Force: A Spoken Word

Force: defined as mass times acceleration

It’s what brings you down to earth, what makes you so grounded.

What takes you from the stars but gives you the fruits of the trees

And the suns of the rising skies.

Force: defined as a metaphysical power that guides the most formidable. 

Only worthy of the strongest of adversaries, of enemies.

A path of life to walk, it is.

The most gifted, it is only for.

Force: defined as something that places you on earth

That lets you live here and is a gentle source.

That could take anything away from you

But it doesn’t because it is benevolent.

Force: defined as strength.

Strength to keep to your morals

Even when others try to push you

Down into the ground and eat crushed rocks and the decomposed of you loved ones.

And force: defined as pressure, you to

Sway under the mighty wave of your society, your environment

To do the things you do not want to do

And make you see things you don’t want to see.

Force: defined as something that moves you.

Something that can pick you up with the slightest of breeze

Brings your families together

But also tears them apart.

The warm air replaced with chills and picture frames

Creak under the force: defined as pressure, of the boot

As they force: defined as movement against your will, you from their arms

They force: defined as swaying of the mind against your will, you to hate them

So when you see family, they are no longer family.

Force: defined power that can move you.

Something that has the power to push us under

The weight of its underbelly crushing your bones.

Your skeleton cannot hold the force: defined as mass times acceleration equals weight,

And exerts force: defined as pressure, onto your breaking spirit.

Force:  defined as power, strength, the moral of man that will move you.

Will push you onto the ground and force: defined as an action against your will, you to obey.

Force: defined as an action against your will, your ancestors into gas chambers

Into crypts, in front of firing squads, murder 6 million of your people and 5 million more.

Force: defined as an action against your will, will drop a nuclear stone out of the sky

And poison the mist, poison  the flower, poison your neighbors, your loved ones.

Force: defined as an action against your will, will round you up, tear you from your home

Burn it to the ground, and when you come back,

The charred rooms, the blackened walls, the singed ovens,

Will force: defined as an action against your will, you to cry, weep, a tear rolling down the

Bridge of your nose and plant the seed of life into the ground.

Force: defined as violence used against people.

Defined as military power.

Defined as terroristic power.

Defined as power to be wielded against you. 

Force: defined as mass times acceleration

What brings you down to earth, what makes you so grounded.

What takes you from the stars and gives you the fruits of the trees

And the suns of the rising skies.

Force: defined as a metaphysical power that guides the most formidable. 

Only worthy of the strongest of adversaries, of enemies.

A path of life to walk, it is.

The most gifted, it is only for.

May the force be with you

Running: Spoken Word

Step after step pounds the rough barren pavement.

Each one resounds in a loud bang like fireworks.

I pass them quickly, a place replacement

They hide in the piano.  Silently, they lurk.

Faster and farther I go I feel enlightened, lighter, stronger,

Hercules molded out of clay and gold

Prized strength and bravery.

I hum to the melody of my piano

Beside the road, inside my soul.

A symphony to my ears.

I am a mess.  I wake up with blankets on the floor

Mismatch of too big too small clothes cling to me

An abundance of pens and pencils leafed through a shortage of papers.

Too many carbs, not enough veggies on my plate

And my room is something from the devil’s closet. 

But when I run, I feel like everything matches,

Everything is orderly.  Everything is meshed together perfectly. 

I train for the race that is coming closer and seemingly more

It’s for my mindset I run out into the sunset

To catch the leaders.  I step forward

So my body has a destination to journey to

And my friends, teammates, family follow along beside me. 

I race because I know it’s the only thing that lets me

Cry solitude, stay sane, escape.  I run away from darkness.

I run away from the illusions that plagued

My soul is a broken piano, playing the tunes of a fantasy world.

The illusions play me, my soul, the sheet music in front of them to

Enact a story before my eyes that leave me catatonic

To the melody.  The bass clef ensnares me to the beat of the low octave

As treble comes closer to me.  The ones who I call friends, family, strangers

Beat me with the long end of the quarter notes,

Trap me in the staffs and speak

In shrill, high keys.

I am worthless, weak,

A coward.  I am not loved.

They torture me with off-key notes

And push me off into the wild, unwritten pieces to be eaten or burned

And my cries for help, to stop only fuel their pleasure.

But I tell them to keep going because

In a sick fascination I did not enjoy them

But I felt addicted to the music, I needed them, I craved them.

The beating coming from the brass chords

Beneath the lid of the piano painted with my cries of despair

Made me complete, I exalted grace and glory and pain and emptiness.

