which scripture would this be, I wonder? genesis?
this poem, i think, was about me breaking up with poetry as I prepare to embrace my future in visual arts, and honoring the relationship that led me to grow into the artist that i am becoming.
Poetry / a brief history of evolution
A brief history of evolution
(This is a poem that has to be touched to be understood.)
We divide like spindle fibers in meiosis. Poets.
Diverging in the first steps of parapatric speciation: some stick
To the ancestral territory of paper while others begin to stray
To the stage, but it’s like the aquatic return of dolphins, poetry
Being an oral tradition at its roots. We split our cells, pacing the confines of language
And relish our combine isolationism. Speciation will be complete when we can no longer
Twine our differentiated poet bodies back together and create viable offspring. For now,
Hybrid art. We will have to wait and watch it mature to determine whether it is fertile
Or not. Viable, or not. Whether we are, all of us, poets. Or instead, separate things.
The outer membrane that surrounds us, defines us as a group with common purpose,
Begins to shudder, shaking us loose from each other. Slam poet. Stage poet. Spoken
word artist. Performance poet. Published poet. Author. Lyricist. Rapper. Page poet.
We slide against each other as we pull away, slimy from shared mucus-impetus,
But once on opposite sides look back and begin the calculation of differences.
Paper. Microphone. Pen. The page poet rejects rhyme. The stage poets reject spines and
perfect binding. Each group pressing against the outer membrane until our whole
Looks more like a figure eight. Encased in translucent barrier we drift free. Divide again.
“Well, sure, at first pass it seems powerful but it doesn’t stand up to a second listening.”
“If you put those words down on paper, they’re guaranteed to be less powerful.”
“Well, sure, but who did you sell that chapbook to other than your aunties and boyfriends?”
“Don’t you know nobody reads books anymore? Get with the times.”
We go to court, play basketball with apples and oranges, drawing up a list of grievances
In sidewalk chalk on black asphalt. Craft insults that only other poets would understand.
Craft insults that only other poets could craft, sharpening words like shrapnel.
We have unleashed civil war, civilly. And no one would know it but
The poets. If you asked them they would say “we are not all that different.
We all use metaphore. We all use rhyme. Most of us. Some don’t. I don’t.”
But language is a symbolic system to facilitate
communication among higher animals.
It exists because we agree it exists.
Back in the primordial ooze we split skin in a
Blood-brother compact to conform to rules.
If tomorrow we cease to recognize an apple as an apple,
it ceases to be an apple. If we refuse to recognize a poem as a poem,
it ceases to be a poem because a poem is only the symbolic system for recognizing emotion.
A poem is just the symbolic layer over music. At its base, a poem is only just the rush
of blood under pliant skin forming the pulse of the beat that forms dance. That forms
love. That forms hate and lust and longing of regret and hope. If you take away the words
of the poet, you are left with nothing more or less than this:
What it means to be human.
You are left with the silence to hear
your own heart beating, forming rhythms,
forming beats, forming tribal dances.
We all form a circle around the bonfire. Poets. Page Poets. Slam poets. Stage poets.
Spoken word poets. Performance poets. Published poets. Authors. Lyricists.
Unheard Poets who write poems in the labor of concrete, the rhythm of public
transportation, the rhyme of medicine, the alliteration of education, the beat of family,
The current of blood. Pulsing. We form a circle around the bonfire, throw in
Paper and microphone, and tape recorder. And pen. Throw in roles, labels and names.
We stand, and watch the flickering of poetry. And are the flickering of poetry.
This poem is not about words.
This poem has to be touched to be understood.
This poem has to be felt to be understood. And I don’t mean felt deep in your gut,
Deep in your chest-covered ribbed cage. Not felt under fingernails and lifting threads of
hair. I don’t mean running your hand across a smooth sheet of uncreased paper, either.
This poem has to be felt. In silence. In a world of mechanical reproduction,
As we pull away from each other, this poem demands to be felt. Like so:
I ask you not to leave. Not yet. Not completely.
I am the last strand of mitochondria clinging, wimpering for you to stop.
Don’t go any further. Stay with the last tips of your fingertips covering the tips of mine.
Any further away is unbearable: hovering your hands just so
Creates a tension (attention) of proximity, like scuffling
Bare white socks across carpet to make contact with television.
I make contact in the regular ways.
Eyes. Hands. Breath.
Wrap little packages of words and leave them in your upturned ear while you are sleeping.
This poem
Is not about words.
This poem is about the boy to my girl who was poetry.
His eyes, hands, breath. Poetry.
His feet, stance, swagger. Poetry.
His smile, laugh, touch. Poetry.
