So. I have found an entirely new level of respect for people who poet for a living. Dead up: my livelihood is not dependent on this hustle, and still I find myself consistently on the brink of overwhelmed. Peep my schedule for the next few:
Tomorrow: Show @ the library (read as monkey dance for people who may be funding our trip to nattionals)
Wednesday: Practice & writing session
Thursday: Practice & recording session
Friday: Show @ gallery hop
Also this month: I'm performing for the COGICs (I'm actually stupid excited about this one. Details to come post-event); doing a thing in Raleigh with Sonia Sanchez (same side comment); two more legs of the Carolina tour, and a few more miscellaneous performances.
I will admit that there is a layer of geeked-upedness hovering above the intensity, but my God - if I needed to do this to pay my rent, I would have had a nervous breakdown like....two third-places ago.
Speaking of breakdowns: thanks to all of you fine folk who endured my whining last week. And a special thanks to those that called/texted to see what was up. A HUGE THANKS to Tie and Chriss for enduring my general vaguness about the goings on of my very brief hospital stay. I love you both.
Mm. The craziness of my schedule has actually led me to forgive my parents for the "get this poetry thing out of your system" comment. Granted: this does make the top ten list of things I wish the folks has never said to me, nevertheless, I do not want to be the 35-year-old who brings her toddler into sports' bars for poetry slams evey Friday night. More than that, I do not want to be the 35-year-old who resents the hell out of her kids because she didn't get to fulfill her twenty-something dreams. So. Touché Mom and Pop, I am getting something out of my system...perhaps not poetry....but something I'll be glad I had the opportunity to say goodbye to.
Nationals coming up in a month and I feel drastically unprepared. But also kinda like....whatev, the words will speak for themselves, and if the audience likes quiet stories about post-adolescent heartbreak I might make the indies. Ha! I'm also kinda intrigued by the fact that southern teams don't appear to be well respected by the Nats community. I mean, let me find out that the poetry scene has some kind of regional beef like rappers circa 1995. Personally, I'm routing for a top five that's two parts Carolina, one part Seattle, one part Shattered Thought, and one part...either Urbana or Loser Slam.
Alright. That's more than enough out of me for one evening. I'll talk to you soon.
Peace Be
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Monday, June 28, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Adventures in Whining
So.
I'll admit it.
I got my hopes up.
I expected her to call and wish me a happy birhday, and she didn't. And it hurt.
I will also admit that the fact that my best friend moved away this weekend sucks.
And I will also admit that as much as I recognize the benefts of quitting, I really want to smoke right now.
And it also sucks (for him) that I called the man I keep on a yo-yo because I was lonely, and not because I actually wanted to talk to him.
I will admit that I need to get at least half of my issues under control before I try to be with anybody, even (especially) if I do end up trying yo make it work for real with him.
It sucks that I have to spend the next couple days in the hospital, because I really hate hospitals. I will also admit that I'm lightweight nervous.
I will not admit that I should have let my parents come up here like they wanted to; however, I will admit that I'm lightweight pissed off that they didn't come anyway.
I'm also pissed at myself for complaining. I hate complainers.
*sigh*
I want....something.
I'll let you know when I figure out what it is.
Peace Be
I'll admit it.
I got my hopes up.
I expected her to call and wish me a happy birhday, and she didn't. And it hurt.
I will also admit that the fact that my best friend moved away this weekend sucks.
And I will also admit that as much as I recognize the benefts of quitting, I really want to smoke right now.
And it also sucks (for him) that I called the man I keep on a yo-yo because I was lonely, and not because I actually wanted to talk to him.
I will admit that I need to get at least half of my issues under control before I try to be with anybody, even (especially) if I do end up trying yo make it work for real with him.
It sucks that I have to spend the next couple days in the hospital, because I really hate hospitals. I will also admit that I'm lightweight nervous.
I will not admit that I should have let my parents come up here like they wanted to; however, I will admit that I'm lightweight pissed off that they didn't come anyway.
I'm also pissed at myself for complaining. I hate complainers.
*sigh*
I want....something.
I'll let you know when I figure out what it is.
