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Published: 2008-10-18 21:05:43 +0000 UTC; Views: 310; Favourites: 2; Downloads: 28
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Description
A poem I've written for a poetry slam I'm reading at in about 3 hours. Just put the finishing touches on it, I think.This was hard to write. The first three stanzas are all based on real events from my hometown. Two are from the shameful days of the early 90's where apparently being racist was chic, and only a quiet minority of the populace took it upon themselves to take steps to integrate our city and erase the racist legacy of the town. The third stanza is about a kid who got stabbed while trying to break up a fight that started when a group of drunk white guys started yelling epithets at a nearby group of black guys. He died.
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Jerome Greer, my elementary school principal who was an inspiration in youth, and becomes more of one every day as I think back on what he went through and how well he handled it all.
It also is dedicated to Nicolas Blackburn, and to everyone else who ever has or ever will preach, pray, and fight for social equality, for peace and for love.
Comments: 8
Great rhythm, dude. I had a lot of fun reading this out loud and trying not to get too loud (dad's in bed...oops)-- there's definitely a big change in rhythm and intensity as the poem reaches its climax, and I bet it was really fun to hear you read this.
It implies a story without really telling one in a really linear way. Reading it feels sort of like fragmented imaginings. That goes well with the whole idea of seeing those burning crosses-- even if there is no story to tell, if you spent your night safe-- you'd know there was one out there.
There's something slightly sexual about a butterfly knife silently fluttering between this rib and that, and something just as carnal about hate dribbling out through spit. I really like that part of the poem just for its twisted sensuality.
"they burned crosses outside my school...dressed for halloween..." puts the narrator as a child for me, only that tone of the child is almost immediately abandoned, really, because the subject matter takes over and it's all about weaving a really terrible beast from a third person perspective. This change is a little confusing for me. It is not unsettling as if a child is forced to grow up too quickly, mind you-- more like, it doesn't quite do anything for the poem's content. It might possibly be more powerful if you picked one or the other.
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You, my friend, rock.
I agree with your point about the transition from child to... well, whatever. Adult, I guess. That problem stems mostly from the fact that the first is an anecdotal (and completely true) experience of mine, and the others are merely things that have happened in my town regarding the same problem of race relations.
Not sure how to fix it. I don't want to dump the beginning, but I'm not sure the rest of the poem would sound as good if I tried to lead it all from the voice of a child. Then again, maybe it would be okay. I could certainly keep the stuff about the butterfly knife and stuff.
Anyway, thanks once again for the comment. I always look forward to hearing what you have to say.
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Good that you like hearing what I'm going to say-- I think I like leaving in-depth comments enough to do it as much as possible because then I get more of the artists' perspective on their pieces, so it's kind of cool, yanno?
I understand about not wanting either of the voices to disappear from the poem. Maybe if you can think of some more anecdotes from childhood and intersperse them with the historical events, you could work with both at the same time. It might even become a poem you read as a duet with a young child, or just another person.
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If I saw any points for improvement, I wouldn't tell you in case you thought they were brilliant, because you've done the slam now.
Seriously, I think this is pretty fabulous. I especially love the third stanza.
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That doesn't even make sense. I've already read, so now it's just another one of my poems that I'd like to improve in any way possible. I'd rather not have my ego inappropriately stroked, I can handle the truth.
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Incredibly sad and very powerful in its tone and words. The very last stanza, I don't know. I have no words to convey the emotions I felt while reading this.
Wonderful job. Good luck too
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