Map
of Austin Poetry #80
Date:
Mon, 17 May 1999 15:55:13 EDT
Theme:
Writers Corps Youth Poets Slam League
Originally
scheduled for this week's theme: Stazja's Favorite Poem Project (Your
favorite poem by a living poet.) Wellllll, after hearing the YPSL at
Borders' "Bring in Da Slam III" I changed my mind. With
their permission, I've selected works by five of the participants,
from the anthology "my tongue is my choir" published by
Borders Books and Music at 18th & L, N.W., D.C.
Next
week's theme is "Memorial Day" and I'm still accepting
submissions.
Thanks
to all who have generously permitted me to include your poetry in the
MAP.
1.
Jason Gamio, 14, from The Bronx, has been writing poetry for three
years. His poems have been published in Mexico as part of a cultural
exchange between City Arts, The Point Community Development Corp.,
and the Mexican government.
The
Day Is Coming
The
day is coming are you ready
Are
you ready for that day
Are
you ready to live another way
Lots
of laws being broken
Lots
of mothers' hearts being broken too
Families
disappearing in the thin air
For
what
People
going all out
Is
it because they're scared
Or
is it because no one's there for them
So
I ask you again
Are
you ready
Are
you ready for the skies to
open
up and the angels to come
and
pick up god's chosen ones
Or
the devil to destroy the world
more
than what it is
Are
you ready for this
Cause
that day is coming.
©
1999 Jason Gamio
2.
Larry Robertson, 12, writes about justice, faith, the meaning of
life. Last month, he represented Washington, D.C. at the 2nd annual
National Teen Poetry Slam in Albuquerque, N.M.
This
Ghetto Side
This
ghetto side is not a joke.
The
bullets are not an illusion.
The
fights are fought to kill.
And
yet, still we waste all our dollar bills
and
we can't get out of here.
So
what is all this fear?
It
is the '90's.
We
can't be afraid of our own people anymore.
What
for?
On
this ghetto side,
things
don't have to happen for a reason.
They
can just happen to happen
for
the purpose of happening.
On
this ghetto side,
the
word projects is not new,
because
just about everybody lives in them
or
near them.
On
this ghetto side,
if
you can fight,
you
have a lot of pride.
On
this ghetto side,
every
day there is a dispute
on
the subject of whose neighborhood is worse.
On
this side.
On
this ghetto side,
mothers
struggle with 10 kids or more.
On
this ghetto side,
we
are selling our souls to public housing
and
public assistance.
On
this ghetto side,
we
can do better than this,
if
we realize that we are
not
the devil's grand prize.
And
please, don't say I lie
when
I talk about this ghetto side.
©
1999 Larry Robertson
3.
Shonnell Shelton also represented D.C. at the National Teen Poetry
Slam. She is a sixth grader, 11 years old.
The
Powerful Side of Me
I
was born in heaven.
I
walked on the Pacific Ocean.
I
designed earrings so beautiful they glow on the worst days of your
life.
I
am bad.
I
sat on the clouds watering my plants.
I
got tired so I turned off day's sunshine.
My
child is Mary who gave birth to my Precious Grandson, Jesus.
I
am beautiful.
I
gazed at the unsprouting plants as they started to grow.
I
am powerful.
For
a birthday present, I gave my mother Jerusalem.
My
strength is powerful, therefore
I
turned myself into a color flower so that everyone can see me and
smile.
I
am the one who made the sun shine.
I
caught a flying cheetah 69,000 miles an hour.
I
am so hip that even Mike Tyson couldn't knock me out if he tried.
I
am so perfect that I can shine like a star.
I
mean...I...can fly like a bird in the sky.
©
1999 Shonnell Shelton
4.
Tabia Brown describes herself as "a Jamerican (Jamaican and
American) middle-teen-aged young woman." She lives with her
family in the Bronx, has been writing for nearly a decade. One of her
future goals is to bring positive changes to the world.
Hello
Why
did you call me?
I
can imagine
You
wrapped your hands
Thick
and callused from a rough past
Around
a phone
Slowly
lifting it from its cradle cast
As
your mind was momentarily hazed by euphoric smoke
And
poked at it clumsily with fingers which knew the right path
Yet
still occasionally strayed from the road.
But
why?
Why
when I told you not to do so
Late
that night
Only
days ago
As
a street lamp cried a tear of lonely light into my room
Begging
me to cry with it
I
smiled
I
smiled at your voice,
Dangerously
heavy, deliciously low
Smiled
but whispered, "My number, no. You can't have my number."
I
said you can't have my number
So
what was it you heard
There
was my voice, calm and quiet
My
thoughts, gentle and innocent
And
together coalesced into my words
So
you tell me what curled itself into a ball
And
rested itself in a corner of your mind
Was
its name Constantine?
Constantine
for its consistency
Its
smooth, even consistency
Often
present, but seldom noticed
Or
was it a ghost, a figment, an illusion
Having
an appearance of reality
But
a heart and a meaning of nonexistence
Or
maybe it was a liar
Perhaps
to me, perhaps to you
Never
knowing who it was, who it was, the truth.
Yo,
you need not get defensive
I'm
not about to stretch my arms up,
Wrap
my hands around your neck,
And
squeeze until your past and your present is gone
See
I don't want your emotions
I
want a response
Truly,
I'm
simply curious
So
won't you take me serious
Take
me and my ears in your voice and tell us
Why
did you call me?
It's
FYI
Or
rather FMI
Because
maybe then
It'll
help me know
Why
when you called
I
simply smiled
And
whispered back
Hello...
©
1998 Tabia Brown
5.
Natriece Laynette Spicer is an 18-year-old aspiring author and poet
from S.F. Her aunt, who had never been to a slam, sat behind me at
"Bring in Da Slam III" and quickly got the hang of
unrestrained slam etiquette when Natriece performed a killer piece
that scored a perfect 30.
Not
Just a Poem
Look
into my eyes. I'm full of desire. Can you tell?
I'm
as passionate about writing as the devil is about hell.
Check
my pulse it beats for the alphabet,
palpitating
to the cadence of a poem that I haven't finished yet.
But
it's not just a poem, it's really something greater.
Though
it is just phrases now it will mean so much more later.
To
me it is as precious as the child I have yet to bear.
It
is as priceless as knowing that someone really does care.
My
weapons the pen and pad I used to get here.
Assisting
my fight against insecurities and things that I fear.
This
poem you see is not just a poem written simply to be writing.
They
hold words so dark and deep you can't see them with good lighting.
My
style, my wishes, anxieties, all expressed in one even that which I
fear.
Whether
it is the loving, sardonic, hateful or dreamy voice you hear.
No
this is not.
No
this is not just a combination of words, metaphors, phrases, ideas,
feelings
and rhymes.
It
is not superficial, overpolitical, foreign or seclusive. I hope you
don't
mind.
These
conjunctions, compositions, reflections of dreams and strife.
They
are the passion that saved my soul, a glimpse into the story of my
life.
©
1999 Natriece Laynette Spicer