Peace Be
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Monday, May 10, 2010
Adventures in Poetry
Eucharist: or what to say to your mother to let you save her life
we are the same color
a bittersweet kind of caramel that groans mahogany in the summer
flash of sunset beneath the skin
we both sing like Savannah
5 foot 4 with small hands
wide feet
and bad knees
pound for pound
we have the same body
my mother
hurricane of a woman
spun sugar and rice into Sunday meals
after giving her last in an offering plate
so god would not go hungry
asked permission to carry communion wafers
gone stale from service to service
home to serve us as Monday supper
she said we were blessed
with an honor like this
"it is his body"
she'd say
"broken for us
and as always we give him thanks
you always remember you carry his name
don't ever forget you wear my face"
side by side we look like sisters
for a moment
until subtle differences take shape
the gray in her locks
the hollow in her throat
the shadow in her eye that does darken with age
she's seen a lot now
done a few things perhaps as a child she swore she wouldn't
perhaps even more she couldn't have known would ever warrant such a promise
most of those
in the name of our father
who was in denial about most things
she hid his needles
hid his anger
taught his children not to hate him
love like hers is made in the quiet space of being rocked away to sleep
by arms so frail
one tear might cause the weighed snap of bone through dreams
it's battle scarred
and iron tipped
beaten bloody more times than we'd like to remember
her body a patchwork quilt reminder of every time stood up for her children
each scar a story more severe then the next
a bruise will tell you what the beating meant
and these days there is something
not unlike midnight trying to snatch the sunlight from beneath her skin
it is her body
turned in on itself
like some kind of flesh to bone civil war
beaten back with pills
and prayer
and second opinions that all seem to say the same thing
seem to say that the pain she kept tucked in the pit of her belly is finally trying to break free
a current of poison that courses through veins
that river her wrists much like my own
you cannot tell her not to be a hero
she does not understand what that means
nor understand my stance on being the one to give her the donations she needs
"it is my body"
i say
"broken for you
my way of giving thanks
a new testament in bone ground to the dust
for the honor of wearing your face
it is no sacrifice
it's what you would do
and i still carry your name
one hurricane woman to another
to satisfy
your cry for rain"
---
Peace Be
we are the same color
a bittersweet kind of caramel that groans mahogany in the summer
flash of sunset beneath the skin
we both sing like Savannah
5 foot 4 with small hands
wide feet
and bad knees
pound for pound
we have the same body
my mother
hurricane of a woman
spun sugar and rice into Sunday meals
after giving her last in an offering plate
so god would not go hungry
asked permission to carry communion wafers
gone stale from service to service
home to serve us as Monday supper
she said we were blessed
with an honor like this
"it is his body"
she'd say
"broken for us
and as always we give him thanks
you always remember you carry his name
don't ever forget you wear my face"
side by side we look like sisters
for a moment
until subtle differences take shape
the gray in her locks
the hollow in her throat
the shadow in her eye that does darken with age
she's seen a lot now
done a few things perhaps as a child she swore she wouldn't
perhaps even more she couldn't have known would ever warrant such a promise
most of those
in the name of our father
who was in denial about most things
she hid his needles
hid his anger
taught his children not to hate him
love like hers is made in the quiet space of being rocked away to sleep
by arms so frail
one tear might cause the weighed snap of bone through dreams
it's battle scarred
and iron tipped
beaten bloody more times than we'd like to remember
her body a patchwork quilt reminder of every time stood up for her children
each scar a story more severe then the next
a bruise will tell you what the beating meant
and these days there is something
not unlike midnight trying to snatch the sunlight from beneath her skin
it is her body
turned in on itself
like some kind of flesh to bone civil war
beaten back with pills
and prayer
and second opinions that all seem to say the same thing
seem to say that the pain she kept tucked in the pit of her belly is finally trying to break free
a current of poison that courses through veins
that river her wrists much like my own
you cannot tell her not to be a hero
she does not understand what that means
nor understand my stance on being the one to give her the donations she needs
"it is my body"
i say
"broken for you
my way of giving thanks
a new testament in bone ground to the dust
for the honor of wearing your face
it is no sacrifice
it's what you would do
and i still carry your name
one hurricane woman to another
to satisfy
your cry for rain"
---
Peace Be
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