Change is Cerebral First

This weekend, Jenn and I ventured to Ohio to visit our good friend Aaron, who has set up shop in the Obama headquarters for the last two months and will be there through the election. It was a great experience to canvass with Toledo folks, meet all the transplants who have literally put their lives on hold to work for this campaign and just to feel the energy that so many have about putting Obama in the White House.

One thing that continues to amaze, appall, befuddle me is how much of a role race is playing in this election. While there are a number of people whose opinions are clear on electing a black man as president, I fear that there are possibly even more individuals who, behind the closed curtains of their voting precincts, will choose Candidate White over Candidate Black. Some version of the last line of this poem has been in my head for weeks, but the rest of it finally came together over the weekend (no fault of the good people of Ohio, just finally had time to put in perspective). It also truly is a yell-and-scream-I-got-some-sh*t-to-say slam poem, so it may not translate as well on paper but I’ll try…

We touch pavement

Rock signs for change

Grip to the inevitable hope that we have come to put our faith in

As my neighbors draw the shades

Draw back themselves into a world of 50 years ago

Unable to admit why Hope is not enough for them.

Fists knock doors

Knock air

Knock the wind out of me as the monsters under my bed come to life

This Struggle often reserved for my eyes unseen streets

Is in dress rehearsal on our global stage

And I’m wondering what section of the bus is reserved for me.

Reserved for this girl whose feet are touching down on the streets of Toledo

Like they were Montgomery’s 1950’s concrete.

Words of another dreamers tongue ringing in my ear

Now perched on the surface ready to break spit

But squeaking out in a whisper I can barely translate.

We are armed for discourse about the Issues but not the Issue

We are complacent in our space to stay away from this

While we should be breaking open our voices to scream

“We did not fight for ignorance!”

We did not fight to have our hands shake with fear of Color being the bottom line

As hands silently unravel the work of past generations and mine

Retying it into a firm and solid slipknot-

I cannot comprehend that we are back at this

That this 11^th hour pipe dream is as black as fists

We have progressed so little in our quest for progress

Yet we are willing to settle for less

If it means we can tape our tongues and give voice to the racist.

I’m left wondering what defect iris has eyes seeing nothing but skin tones,

what heartbeat thinks that matters.

I hear a man who is pumping motivation back into the veins of my generation

See a protector of my life-giving body, a world I would want to bring life into

Taste the success of teachers who can harbor their craft and still afford to eat

Smell the Middle East sands settling into dust with the memories of soldier’s feet

Touch the face of the college student who never saw a diploma as an option

I cannot imagine what you see.

And I fear that my hands are too shaky to change your mind.

To stop Southern teenagers from shaving their heads and cutting this off at the source

To try and show them that hands can hold change

Even if their palms are a different shade.

But I am left with only one week

And as results hang in the air

Like nooses on Alabama trees.

All I can dream to say is Yes We Can

Yes We Can

This mantra

Once inspirational, now making me feel numb

Wondering if this candidates slogan should echo the words of

We Shall Overcome

Remember When I Had Fan Mail?

My name is Sarah L and I approve this message.

Julia's Slam

sarah's blog is really tight

with poetry, thoughts and lots of insight.

it's more fun than facebook, one step up from TV

it's seriously entertaining and cliche-free.

when you're bored at work or chilling at your pad

read sarah's blog- it's pretty rad

- the lovely and talented, Julia Unger. 

It Only Has To Make Sense To You

This poem is ridiculous.

While a wise man once told me that your poetry only needs to make sense to you, I still find this poem way too outer space to perform most of the time. Yes, it's fun. Yes, the two or three times I have performed it, I've realized that there are some lines that people can relate to. Otherwise, it's serious nonsense.

I love this poem but often finding myself wanting to brief the audience beforehand on the even more ridiculous prompt that led to this poem, asking at the end "now do you get it?" So since this is my blog, with my rules, I am going to do exactly that. The prompt to the poem (as well as I can remember it) is at the end.

Maybe you will get it. Maybe you will just enjoy the ridiculous.

Rooftop Chitchat
The dark back alleys of Boston's side streets Daddy's arm chair you in their shadow
You are alone in this city with nothing but your art
You're Mommy's Reading Room to Robin Hood arrow nothing
But beautiful and profound things with cameras and stages

We hot cocoa with extra marshmallows as we Chuck Taylor to your Cambridge apartment
You yap-box snap snap about Cracker Jack knapsacks that I can't free prize from
But guys tend to do that
Rooftop chitchat about their own interests
Long after women are on the first floor.