And finally my screams pierce the heavens and break the piano.

My first foot forward cuts on the broken glass and wooden splinters.

And the faster, farther they move, the more the pain goes away.

I run to shut their music out.  I run so they do not play my piano anymore.

They’re not strong enough to hurt me or fast enough to chase me.

I run to play my own music,

My heart beats to the repeat-peat-peat of my steps

My arms swing with the metronome of the 4/4^th signature

Speeding on the course to the end.

I sprint across the finish line.

The piano has been abandoned.

The piano has been repaired.

And a masterpiece has been born.

Final Exam Proposal

For my final exam, I'd like to do a spoken word presentation like what we were talking about in class before.  I'd like to recite two or three pieces that I've created in a slam style.  If, however, this isn't possible, then I'd like to make a video reciting spoken word pieces.  They may have either background music or collaborated with other students, but I'd like to do something spoken because I feel that I can express myself better through words than through paper.  Either videotaped or live, I'd like to do spoken word pieces because I can express myself better and I can be more poetic in this fashion.

Spoken Word: BNV Finals: Denver Round Four

A great spoken word piece by Amal Kassir and Ashlynn Damers.  Probably the most powerful one I've seen yet!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQJo7x0U4gE

Video Project Proposal

Charlie Rosenblum

Mr. Wensman

Poetry

November 12, 2013

Poetry Proposal Form

Poem-

 http://makingpoetry.blogspot.com/2013/11/adam-spoken-word.html

Proposal-  

I want the main element of this to be the tone and voice with someone holding images or interpretive hand gestures, like in spoken word. Or a few cut in scenes of images that hit home.

Storyboard-

Logistics-                   Plan your work & work your plan!

Tech tools and skills needed: (Gene has materials you can sign out; iphones work well)

iMovie, either a flip camera or an iPhone

Materials needed-  (Be sure you have considered a tripod and lighting!)

markers and paper, photograph, computer

Other people needed-

Someone to either do the action or videotape.  It could be done solo as well

Audio element(s)-  music?  sound effects?  

Maybe light background music.  The main focus will be the voice

Found visual/footage needed-

None

Filming time/date/venue-  (note it always takes longer than you think)

Either class time or on the weekend or after school

Adam: Spoken Word

Do you remember when we first met?

In kindergarten, on the playmat with the toys?

I don’t.  But I know at some point we met,

And we became good friends,

Because everyone in kindergarten is good friends.

And if you’re not, you’re seen as an outcast,

A freak.

Do you remember when we were in assembly together?

We had the same homeroom teacher and

 Parents were taking pictures of you,

Of us.  Your smile as bright as the sun

Radiating through the dark room and mine was,

Well, not so much of a smile as much of a

Thuggin “peace” face creased with coolness.

Do you remember when we were on the same baseball team?

By this time we had different friend groups,

You were naturally athletic and personable,

Tall, tan and handsome, at least that what the mothers would say.

And I was scrawny, borderline pudgy, and unathletic.

I only did it because my parents made me.

You could hit the ball and everyone cheered

While I missed it on the tee and struck out in no-out baseball.

My ADD kicked in and I would draw yellow sunflowers

In the brown dirt on second base, not paying attention to the ball that

Whizzed past my pale, unscathed face. 

Remember that time I switched schools,

And didn’t see you for five years?

You met my friend at a party and were snorting lines

Of medication from the bathroom. 

She thought you and you’re friends were “fucking stupid”

To take something you didn’t know what it was made of.

“Just turn up man, no need to go hardcore.”

Do you remember that time, when you disappeared?

No one knew what happened at first.

I heard it from another friend who was on Facebook

And everyone posted RIP on your wall.  They still do by the way,

In memoriam of the popular kid in high school.

Rumors spread; you were caught with weed by the police

And they brought you to your dad because he was a firefighter

And they knew him well so they thought they were doing what was best

Instead of locking you up in a cold cellar that would’ve taught you a lesson and let you sober up.

You fought with your dad, you would’ve been benched

From playing hockey, grounded, maybe a misdemeanor on your record.

 and your poor life was down the drain

So you took the ole shotgun and fired it into your mouth.

And I know you thought it was the end of the world.
Did I miss something?  Is it my call to make accounts of what happened?
I felt nothing at first, but then numb.  No pain, but questioning.
I questioned this every day.  You were popular, athletic, handsome.

But to be honest you didn't want to deal with the consequences, did you?
You were spoiled, you were selfish

You were fucking stupid to do that.

You took the easy way out. 