His failures, success, art. Poetry.
His friendship, kiss, absence. Poetry.
His shuffle, stance, swagger. Poetry.
His hands, eyes, breath. Poetry.
This poem is about the boy to my girl who was poetry.
And I use repetition to make my point clear,
Sitting in the room where I was first asked to judge what can not be judged,
He taught me that any object could be art for no more or less than being what it was,
and any words could be literature, perfect in their imperfection, gathered as they fell from
Lips or street signs or anywhere stories. Any sounds encountered: music.
That I could be my self. No more or less than who I was.
And it was all poetry.
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StutheRabbit reviewed Version 1 -
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great piece, great concept, and exactly why i only refer to myself as a writer. feels like a lot of it could be spoken. i think you can definitely trim it down though, i get the repetition, but i think there are other devices that you should be using as well, and you don’t necessarily need to point out the repetition (or have as much of it), and there are some places where i would maybe expand, give us some similies, it’s all too straightforward. like the end, i’m reminded of Marcel Duchamp putting a urinal in a museum. also slurve magazine has a big thing on contemporary art right now you might be interested in. But yes, less preach and more poetry. Analogize. Tell us things we wouldn’t think.
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The_Omnicron reviewed Version 1 -
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wow, that is certainly something exquisite. the language is vivid, and it has amazing detail. i love how you describe us poets, something i have been trying to do for years and never been able to accomplish very well. i understand how it can be a performance poem, perhaps using visuals as well. this would certainly be interesting to see live, i’d pay to see it.
CMRobbins reviewed Version 1 -
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I think this is beautifully written. I feel bad because on here we have to review to unlock reviews. I’ve been searching for opinions for a while. Good criticism. Yet I find it hard to criticize myself. I really felt this writing. In a way I felt what you did although some lines I had to question. “Stay with the last tips of your fingertips covering the tips of mine.” For some reason I am not feeling this one as much. I’m like hanging on the edge thinking you’re going to come off with another outside the box affiliation. Another way to say tips. You have been redundant in a subtle way throughout the whole writing but this line kind of put it out in the open. You repeat yourself in an empowering way and every single word catches me. This boy has nice eyes. I love how this boy grips your being.
Javier reviewed Version 1 -
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I liked it a lot. At first it seemed like a “hey, Im gonna define poetry even though you really cant” type of poem, but then I saw that are some very deep truths about humanity and human experience in there and how sacred everything really is…At least thats what I got. But, yeah, its structured very well, even though its freeform, it never loses focus, and it kept me reading. Thank you for making me think.
Catastrophe reviewed Version 1 -
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I thoroughly enjoyed this. Great imagery, and I liked the running metaphor of poetry being felt at a cellular level. Your use of spacing really added to the rhythm and feel of the piece.
I was thinking that you could add stage direction to the piece to show how the touching would be used, but then I decided that it would be too distracting.
Very good work.
angelique_07 reviewed Version 1 -
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“like the aquatic return of dolphins, poetry ” Great imagery/ contrast against meiosis.
“play basketball with apples and oranges” Excellent line! Who am I kidding- that entire paragraph is brilliant. The entire poem is brilliant, beautiful, intelligent, profound, perfect.
Bravo! Publish! Adieu.
bluejam reviewed Version 1 -
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You are a great writer. You know writing and writers. You have the right to speak for us. This was like scripture to me. Your choices are always interesting and clear. I “hate you” for your ability to express your visions like you do. :-) Reading your writing and meditating on your reviews has helped me grow.
zkitty reviewed Version 1 -
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The poem is very interesting, I think it is on the verge of being abstract. I do like the concept and its correlations between vernacular artists. The beginning of the poem where the evolution occurs is beautiful and it shows that you are very intelligent but you changed your style a little towards the end.
Onager reviewed Version 1 -
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Ah how you lay us out openly for all to view and say “I recognize them all!”. You have named us and categorized us and banded us back together so beautifully…
Your form is good – it transitions smoothly (in my mind) from one thought to another.
I would perhaps switch the first two sentences of the last paragraph’s order. I liked the order of the first paragraph to mention ‘boy to my girl’ and would repeat it here. That is all. I love your subject and I love it’s delivery.
EAnonymous reviewed Version 1 -
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Beautiful work on the nature of poetry. This would make a very engaging performance piece. Line 6 “combined” not “combine”. Stanza 5, last line: no “e” in ‘metaphor’. “It exists because we agree it exists.” brilliant line! I lover the spacing in your 7th stanza – inspired! You start off with a fascinating extended metaphor (evolution) which you drop halfway through. Can you bring it back at the end? Bravo!
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