You grandma's gold bangle jangle with your hands
A true actor in every sense
Your voice box click clack would be gone if you were last pick in freeze tag
Could not emphasize the fire-red door next door two nights ago
Could not "you'll poke your eyes out!" to the kids in your theater workshop
Could not Oscar, Emmy, Tony your life

Your hands are Dinosaur Night Light Lite-Brites
Baby Belugas in the Deep Blue Sea
Green shag taxi cab me to 7 and 9 years old
42nd Street on Broadway
An optical illusion we thought
We had never seen
Knee, Leg, Foot, Hips
Take me to our DC Suburban upbringing that you vocally shun and desperately miss
To your backstage

And you're my brother
And for a moment I'm not sure which pajamas mom told you to wear to bed
A textile so distinct from my own
Me- yellow, fleece, footies
You- cars, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, flesh

For a moment I am jealous
Or is this envy?
I always get the two confused when my heart plays cops
Brain plays robbers
Emotions call us down to dinner

Your intensity is contagious as we sit in your apartment
You- wide-TV eyes on your craft
Me- Kristof crossword my New York Times morning

Eyes caught
Awkward love
Baseballs in oversized mitts

"Will you thank me in your acceptance speech some day?"

You look up at me, tearing yourself from your commitment to your page for a moment.

"Sar, I accept you already"

Prompt
Write about someone you know well. They are doing something with their hands. Include an exotic place (Boston?). At some point, they look at you and answer in a way that shows they have only understood part of the question. Turn all your verbs into nouns. Drink a bottle of wine.

Ain't Nothin But A She Thing

For months, I have been hearing about this woman's poetry group that Talya's former boss' partner Ruth (breathe) founded here in DC. On Wednesday, Talya and I finally ventured to the Black Cat for Mothertongue's 10th Anniversary open mic and event. It was really the energy, vibe and intense poetry that I've been searching for in this city and it was wonderful to be surrounded by smart, beautiful women especially since there are really so few represented in poetry (end fem rant). Excited to get involved (and super excited that they are bringing out Seattle poet Karen Finneyfrock in November)!

Freedom Brain Dump

This weekend I escaped the Beltway to explore the wonderful, progressive and charmingly Southern town of Carborro, NC (thanks J & S!). I left feeling rejuvinated and ready to write. And then, there was horrific traffic on 95 and I barely had time to finish my Sweet Tea before plopping into bed at 8:30pm. All the motivation I could muster for writing was a 10 minute brain dump (think: guts of the poem, rought rough draft) on defining Freedom. Enjoy and hopefully it will turn into something real someday!












Freedom Is...

Some say it is when you have nothing left to lose
But I say it is everything to gain and nothing but a backpack of future
It’s a peace sign giving the finger to everything

It is forgetting the reflection and acting how you feel
It is feeling beautiful because your veins tell you to
And ugly because you’ve acted that way
And content because you are not a child anymore
And happy because you may be turning out to be a good thing.

It is a world most will never know
And that few don’t even know to forget.

It is the moment your religion becomes less of a box and more of a globe

It is silences becoming comfortable
And words less conscious

It is realizing the infinite possibilities of your single life
It is never being afraid to say you deserve nothing but genuine

It is buying a bikini for the first time

It’s your heart
Moving mountains and planets and rib cages
Just by letting your voice out of it’s cell
It is speaking on the mic like you’re on the podium to the universe
Giving reason to the dictionary.

It is my heart
Ringing on the downbeat just to make sure I don’t miss the moment
As deliberate as the suns’ rise and set
As essential as lifeblood and hair
As beautiful as sky and grace
And wonderful as the
possibilities before us.

He's Not Flash, But He's Fast and His Name is J

As I said in the opening post (about a day ago..), I really hope this can be a space for other friends, poets and poet friends to share their work. So following an open plea sent to my friends, poets and poet friends, I was thrilled to almost immediately receive an email back from my good pal, Justin Searns.

J is one of those people who has a natural gift for writing. His poems are incredibly powerful, every word deliberate. I won't say too much about this poem (and just for kicks, I'll let you guess where the clinic is...), but I will say this: when J sent this to me it was the first time there was a title attached to it. Gravity. Perfect. This is the line that rings in my ears for days and the image that really haunts me from this piece. Please show him some love via comments-- I think this poem deserves nothing less.

Without further adieu, from Portland by way of Denver, Colorado, Justin Searns:

Gravity

This clinic is dirty. Dirty like the hump of trash we set on fire outside.
This clinic is dirty. Dirty like the mouths of goats sifting through that smoldering pile. This clinic is dirty. Dirty like the needles we keep herded and separate.
This clinic is dirty. Like a cheap day care is hectic.

