It’s that time of year: the school Poetry Slam.
Last month I posted a poem, seventeen, almost without revision. So for the Slam, I took the original poem and re-worked it to tighten the focus and make it slightly more understandable.
Even so, when I read it before my AP English class on Monday, I felt so vulnerable. I desperately wanted it to be understood and appreciated, but when I read it aloud (“perform” it), the audience has little chance. It’s the type of poem you have to read, not just watch. So I had mixed feelings about moving on through to the third round on Friday.
But I did my best. Because I believe in my poem, I made it the focus of my week, memorized it, and stood confidently on the stage. I also did so partly in the spirit of this:
“If I could go back, I’d write another, more dramatic, more emotional story. And I’d sweat the details, tweak it 60+ times, get nervous in front of everyone, forget something, vow to do it better next time. But the satisfaction of my fullest effort outweighs all of that.”
My friend John, a 2-time Slam finalist, didn’t make the Poetry Slam a priority this semester, but he says that he wished he had. Let me tell you, his poems are definitely dramatic, and I know he would have given his fullest effort to the Slam if he hadn’t been busy trying to break 5 minutes in the mile.
Fun fact: it takes exactly 3:00 minutes to recite, which is the limit according to Parkwood Poetry Slam rules. That doesn’t even include the part where I say, “My name is Alisha Newton, and my poem is titled ‘seventeen’.”
seventeen
by alisha newton
i move in circles.
i merely chase the sun.
day in, day out
i trace a sphere around my wants and needs.
to embrace my passion
i balance ink against smooth paper,
like rubber against asphalt,
a controlled release of energy
it works like this: words beget words
as easily as love begets love
the giver and the receiver
become one in the cycle
○
this circle begins
with ascent into the unknown,
over burning hills
of piled hurts and desires
so i ascend,
gasping for new life to fill my lungs
exhaling my humanness,
my impurity
yes, impurity—you must know i am not clean
but neither am i forever stained.
when it’s over, stains will wash out,
sweat and so many words cleansed from my being.
○
but until then, i focus for a breath
on superfluous film,
and on matte pink,
and inspiration: a book.
i had touched the pages with reverence
and had seen my future written
in the lines of the print—
between their words, mine
then more words begin to collect like rainclouds,
a gathering storm
in my human brain
until lightning jumped between the neurons.
love risk learn, i hear
words flowing in my veins
living words, alimentary,
since the beginning
i can pour out but i can’t take back
like blood
i’ll give as much as i can till i’m faint
until i’m empty
○
consider:
love,
because i am a spark
and you are a match:
our fire will leave a coffee-brown singe
risk,
even wary of the uncertainty
of the wavering flame
and the potential for destruction
learn,
gather and create
until möbius ceases to meet
in the middle
and so i keep moving
i rush headlong at high gear,
like my spinning thoughts,
faster every day.
downhill, here, is no easier than uphill,
breaking the rules of physics,
of romance novels,
but i hope beyond the hills.
○
finally i stop for the rain.
realizing the futility
of trying to go further,
i rest. i let raindrops
soak me to the skin,
gently surround me,
dance over my upturned eyelids and
drip off my nose.
if you could see me now, you
wouldn’t know
who i am.
the rain washed me away
she melted the bars and bricks
of labels they had given me
to build my own prison—
washed it all away
you wouldn’t have known me—
and neither would i.
i only know that i am seventeen,
and i know the taste of eternity,
of thunderclouds.
i know that it rains in heaven.
○
when i awoke the next morning,
i was warm, and dry,
but paralyzed with the fear that
it all had been only a dream