Now you don’t have to face your parents anger

Now you don’t have any stories to tell your friends

Now you don’t have to face any consequences.

But you didn’t think that people on this side of the fence would miss you?

What would you say to your family that cried every day after the funeral?

What would you say to your friends with the empty void in their life

And pictures plastered across the web?

A facebook page dedicated to your heroic suicide

That should have never been heroic nor a suicide.

And you leave me here wondering what’s worth taking your own life

Because I’ve thought about this many times

But you make it so easy, an alternate ending

To make yourself a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

And I’m sorry if I'm blaming you
if this is wrong, but it's still not the way to go.

I just want to know the story.

Just please answer me.  Why?

Do you remember when we first met?

In kindergarten, on the playmat with the toys?

I think we had the same homeroom teacher

Or played at recess on the slide and swings.

I don’t.  But I wish I did.  I hope you did.

Compasión

Hands cup the face

of the elderly woman

who lost her children

during the lost time.

She wears the headscarf

as a tribute to her and the

other mothers, grandmothers

children.

Her tanned skin,

aged with wrinkles and dark spots,

melts in his hands,

his "compasión."

Silver hair falls

in strangled curls

and brighten her face

just a tad more.

The look in his eyes

speaks for itself:

dark, hollow, yet

full of hope.

His graying beard

still thick with black hair

disguises his inner

gratitude, "compasión."

...................................

Lost children,

kidnapped in the night

and sent to detention centers;

unknown, their fate is.

Robert Bly Poetry Reading

On October 16, I went to Robert Bly’s poetry reading for his new book “Stealing Sugar from the Castle.”  His new book is a collection of poems ranging from 1950 to the present.  It is, essentially, a biography of all of his poems.  The audience ranged in age and personality.  There were many middle-aged people but also some very young people too.  A guy behind me played the guitar softly while a young French couple was in front of me.  There were some college students as well off to the sides.

There was a 15 minute introduction by one of the organizers and then another 5 minute introduction by someone else before Robert Bly got up.  Throughout the hour and a half slot, he would make self-deprecating jokes about himself as a poet and have a few jokes in his poems.  He’d often say to the side things such as “At least that’s what poets say,” or “Like poetry is not ever random.”  His poems weave humor and beauty together, using imagery and structure to sway the reader and the listener.

One of my favorite poems that he read was “Wanting Sumptuous Heavens” (right). 

Along with his side comments, joking about this poem here and there, he covers a bunch of different topics in a short amount of time.  One of the topics coming up a lot is religion.  Bly writes here about wanting a comfortable earth and a sumptuous heaven.  Not so much the fact of it but more that people are obsessed with having a comfortable life on earth and in heaven, if there is even a heaven.  His next line “But the heron standing on one leg in the bog // Drinks his dark rum all day.”  He describes how even though we humans try to think in the future and try to everything right, the heron, like many animals, just think about the present.  About what is going on now.  And I think that it’s kind of like a whistle, like we should follow what the animals do and be who we are and what we want now and don’t worry about the future.

Louis Jenkins Blog Post

What I really love about his poetry is he tells stories with it, sort of like a short story or short-short epic poem.  Taking that into account, he uses either first or second person perspective to draw the reader in.  In his poem "The Speaker," he uses the phrase "Can you tell me the color of your sweetheart's eyes? Do you remember where you parked the car?" This phrase especially drew me in because it was addressing me personally, as if he was speaking to me.  He asks me a question related to the poem, but close to the reader as well that hits the reader home on something of importance to them, drawing the reader in even further.  Many of his themes deal with big ideas such as change, love, science, etc.  His poem 'The State of the Economy" really highlights the 2008 Stock Market Crash (I'm assuming this is what it's about.)  Jenkins writes "There might be some change on top of the dresser at the back, and we should check the washer and the dryer. Check under the floor mats of the car. The couch cushions. I have some books and CDs I could sell, and there are a couple big bags of aluminum cans in the basement, only trouble is that there isn't enough gas in the car to get around the block."  Though it may seem third person, it really speaks to the reader in a sense of a first and second person speaker tone because Jenkins is telling the reader to do these things.  His simple use of objects and actions give a realistic view of imagery.  It's simple, but not overpowering so much that it seems surrealistic.  It seems like something either out of a movie or a book, something very lifelike and that is what I love about his poetry.

"Sons" Spoken Word Poetry

The Silver Lining of the Grecian Clock

I stand along the river at dawn

When he, Apollo, rides his chariot

Across the dark, blank canvas.  His fine lawn

Mowing the stars with the new steed he bought.