It is out-of-control dirty. Inertia dirty. Newtonian physics dirty.

And I,
I’m just a third year college student.
Ineffectual and impotent.

I’m writing a research paper, so all I can do is

Scribble notes
Talk
Breathe

Cling to the back of Sophie’s white lab coattails
in front of me.

Assist her, the only doctor for 50 miles with the lumbar puncture in bed seven. Look over her shoulder at X-Rays back-lit by sunlight.
Keep her company as she burns tobacco sacrifices to the gods of stoicism.

This clinic is dirty.
Like Ward 6.

The unventilated Tuberculosis room.
Where an old woman from across the aisle locks eyes with me,
so I swear to keep it secret that she wore nothing but gravity.

That her shoulders folded back like clipped angel wings.
That her head rocked forward, a cradle to her country.
Double bent heavy under the base of this
pyramid scheme.

This clinic is dirty, like the backs of her knees,
slung over the side of that steel frame stretcher at an impasse.

To stand up and try walking or
lay back down and
try dying.

We move on, to pediatrics, so Sophie and I can check up on a half-calendar life
5 pounds later.
His mother is propped against the edge of the bed twisting an IV between her fingertips like an umbilical cord.

All three of us wonder
how something so small can be so shrouded in shadow,
when months earlier, he was being forged in light.
A boy, too frail to raise his eyelids
cradling death in his hands like it was his fucking birthright.

Sophie, don’t hold eyes with me. I don’t want you to see this inner complexity,
for how some doctors can lose their humanity,
so easily.

This clinic is dirty, like a broken condom.
Like a catchement area of 700,000 people
and an HIV rate of 45%.

This clinic is dirty, like the politicians.
Who misplaced it’s funding exchanging full coffins
for swollen coffers

If cleanliness, is godliness.
Then god grew tired of this place long ago.

And now this tin roof palpitates, these asthmatic windows wheeze out warnings, these walls harbor no welcome for weakness, so I collapse outside them,
Screaming into the wind at people
8000 miles away.

Wondering how far my voice can carry on air.
Knowing folks back home won’t see life like this,
except in soul-shiver nightmares.

This clinic is dirty and my backbone has left me.
So I crawl my way back down the hill home,
eagerly.

I lose myself.

Forget my day.
Pour some tea into my cup.

Wondering
Why we are all so certain.
That we know which way
is up.

About A Boy I Knew Once

Seriously, I'm 12...

You make me physically uncomfortable
Like a thong
Like a night that goes on too long, laced with alcoholic visions and poor life decisions

You make me uncomfortable like the morning after

Uncomfortable like the first time I saw Jordan Catalano lean when I was 14
Or the first time your best friends shows up in your not so little-kid dreams
Or me trying to fit in to size 6 jeans

Like the first time you make a promise you know you won’t keep
Or sitting in the middle seat, admitting your defeat
Or the first time I let a new boyfriend touch my feet

Or like when you know you’re hanging out with people cooler than you
And wondering if they know too
Or when you still haven’t gotten your period and it’s day 32

Uncomfortable like biting my tongue when I know too much
Or Sunday morning exit strategies because last night I needed a touch
No not your touch
His touch
But I had to settle for a touch just to make this loneliness a little more
comfortable

Uncomfortable like the heart palpitations I get when I think about turning 25
Or riding shotgun with my best friend from New York who never learned how to drive
Or the impulse
To have our hearts broken just to know we’re still alive.

Uncomfortable when I hear your name and the word itself transfixes on my brain
Seeps through my veins
Causing the syncopation
of casual conversation
to come out in stutters

The anticipation of seeing you makes me sweat

And smile

And practice conversations we may exchange between our lips
Because this delicate dialogue is too scary without a script.

Uncomfortable like the secret we share
That under my palms of sweat and flirty glares

This concoction of curiosity and chaos
that is our trademark brew
I secretly revel in the joy of knowing

that I make you uncomfortable too.

Don't Think, Just Write

I took a writing class in Seattle taught by Daemond Arrindell, Seattle's Slam Master and a generally wonderful person. Class after class, Daemond would give us prompts to inspire our writing but remind us to just let the pen take control. No worrying about what our words would sound like later. No thinking. No crossing out words. No idle pens. It was poetry boot camp.

Armored with a homework prompt from Daemond, I recruited J Searns, a fellow aspiring poet and generally wonderful person, to set up a two-person writing circle outside El Diablo cafe in Queen Anne. Channeling the instructions from Daemond, we set an alarm to limit the writing, quickly glanced at the prompt and..just..wrote.

