Tuesday, May 28, 2013
The Poetic Heart
Over the weekend, the slam team met up. We had an amazing time getting to know each other. We told two truths and a lie. We discovered that none of us were good liars. I suppose that is a good thing.
We told each other stories. The topics ranged from past experiences to sprawling epics about travel. And love made many appearances. One of our team told an amazing story about finding and losing and finding love while trying to find himself. The team was enthralled. I kept wondering: Is someone out there searching for me? Am I searching for someone?
I wanted desperately to know that someone out there had my eyes engraved into their memory but were stuck searching for my name. I began to imagine that someone was searching in vain on Google Images with keywords like "green shirt" or "blue jeans" or "understanding eyes" or any number of other keywords they had stuck in their morse-code heart beats.
I suddenly wanted to browse every Craig's List missed connection post spanning the past ten years to see if someone desperately wanted to know that I was more than just a memory. I wanted to know if I was more than just a memory to someone; I wanted to know that I was someone's wish. I wanted to make someone's wish come true.
I wanted to dial a random sequence of ten digits on my phone and, when the person picked up (which I was sure would be a beautiful voice), I would say something like "There are ten billion possible numbers I could have dialed, but somehow I knew this was the one to call." It would have been romantic. Because she is a hopeless romantic too. Except recently I've only felt hopeless.
Even now, there is a cage surrounding heart. Each beat feels dangerous like a car speeding down a sharp-curved road with no brakes. But brakes feel dangerous because I feel like brakes have been breaking my chances at finding love – as though if I could just let my heart go and let life take me where it will and have the confidence to give that beautiful person a compliment, maybe it wouldn't feel so broken. I'm torn in two different directions at once, and comfort is so much more pleasant than its antithesis, but life is not meant to be pleasant. Not all the time. And poets, of all people, should know this.
Poets are the ones who dig up their pasts and tell these stories to complete strangers in order to share something with people we may never meet again. It's strange. And beautiful. It's art. And it's real, and it's truth. I don't know what it means all the time, but it gives me license to breathe.
So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go take a breath and tell that one person just how beautiful I think they are.
I think you should do the same.
If nothing else, it will give you a beautiful story to tell.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Drew - And Then There Were Two
Hello, everyone! My name is Andrew, but I am known on stage as DrewDat because I draw truth from words with a pencil. Yep. That's right. Pencil.
Every other poet I know uses a pen, but I don't like the feel of pens. Too much left at stake. I like the opportunity to erase my mistakes, and pencil will actually stay on pages longer than pen will. So, in the short term, these words might be more erasable, but in the long term, the words will last so much longer.
I've trained in martial arts for well over a decade, and I like to bring that fighting spirit to everything I do. Which means that if any of my Tuesday Posts leave you feeling like you've been punched in the face, then what you're really feeling is the synthesis of at least two different arts. But this is why poetry has always been so powerful; it's a beautiful combination which dances even as it strikes. But enough about that.
I can't wait to start this journey with you all! There will be so many things discussed, so many hits thrown, so many cages broken, so many rings sent out like echoes; so purse your lips and get ready for this team to belt out words like a champ throws fists, and, of course, get ready for so many puns!
~ DrewDat Out!
Friday, April 26, 2013
And Some Change Was Needed
Today is a great day to have a great day. This is something that a student I know says almost everyday, and I'm starting to believe him. Today is a great day because it is space to make a place for tomorrow's sun to be really bright.
Last week on April 17th, the venue known as Hear Here in Colorado Springs finally had its final slam poetry contest. If you don't know what slam is, here is a quick rundown: It is what would happen if theater and poetry had a love child. It works out to be somewhat like a monologue in poetry format. A poet has 3 minutes to perform his/her poem and is then scored on that poem by 5 random judges chosen from the audience. It is poetry that is judged. It is brutal, and it is amazing. It also happens to be kind of a big deal.
Every year, several cities (70+) send teams of 5 poets to compete on a national stage, and this year Boston will be the host city. Colorado Springs now has a team which they plan on sending to Boston. For those of you keeping score, you have probably figured out what I'm about to say next. I made the team for Colorado Springs, and in August, I will be traveling to Boston to compete with 4 other folks against several other cities in a winner takes all contest of awesome for the ages. I can't wait. Unfortunately, I need to reach out for assistance as well.