Artemis’ spear catches the spoke of his

Painted vessel, so that he tumbles out

Onto the half starry field.  And no kiss

More bitter than siblings, their fights, their shouts.

Their hatred, their love, bequeathed unto them

Hath nevermore been so bright, so dark’ning.

One to day, the other night, Zeus condemned.

Polar opposites, the songs of birds sing.

Away, I run, when fair Apollo rides.

The time between dawn and dusk shall be mine.

Souls of the forgotten

The sultry, soaked sod squelches soundly b’low

My feet.  Barefoot, I tread unwillingly.

Blood-red berries glow in the frosted air.

Birds chirp to the beat of my icy breath.

They spread their wings, their songs of the lost ones

Who once ruled the land I travel across.

Known for their fearlessness, they conquered all

That stood before their intrepid weapons.

But nonetheless, they carried themselves here

And became one with Gaia, Mother Earth.

They watch through the trees, black eyes and pale skin.

Birds dwell on them and leaves become from them.

But none today.  No leaves shine through the frost.

All birds suddenly vanish with the wisps.

They tangle around my ankles, my hands,

My fingers, intertwined, with ancestral

Hope rushing through me.  I force my eyes shut.

The voices, the chanting grows infinite

In volume.  Long hair and thick spears, blued lips.

Fleeting images wrap me, too tightly.

My eyes, shut harder.  My face drawn with pain.

My mind, broken point of calamity.

Until silence.  Silence doth come to me.

Eyes look up and  trees look incessantly

To me, waiting for my demise?  My leave?

I walk on, the ground frosting with ev’ry step.

Blood flowing from my feet, purple hands and

Black fingers circle each other, gath’ring

Warmth of the invisible, unknown fire.

The ground rushes up to me, slicing my

Skin, freezing my life, devouring my soul.

Souls of the forgotten hath not forgot.

Chris Martin Poetry

The non-narrative style of Martin's poetry leads to a voice that seems to have been long forgotten.  It's a voice in the back of the head not unlike the conscience.  It travels around the head, creating a halo effect and finally the voice meets at the front with the other half of the voice, an echo effect.  His poetry reminds me of introductions to movies where the filmmakers put the middle of the movie in the beginning.  Not so much the story of it that makes you want to watch on but the imagery of it how one is confused at first and then everything unravels.
This kind of poetry is one of my favorites; there's always a quality of mystery and fog-like confusion that makes the sound and imagery muddles but crisper and clearer as I read on.  An example of this would be his poem "The Throat."  Martin first writes about the bird calls: "If harkening a bird for its throat we hear you," (Martin 1-4.)  IN the end, the poem seems to try to bring out different qualities in the throat and the memories it brings.  The poem goes on to talk about Martin in a first person narrative but then alternates with a third person narrative and Martin writes about nature, history, and love. 

a crisp wind of red apples
opens the seam between our eyes
but this isn’t about about
it’s a noun flown verb
designed to hurt slowly
in a foraged ear
we go planting - See more at: http://www.pen.org/two-new-poems-chris-martin#sthash.lqdbHlfJ.dpuf

The imagery of the poem brings out a certain quality in himself that normally would be left latent in a writer.  It brings out the best of him and yet brings out qualities in the object that he writes about.  He writes in "The Bones", "These birds crowding the eave to rouse sun back its plausible ire," (Martin 2-4.)  Both poems, "The Bones" and "The Throat", have a similar non-narrative, broken down structure of putting emphasis on each image, creating a clear canvas of the artistic impression of each line, each stanza, and the poem itself, making it stand out from the rest of the poems.

a crisp wind of red apples
opens the seam between our eyes
but this isn’t about about
it’s a noun flown verb
designed to hurt slowly
in a foraged ear
we go planting - See more at: http://www.pen.org/two-new-poems-chris-martin#sthash.lqdbHlfJ.dpuf