The product? While normally these writings turn out to be a brain dump that need serious editing later, this afternoon actually produced a poem that has gone through little edits and seen the stage many times since it's conception. Enjoy & Comment!

Hunger

The pit in my knees that lets me know I’m weak for you

Allows me to rise and face the day

I want nothing but this moment

Want only to open the door and find you clumsy on the bed

Engrossed in my gaze

Entangled in my sheets

Enveloped in my kiss

In love

With the sun and stars that we plucked from the sky to erase this 24 hour cycle we call day

To just be.

We take this moment and swish it in our glass

Hold it on our tongues

Promising our memories that we will never forget this.

My fingers play an empty tune on the invisible harp strings that lead to the hollow after-life of your ego.

My hands, slender but strong, peel you open like a grapefruit until you are exposed.

And I taste the sweet juice of what lies underneath.

We know that this is brief.

But we would sacrifice excitement if the universe had not been jealous enough of this moment to steal it away from us.

We know that time

Like the

Fast forward, playback, mute, slow faster faster slow of this biography is selfish

And we spend hours remembering to remember

To hold on

To never forget

To always always remember

To breath in and out

Breath it all in until

It’s gone

Until time is the only witness to what this is

To the brief but immortal moment where the world forgot about history and just created this

Creation.

I wonder what that first bite of apple tasted like.

If Eve’s aching middle left her doubled over like elephants—too burdened with the weight of memory to stand proud and strong, defiant.

A woman

Empty in the wake of a man who created her

You etched me out of nothing

And now to nothing I return

Vacant like hope

Blank like my gaze searching for your eyes, finding only sockets

Empty like your side of the bed.

Hollow like the promises we made to always be this moment.

Remember When I Had A Blog?

Sunday nights have always been dangerous for me.

My best friend in college and I would consistently get the “Sunday Night Blues” after our whirlwind weekends, usually cured with bad movies, fleece blankets and Tostino’s Pizza Rolls. Tonight, with my weekend schedule making it impossible to sleep before 2am and my laptop taking up shop next to me in bed, I decided now was a good of a time as any to start a blog. Really? Really.

The background: I just got back from living in Seattle for three years where I was exposed to this crazy world known as Spoken Word Poetry. It pretty much changed my life and if you haven’t checked out a slam: GO (steps down from soap box). April is arbitrarily the month where poets test the limits of their writing and challenge themselves to write a poem for each day of the month. I had been thinking about starting a blog then but decided that tonight, October 5, 2008, is close enough to April for me. Thus, Remember When I Had A Blog was born.

I’m hoping this can be a place to share some of the poetry I’ve been working on, display other people’s work and hopefully share musings/ comments/ general judgmental observations on life.

First poem has literally never been seen/ heard by anyone but me and I just finished it last night. I wrote it for my last time on the open mic in Seattle but never finished it there. Enjoy & if you got something to say, comment!

For the Place I'm Coming From

I never was the type of girl who dreamed of moving West
Always harbored my post-college dreams somewhere between Chelsea and the Village
Never dreamed I would be 3, 000 miles away from Atlantic summers swinging off porches of every memory I had before 3 years ago
When the itch to leave comfortable kept me up at night, kept me haunted with nightmares of lonely
of far
but soon reminding myself that cheap thrills come in giving ourselves goose bumps
So soon I was dreaming of a new air in my lungs
Pressing deeply on the lips of some new city

Seattle

Where a .org girl could afford a drinking habit and an apartment in the city
Where hipsters are not just trust fund babies in disguise
Where everything was anything but familiar
Thank you for being anything but familiar.

Thank you

For the first sign of spring hitting you like Rainier hovering over I-90,
Leaves you breathless
Like rain
Like Colin Meloy’s music and Buddy Wakefield’s words.
Like the Olympics ground swelling with these verses, making it feel like home

Seattle

For baristas with a truck full of stories and nothing but ears to sing them to
For this Hill having a story to tell and a hidden mystery to prove it
For the most interesting souls
The raddest tattoos
The sincerest of eyes

Thank you

For Sunday afternoon latte art watching people’s lives bounce off the Bauhaus Balcony
For poetry beaming through windows of now-vacant theater basements
transforming
conforming
To Seattle’s new look but always remembering the power of its core
To those who convinced me to go to that first slam and licked my ears with wounds that still pray to heal

Thank you

My 12 season cycles of Seattle echo in my ears like the whirl of a rainstorm
And I’m up at night with phantom pains of limbs that live 3,000 miles away
With only the sky to hold us together

A forever dot in my constellation
Guiding me towards the coast I once called home.