In order to get to Boston, I (and my team) need to begin fundraising right away. A friend of mine is beginning this task by selling small landscapes as artwork and they're awesome. Sadly, I can't draw for beans. I can't draw four beans either, but that's not the point. The point is that I need to begin fundraising, and I don't want to do it by begging my family for extra monies (however, if anyone in my family is willing to donate I wouldn't turn it down although I may take it begrudgingly). All hope is not lost though!
Although I cannot paint, I can teach. I can teach poetry, martial arts, dance (swing and blues), music, and writing. In addition, I can write, and I would be more than willing to sell a few of my poems for a low, negotiable, and charitable price. Not only would you get an amazing poem, you'd get an amazing feeling of helping out an artist to go where he really needs to! No better feeling exists, or so I've heard.
Another way to help is to simply spread the word about how awesome this blog/poetry/writing webpage is so that the cause can be heard.
And, if you don't have money to spare, I am always happy accept kind words, hugs, compliments, change, and stories.
Here's hoping that, come August, Colorado Springs will be represented in Boston by some amazing poets!
Thank you, good luck, and have fun writing!
~ Andrew
Last week on April 17th, the venue known as Hear Here in Colorado Springs finally had its final slam poetry contest. If you don't know what slam is, here is a quick rundown: It is what would happen if theater and poetry had a love child. It works out to be somewhat like a monologue in poetry format. A poet has 3 minutes to perform his/her poem and is then scored on that poem by 5 random judges chosen from the audience. It is poetry that is judged. It is brutal, and it is amazing. It also happens to be kind of a big deal.
Every year, several cities (70+) send teams of 5 poets to compete on a national stage, and this year Boston will be the host city. Colorado Springs now has a team which they plan on sending to Boston. For those of you keeping score, you have probably figured out what I'm about to say next. I made the team for Colorado Springs, and in August, I will be traveling to Boston to compete with 4 other folks against several other cities in a winner takes all contest of awesome for the ages. I can't wait. Unfortunately, I need to reach out for assistance as well.
In order to get to Boston, I (and my team) need to begin fundraising right away. A friend of mine is beginning this task by selling small landscapes as artwork and they're awesome. Sadly, I can't draw for beans. I can't draw four beans either, but that's not the point. The point is that I need to begin fundraising, and I don't want to do it by begging my family for extra monies (however, if anyone in my family is willing to donate I wouldn't turn it down although I may take it begrudgingly). All hope is not lost though!
Although I cannot paint, I can teach. I can teach poetry, martial arts, dance (swing and blues), music, and writing. In addition, I can write, and I would be more than willing to sell a few of my poems for a low, negotiable, and charitable price. Not only would you get an amazing poem, you'd get an amazing feeling of helping out an artist to go where he really needs to! No better feeling exists, or so I've heard.
Another way to help is to simply spread the word about how awesome this blog/poetry/writing webpage is so that the cause can be heard.
And, if you don't have money to spare, I am always happy accept kind words, hugs, compliments, change, and stories.
Here's hoping that, come August, Colorado Springs will be represented in Boston by some amazing poets!
Thank you, good luck, and have fun writing!
~ Andrew
Location:Colorado Springs... For Now
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Poetry Dare Day 18: Rivers
Rivers flow form a source,
with gravity, water has the weight
of earth and the stories of mountains, no wonder we
have so many terms to refer to the way
rivers talk. Maybe
they have so much to say
because water claims
too many lives, may-
be water talks because life sprang
first from the depths, and that's why
water
has so many stories to tell
about life's infancy like
a grandmother with more memories
than photos, more love than hugs, more
discipline than hair.
Next time you're by water
with movement enough to be confused
as speech, take a moment and listen to stories
about the mistakes you've made as adolescence
crept underneath your skin 'cause
water doesn't forget; it
flows and changes form, leaves
dirt like memories deposited on
windshields sometimes so thick it
is difficult to
see memories have this way
of staying in your brain
and exchanging shapes
as they move from grey of mind to red
of vocal chords in images and words, but
if they aren't shared, they
have this way of freezing
movement, after all, keeps heat up, so speak
like the water does when it babbles, speak
the secrets you hear from raving rapids, and
listen for how to flow into adulthood with the
power of water to
wash past, clean
future and keep
seeking the advice of earth
found speaking at river's side and
lapping tide.
Poems go in completely new directions sometimes - I mean that the way we begin to write a poem is not necessarily indicative of the way a poem will turn out. We never know where a poem will end up. Rivers seem to be like this. Except that they all end up somewhere at least.
with gravity, water has the weight
of earth and the stories of mountains, no wonder we
have so many terms to refer to the way
rivers talk. Maybe
they have so much to say
because water claims
too many lives, may-
be water talks because life sprang
first from the depths, and that's why
water
has so many stories to tell
about life's infancy like
a grandmother with more memories
than photos, more love than hugs, more
discipline than hair.
