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The Badge. The Mug. The Story.

The Badge. The Mug. The Story.
Pegasus isn’t a mascot. He’s a myth with a job.
He didn’t just fly — he kicked open the spring of creativity. That’s the moment I keep coming back to.

From that crack in the earth, the nine muses emerged: Calliope (epic poetry), Erato (love poetry), and Euterpe (lyric poetry), along with their sisters of dance, music, astronomy, history, tragedy, comedy, and sacred song.

That’s why Pegasus is on the badge.
He’s not there to decorate it — he’s there to break it open.

The badge itself? That started as an ice breaker in a community college creative writing class.
I was teaching adult students, many returning to the page after decades of silence, others trying poetry for the first time. There was tension in the room — anxiety about this first big step.

So I introduced the idea of a Creative Writing Merit Badge.
An appropriate ice breaker among fellow creatives.

At first it was a way to reward people for showing up, for trying, for risking something on the page.
But it stuck. Then they leaned in, embraced it, treating it as a sign that they were on the right track.
They began to ask for it. Then wanted to earn them.

They began to treat it as a mark of intention —
a moment when they crossed over into living the writing life.

Some did it by writing their first poem in twenty years, or by reading aloud in public for the first time.
Some earned it by staying up to finish a draft, or pulling over on the shoulder of the road to capture a line.
Or just deciding, quietly, that poetry was something they wanted to claim.

Over time, the badge became something more.
A permission slip. A license to practice.
A badge of courage — with all the backing of Oz.

The mug came later.
It’s a way to hold the moment — to make the badge experience a bit more immortal.
Something to drink from, to reach for daily, like the practice itself.
The mug is something physical, repeatable, part of your daily rhythm.

Now it is the official mug of the “I learned something from Mark” club —
whether in a class, a poem, or a deep dive into some anthology.

You earn a badge soaking up my work on the web page,
a class or two laid out with background and illustrations.

I did this, to get people empowered, to green-light their visions, to authenticate their passion.
A poet is one who writes poetry.
Writes by taking up the practice — not having to prove anything —
but starting out like every accomplished poet who has ever proved themselves in any way,
and a lot more who wrote for personal reasons and private happiness.

The mug is a symbolic way to sip from the same spring Pegasus kicked open.

If you’re waiting for a sign, this is it.
If you’ve chosen to begin — or to begin again — there’s a mug here that fits.

There are two versions.
One is the student version, for those who received a badge in class, in workshop, or in the spirit of showing up fully.
It has my name on it — someone they know.
The other is for anyone who wants one — because buying the mug is itself an action.

Which one is for you, is for you to decide.
I don’t need to be there for you to succeed. I am honored if I am.

Either way, it’s a quiet yes. A hand raised, inwardly.
A sign that you’re already somewhere on the path.

No form to fill out. No dues to send in. No diploma required.
Just the willingness to start. Some courage to keep going.
You don’t even have to use it.
You’ll know that it’s there.

Poetry Collections by Mark Kessinger

Poetry in the Palm of Your Hand

Poet Proud Mugs for those who write, read, or simply believe in poetry

Mug Manifesto

A writer’s hack with mugs. I find mugs—coffee cups, to the uninitiated—like many other interesting artifacts of a writer’s lair, to have several roles beyond drinking. What I call my dry mug uses.

The most obvious: the paperweight. Not just something decorative, and more three-dimensional than a coaster (also very handy). It’s a way to march my souvenirs around the office. They work to hold down loose pages against disarray from wind or bumping events. They also serve as capstones for projects, coding them, signaling the nature of that stack, and beckoning me not to overlook them for too long. And so: a hoodoo, acting as breadcrumb, a landmark of intention.

There is another dry use for such mugs: the stone koozie. I set my can of soda inside one on my desk to keep it cooler longer, and to stop the condensation from threatening—well, anything. There’s less of it, and what’s there is contained. A coaster with retaining walls. Especially handy in the South.

Yes, you can still drink from it. A mug wrapped around a slippery can gives you a sudden handle, keeps the moisture off your typing fingers and paper shufflers, makes the can more tip-resistant. Fewer spills. Fewer regrets. It works with most beer cans, beer bottles, and even standard water bottles, too.

For easy gripping, use your thumb to dent the can just beneath the spout, making it easier to lift it from the cup, if you don’t use the mug’s handle.

If you get distracted while writing, like I do, one or two ice cubes in the bottom of the mug will keep your drink colder longer.

Don’t forget, full of stones, sand or marbles, they make great bookends.

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