harkening
a bird
for its throat
we hear youIF

harkening
a bird
for its throat
we hear you

Joyce Sutphen's Poem Journal 9-17-2013

            Joyce Sutphen’s poems all have images in common with each other regardless of the many topics she writes about.  Much of her work describes thing in detail, like most poets.  But what makes her work unique is the sensory detail: how she writes about “listen with your eyes” in her poem How to Listen.  In this poem, she writes about how not to listen with just your ears but with your eyes, to pay attention to the situation at hand or the gratifying moment.  Otherwise you might miss it or “your whole life might depend on what you hear.”  Sutphen’s poem My Father Comes to the City describes imagery with not just vision but as if you could feel it as well.  She describes the imagery of seeing her father’s hands not just with sight but how it would feel: “fingers thick as ropes, nails flat and broken in the trough of endless chores.”  These few words effortlessly give an image of feeling what it would be like to do the work that he does, the “endless chores” around his home, which is most presumably a farm because that’s where Sutphen grew up.  Her sensory imagery again pops up again in her poem Death Inc.  She writes “high on meth, tires screeching.”  Just her choice of words here sends a clear message of visuals and sounds: a man high behind the wheel, tires screeching into the distance, black marks on the pavement.  All together, Sutphen’s imagery in her poems uses all of the senses to experience what she wants her readers to feel.

Inheritance Revised

I don’t blame

Either of my parents

For what they

Passed down to me.

Mainly because

Most of it

Is some form of

Genetics.

Genetics

Is a fickle thing.

How one child has brown hair, the other

Red.

How one child 

Is short.  The other

Tall as the sky

Itself.

Yet not all traits

Are passed down 

By genetics.  Some by

Inheritance.

Wit, kindness,

Personality, you 

Name it.  Some is nature,

Other is bred.

I've learned the hard way

To be proud of 

What you have, though you may not 

Like it.

Waste

food and paper plates,
bottles and soda cans
Litter the Mountain of Trash.

shirts and sunglasses,
shoes and nail polish
Stock the Virtual Black Market.

movies and shows,
games and commercials
Transform Libraries to Deserts.

words and blabber,
gossip and secrets
Destroy the Heart's Castle

Equality: a Right for All

Imagine a world

Where we equal

Each other.

Define it, you say?

Ancient two words,

Golden rule.

Treat everyone just

And kindly, yet          

Honestly.

No matter color,

Gender, age, or

Religion.

Sexuality,

Beliefs, as well

As mindset.

We are all human.

            We are equal

We are one.

Inheritance

I don’t blame

Either of my parents

For what they

Inherited to me.

Mainly because

Most of it

Is some form of

Genetics.

I’m glad that

They passed on

What they could

To me.

Intelligence,

Kindness,

Generosity

Wit.

They passed

All of these traits

On to me

And my brothers.

Thank you

Mom and dad,

For what you could do

But I’m hoping for the long health

Linguistic Failure

I don’t know how to roll my R’s.

“It’s quite simple”, they say,

rolling their R’s day and night.

Spanish, Italian, Russian,

so many languages require the rolling of the R,

except for English.

English is a funny language.

With its odd grammar nuances and vocal

conundrums, it makes the language harder to learn

for foreigners.

Yet for a native speaker like me,

I never learned how to do

a rolling R.

Granted, I can make the sound of a “chet” in Hebrew,

an unpleasant guttural sound from 

the back of the throat.

No pretty rolling R’s for me.

Only the guttural, back-of-the-throat sound.

So much history comes from words,

vowels and sounds yet each one has its own history.

I don’t know how roll my R’s.

Some tell me I can learn,

others tell me it’s genetic and

I can’t.

I will never.

C’est impossible.

I try

every day.

Sometimes I can fake it.

But ultimately the journey is fruitless.

Hunting the Right Car, a Haiku

Cougar, Jaguar, Lynx

Thunderbird and Firebird

Fox eats the Rabbit

Bella

Brooklyn, 1997

A girl was born.

Many were born this day,

but she was different.

Purple fog surrounds

her future

and travel envelops

her past.

Two came after,

a boy and a girl.

They moved from place to place:

Brooklyn, Twin Cities, Mexico City,

and back.

Dissatisfied with chasing money,

misses the city.

She doesn't, we don’t

live in a city.

Two dogs comfort her,

her thoughts deep in the memories of the subway,

synapses and synapses

relaying dreams of writing novels.

Tamagotchi,

60’s-80’s fashion.

She keeps her vintage style,

yet forever not “hipster”.

She differs from the average

persona of her school.

She plays sports,

yet is interested in other ideals.

Culture and heritage,

the arts such as writing,

a girl who once dreamed of novels

became a writer of

poems and

short stories.

Her bedroom,

once decorated with hot pink and zebra

became a soft peach

and rebellious musicians glorify the room.

Music from all genres,

But not the mainstream pop and rap

blast through her ‘buds.

Rockin out to her jam.

She keeps the songs

in her heart,

next to her child stories,

“The Itsy-Bitsy Spider went up the water spout.”

……………………

Brooklyn, 1997

A girl was born.

Many were born this day,

but she was different.