Next time you're by water
with movement enough to be confused
as speech, take a moment and listen to stories
about the mistakes you've made as adolescence
crept underneath your skin 'cause
water doesn't forget; it
flows and changes form, leaves
dirt like memories deposited on
windshields sometimes so thick it
is difficult to
see memories have this way
of staying in your brain
and exchanging shapes
as they move from grey of mind to red
of vocal chords in images and words, but
if they aren't shared, they
have this way of freezing
movement, after all, keeps heat up, so speak
like the water does when it babbles, speak
the secrets you hear from raving rapids, and
listen for how to flow into adulthood with the
power of water to
wash past, clean
future and keep
seeking the advice of earth
found speaking at river's side and
lapping tide.
Poems go in completely new directions sometimes - I mean that the way we begin to write a poem is not necessarily indicative of the way a poem will turn out. We never know where a poem will end up. Rivers seem to be like this. Except that they all end up somewhere at least.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Poetry Dare Day 17: Misconceptions
Misconception: life should be easy.
Truth: life is only easy for those
who aren't living; life
runs on survival – it tests you
until you want to clench your fists, strike
hard enough to break, but
the open hand will always be stronger because
it can build, hold, love, and hope.
Misconception: Black belt means you are higher up
on the Chuck Norris ass-kicking scale.
Truth: Black belt means master of basics and takes
about eight years to complete. The basis of basics
mastery is rooted in the strength of your legs to
stand tall without fault – sure, flying is nice,
but ground doesn't give for those with focus
enough to stand. Hand to hand takes a backseat
to respect, discipline, honor, and integrity, but
only those who've studied fighting can attest
to why it ought be avoided.
Misconception: children should learn at a distance
in order to avoid pain
Truth: People, not just children, should experiment in the thick
of it. Making mistakes will not one knowledge
so long as he or she is given a chance to reflect
upon the experiential evidence gathered up in mistake's wake.
Exception: People need not be exposed to violence directly
in order to understand its effects first hand
Some lessons are not worth learning – innocence
need not be traded so that a person can learn that
not all men are to be trusted – hands
only form to fists when children are taught violence early,
and hands will always be strong open because they
are used to hold rather than smash bones
like innocence.
Misconception: Hatred hastens change along with
threats of death and force
Truth: Newton's third law prohibits this
from achieving truth – every action will be met
with an equal reaction – force and threats
at the behest of gunpoint or sword are
met with unbreakable resilience, and
all that is made of matter
will one day decay – swords rust into dust,
only words
can withstand time as both are endless and
only need a mind to conceive them in order to activate.
Exception: Words are at the whim of people with
too much time on their hands – meaning gets
driven out like erosion breaks down mountains
so words which once stood for something,
with too much misuse, get ground to dust –
this is how progressive, conservative, democrat,
republican, pro-life, choice, gun, rights, American
can come to hold less breath than a whisper and
why no one listens when these words enter conversations:
the only sound aloud is the crumbling quake of shaky earth
Misconception: Poetry is a power possessed by a select few.
Truth: Poetry is a process through which one's heart
is carved from chest, penned to paper, and
put back in again. It is the conversion of
the private to the public, a story-teller's tool
to make the esoteric understood. Anyone
who has made oxygen into energy and exhaled CO2
has the makings of poetry in their veins simply
because they have changed the world – anyone
who has loved or lost, felt sleepless lat at night,
woken with more energy than miles, less
breath than sweat, or the same shirt
on too many different days knows the exhilaration
of expression. Poetry is truth.
Truth: life is only easy for those
who aren't living; life
runs on survival – it tests you
until you want to clench your fists, strike
hard enough to break, but
the open hand will always be stronger because
it can build, hold, love, and hope.
Misconception: Black belt means you are higher up
on the Chuck Norris ass-kicking scale.
Truth: Black belt means master of basics and takes
about eight years to complete. The basis of basics
mastery is rooted in the strength of your legs to
stand tall without fault – sure, flying is nice,
but ground doesn't give for those with focus
enough to stand. Hand to hand takes a backseat
to respect, discipline, honor, and integrity, but
only those who've studied fighting can attest
to why it ought be avoided.
Misconception: children should learn at a distance
in order to avoid pain
Truth: People, not just children, should experiment in the thick
of it. Making mistakes will not one knowledge
so long as he or she is given a chance to reflect
upon the experiential evidence gathered up in mistake's wake.
