On Friday I will read this poem in the final round of my school’s semiannual Poetry Slam. I will be judged for the written form, flow, originality, creativity, and for performed voice, eye contact, and energy.
(Watch a 19-second video of the first stanza: http://youtu.be/mJN5O4nl7-4)
But it is more than a simple class assignment. This is my story from 2010 until nearly the end of 2011—so two years, compressed into one year of gradual awakening and growth. I recently read a post from an incredibly inspirational blog by writer Jeff Goins, about the importance of sharing your story. I have poured my heart out into my blog many nights, but I just realized that it is an opportunity to pour my heart out before a live audience.
Photo credit: "Unginned Cotton" by Jason Chang (CC license)
The first two rounds of the poetry slam were Monday for my AP English class and Wednesday (today) for that class and three others. For those presentations, I just wanted to read my poem and be done with it. I was nervous about presenting and not completely confident that my poem was worthy. I am not a captivating actor or a comedian, but a writer; only a few people understand my writing as I intended. But I pray that these words will touch someone’s heart.
“Breathe”
I pursue a fool’s mission,
Glancing in mirrors, a narrow-minded perception.
Faking my passions and deceiving myself,
To be an envoy of the health god I worship.
I forgot You and left my friends
On the periphery of my obsession.
My heart recognizes the ache but denies the cause.
Isolated at meals, I sit with my plate of austere ideals.
The gloom obscures my reason.
I exist in a dark world in January,
And when the sun finally comes, it’s too late.
My only taste of life is choked down like a pill.
I’m breathless from trying so hard, and impatient,
Waiting for something.
I need something better to fill my lungs.
I stretch up my hand, trying to surface above the despair.
Suddenly, I’m rescued, new—
You rescue me—
And each breath is precious.
The May rains wash my soul, invigorate me,
And promise peace.
Each day my eyes widen more at new wonders.
I sense the Earth awakening, and the
Verdant air hums with life,
And wraps a fresh breeze around me like hope.
Soon, the summer sun stretches out the days,
And makes the air heavy and my breath labored.
Moving on is such hard work; I taste the salty sweat—
But I prefer clarity to dullness, even in pain.
Autumn bonfires fill my throat with burning smoke.
I feel the heat and the pressure inside me,
But I find strength, and I sing,
As my heart responds to Your call.
I revel in the glory of Your creation:
Bursting with color, November‘s dying leaves flutter.
Chill air and the daylight fleeting
Send me indoors to spice and steam.
But You alone can satisfy my deepest needs,
Assure my soul, soothe,
And heal my brokenness.
How could I ever have forgotten?
Seasons change, but every night
I breathe in, out, enveloped in the scent of clean cotton:
My refuge from the world. In You my weary soul
Rests.
© Alisha Newton
November 2011
(First of all, yes, I realize the irony of associate “cotton” with rest, for all its history in the U.S. I have a bit of cotton that I picked clean of seeds, and it smells so clean and fresh.)
Two verses (and a multitude of songs, like “Breathe” by The Wrecking) influenced my words:
“You satisfy me more than the richest feast. I will praise you with songs of joy.” Ps. 63:5
“My heart has heard you say, ‘Come and talk with me.’ And my heart responds, ‘LORD, I am coming.’” Ps. 27:8
At the start, my life was unbalanced, narrow-minded—dominated by one dulled sense: that of taste, representing my obsession with food and the greater implications of that obsession. Slowly, I awoke, and now I feel and smell and see and hear with new vigor. I am alive and, as I wrote, every breath is precious.
I wrote a similar poem, “The Struggle”, for the spring Poetry Slam. It went more in detail about the experience of running track and battling my body, and concluded with lines of “I can’t earn love; I can’t win by conforming to an ideal”—to summarize, it acknowledged the pointlessness of trying to earn love from God and people by being successful.
The last two stanzas of “The Struggle” begin with “I should… I should…” Looking back on it, I wonder, Why did I write it that way? What about “Now I…”? In answer, this is what the fall Slam poem is: it speaks in the present tense. It is now. In the midst of my junior year of high school, I find myself needing so much time to breathe and rest. Even now, I cut short my writing, because I know I have a 5am-10pm day tomorrow—click over for part two.
