check

on those I love longest.

 

Before I

finish my book,

Or my other book,

After a bit of poetry reading.

 

Before I

Sit in the coffeeshop

and listen to the world go by.

 

Before I

Cut and cook

something fancy by the book.

 

Before I

Invite you to come over

and paint with me.

 

Before I

Fly a kite

Over a field where I lay

and count the stars.

 

Before I

Perfect the loop and stitch.

 

Before I

Forget to live.

 

 

Once in a Blue Moon

Once in a Blue Moon

I can’t sleep

And my body aches

From carrying the weight of me,

And my mind wanders

In the dark and quiet.

 

You tell me that you are not snoring

But only moments ago your rumble

Was down my back and in my hair.

 

I get up to write.

I am a million miles into the sky

And some how still firmly planted here.

So many things I want to do,

To see,

To know.

 

Projects near complete,

Wait on the tips of my fingers.

What is it that stops me?

In the small hours,

With no distraction.

 

Fear.

Fear of failure.

Fear of rejection.

Fear of vulnerability.

I don’t care what you think of me –

As a person –

But my work,

That is another story all together.

A sword of criticism

For which I have no defense.

 

Out in the world I am fearless and open,

But here in the mirror of Blue Moon

I am fleshy and soft.