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slam poetry/rosary beads/?

Pierwszy z poniższych wierszy można znaleźć na podslam.org (jeśli tylko masz konto - bezpośredni link)  - słyszałem go  jakieś dwa lata temu, jego wykonanie zrobiło na mnie dość duże wrażenie - ostatnio znów miałem ochotę go posłuchać, więc zacząłem szukać i tak się stało, że znalazłem ich więcej. Poniżej dwa, najbardziej spodobane.

my grandmother genuflex with the best of them,
born straight as in arrow in a world thats learning to appreciate it's curves
she breaks like nails under the slightest of pressure
if you didn't know better you might call her fragile it's true.
wears depression like lipstick she wouldn't leave the house without it,
runs laps around her rosary beads like she is going to marathon her way
into Gods good graces- faces everyday in a world of black and white if you're
right you're on her side if you're wrong she'll pray for you.
she prayed for an ivy leaguer, i'm 5'6 140 pounds of all the 'granddaughters'
she never wished she had
i'm going to hell for more reasons than she has
fingers to count them on but she likes me- i make her laugh.
she's heard me use swear words and deep down somewhere i know
she thinks that's fuckin' funny.
she holds her own in church the same way i hold my own on a stage, i will
never read her holy books and she will never hear my poetry...
we don't agree to disagree we just disagree and try not to talk about it
she makes a point of introducing me to the boy at the checkout counter
of k-mart calling him a catch, while i make her uncomfortable by referring to my
roomate as my girlfriend and using terms like Queer
while i laugh at the way her lips twitch i must have inherited her sense of
humour..i think that's fuckin' funny.
but i'd never tell her along with a lot of things..i don't fall in love nearly
as easily as i'd like but i've spent whole nights pulling petals of she loves
me she loves me she loves from forget me not to hope she doesn't
forget me in the morning.
i smile too much and think all the wrong things are funny,
i laugh when i'm nervous get nervous when i'm lying
i've spent whole afternoons laughing through my teeth it's true i'm not fragile.
my fracture lines are in all hard to reach places well aware the world is
a battlefield where we go to paint ourselves red over whatever we decide most
worth it
there are people like my grandma who think love comes
in a box with simple easy-to-read two part instructions
so imagine my surprise upon opening my mailbox to a christmas
card addressed to two names, my catholic conservative god-fearing grandmother
who grew up in a house in a country in a time where my lifestyle
was entirely unacceptable managed to inhale put pen to paper
and scroll the name of my partner on an envelope like that
did not mean everything to her, and i find myself
scowering the page for signs of hesitation
an extra space a place where the
pen may have stopped to regroup and rethink what it was doing,
the ink bleeding through like the bullet in the heart of these out-dated
ideas, my grandma is signing away in the 5 lettered name of a girl
who loved me like rocking chairs on front porches in the dirty
south during a rain storm, some love is like tidal waves earth shattering
and great, some like storm clouds like sun beams and yeah grandma like
fucking rainbows
so tell me,
when exactly was it when you decided to stop flinching
and simply accept the way that i am.


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if you are a 6 year old boy named Jordan who lives in denver colorado loves baseball,
has a particular affinity for Frank Sinatra and teeth to make an accordion jealous
you already know more about heartache than i will ever understand about privlidge
i call myself lucky..
like shiny pennies and lotto tickets are what's holding me above this murky water
life so constantly keeps him flailing and
on nights the colour of blood on a blackened white tee-pee
where little boys learn to quickly what i means to be a man
and men learn like dogs what it is to be afraid
and people dress themselves in concrete and barbed wire and Jordan asks
things of me i don't know how to give when he says
"mr. joey...i want you to teach me to dance like those guys on MTV 'cause i think
my dad probably dances like them and i've always wanted to be just like my dad..."
so i spend the next hour teaching this little boy his father,
like a father is a history lesson and Jordan is c-walking all over his dad's past mistakes
it takes every muscle in your body to wear resentment like armor but Jordan's sporting
nothing but love me as he pop and locks out those feelings that make us
feel weak stopping only to say
"thank you..i know my dad would be proud.."
if understanding is an art form Jordan is the barishnikov of social grace..
betting his share of the present on the future banking every misery on a happy ending
tells me he is learning to dance because there is no use pretending says
"mr. joey..my moms real sick and my little baby sister is still sleeping inside
her belly and she's not gunna make it either..so today, today i want you to teach
me that ballet dancing because i know my baby sister would have been a beautiful ballerina.."
Jordan lives like the heart is the weapon of mass destruction and kiddo's gunna bleed all
over you till you're so covered in love that you forget what you ever dressed yourself in previously,
and i dance- like the soul is a butterfly and i'm sprouting wings head-to-toe
so in our ways we teach eachother things we never knew we knew and i know..
when he says sick that his mom is afflicted with the worst 4 letters ever put next to
one another given meaning, symptoms and no cure the next week goes by in a blur
until the day Jordan comes back to class even i know dance won't save the dying
mothers of little boys who tell me things like this:
"mr. joey...this past week i really haven't felt much like dancing..
until this morning when i found this.."
and those tiny little boy hands reached out to me an old worn-out frank sinatra
cassette tape and says "my mom used to sing me to sleep with this music
and so today- i think maybe today she'd like it if we danced to this.."
and i watched that little boy dance out the fluid poetic movements of his mother
and i have never seen anything more beautiful...
than her.

autorka : katie wirsing

źródło

wtorek, 06 kwietnia 2010, elpanda

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