Exception: People need not be exposed to violence directly
in order to understand its effects first hand
Some lessons are not worth learning – innocence
need not be traded so that a person can learn that
not all men are to be trusted – hands
only form to fists when children are taught violence early,
and hands will always be strong open because they
are used to hold rather than smash bones
like innocence.
Misconception: Hatred hastens change along with
threats of death and force
Truth: Newton's third law prohibits this
from achieving truth – every action will be met
with an equal reaction – force and threats
at the behest of gunpoint or sword are
met with unbreakable resilience, and
all that is made of matter
will one day decay – swords rust into dust,
only words
can withstand time as both are endless and
only need a mind to conceive them in order to activate.
Exception: Words are at the whim of people with
too much time on their hands – meaning gets
driven out like erosion breaks down mountains
so words which once stood for something,
with too much misuse, get ground to dust –
this is how progressive, conservative, democrat,
republican, pro-life, choice, gun, rights, American
can come to hold less breath than a whisper and
why no one listens when these words enter conversations:
the only sound aloud is the crumbling quake of shaky earth
Misconception: Poetry is a power possessed by a select few.
Truth: Poetry is a process through which one's heart
is carved from chest, penned to paper, and
put back in again. It is the conversion of
the private to the public, a story-teller's tool
to make the esoteric understood. Anyone
who has made oxygen into energy and exhaled CO2
has the makings of poetry in their veins simply
because they have changed the world – anyone
who has loved or lost, felt sleepless lat at night,
woken with more energy than miles, less
breath than sweat, or the same shirt
on too many different days knows the exhilaration
of expression. Poetry is truth.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Poetry Dare Day 16: Pages Ripped Out
I would wretch
if I could.
Pages were ripped out. I
live my life through paper, there
is a divine sadness in books missing
their internal organs, there
memories torn, and I wonder
if dementia is time acting
like a child to rip the
thoughts that didn't revolve around it
out of the minds of selfish humans who thought
the space in their minds
to be property they truly owned,
not simply renting, but this
is not true.
I wonder how it feels to retell
a story to its author.
Do the eyes light up like
it's being heard for the first time?
WHen pages with unpublished poems
are lost, those words can't be
strung together exactly as they once were.
If life is poetry, then memories are stanzas, and I
can't imagine losing so many lines
for a poem
that can never be replaced.
if I could.
Pages were ripped out. I
live my life through paper, there
is a divine sadness in books missing
their internal organs, there
memories torn, and I wonder
if dementia is time acting
like a child to rip the
thoughts that didn't revolve around it
out of the minds of selfish humans who thought
the space in their minds
to be property they truly owned,
not simply renting, but this
is not true.
I wonder how it feels to retell
a story to its author.
Do the eyes light up like
it's being heard for the first time?
WHen pages with unpublished poems
are lost, those words can't be
strung together exactly as they once were.
If life is poetry, then memories are stanzas, and I
can't imagine losing so many lines
for a poem
that can never be replaced.
Poetry Dare Day 15: Hands Crossed
She
has her hands crossed
across her chest as though
trying to keep her heart in or
trying to keep
his words out. She
wants hime to find words
worth asking; she wants
him to find stories
worth telling. He
keeps his cheeks puffed from
Chex Mix and Pepsi, commercials
about Doritos, football, and
scant stories about past
Monopoly games, Battleship; there's
not a lot of surface tension – she's
talking to him about the connections
he may have make between these games
and his mistakes – he's
been momentarily saved from orange
jump suits due to age, but time
will not run counter-clockwise, so
she wants to ensure he's running right.
People give multiple chances, but
the clock's hands only seem to tighten.
Noose-like, time runs taut, so she needs to teach
so that her lessons don't become past tense.
has her hands crossed
across her chest as though
trying to keep her heart in or
trying to keep
his words out. She
wants hime to find words
worth asking; she wants
him to find stories
worth telling. He
keeps his cheeks puffed from
Chex Mix and Pepsi, commercials
about Doritos, football, and
scant stories about past
Monopoly games, Battleship; there's
not a lot of surface tension – she's
talking to him about the connections
he may have make between these games
and his mistakes – he's
been momentarily saved from orange
jump suits due to age, but time
will not run counter-clockwise, so
she wants to ensure he's running right.
People give multiple chances, but
the clock's hands only seem to tighten.
Noose-like, time runs taut, so she needs to teach
so that her lessons don't become past tense.
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