which just seems to lend itself to some kind of poetic brooding - the kind you do with some tea, a comfy chair, warm blanket and soothing music.
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| Or make cake? I guess the knife could be considered brooding...yeah, I'm not sure how to tie these two together...back to poetry |
Unfortunately, that was not my evening.
However, I did have a poetic adventure this week that I'd like to share. It actually started a few weeks ago when, on a whim at work, I decided to submit some poems to the Phoenix, Westmont's student-run literary/art magazine that comes out twice a year. Without giving it too much thought, I emailed them some of the poems that I'd written while in Italy.
About two weeks ago, I received an email stating that one of my poems, "Hidden Places," had been accepted. All right, I thought that's pretty cool. Now I look somewhat involved at my school. That's good. And that was pretty much it.
Or so I thought.
Last week I learned about this event called "Phoenix Night," in which they have a show consisting of works produced in that year's Phoenix; now, I had vague recollections of past years' emails regarding this event, but had definitely never gone. Until this year that is. Not only did I attend the event, but I actually read my poem at it.
To be perfectly honest, however, it was not the most fun event.
First, it's really not my crowd of people - there's nothing wrong with them, but we just don't really have any connections. But perhaps more uncomfortably, my poem didn't fit the mood of the night. While not everyone's poems and songs were about sunshine and bunnies or anything like that, no one's was quite as depressing as mine.
Sarah did have a good point: perhaps my poem was able to bring a needed moment of silence and self-reflection on sadder elements of life. I just think the program planning could have been done slightly differently (maybe not having it follow an upbeat electronica group and then having a rather cheerful women's band come after would have been a good move) and it would have been able to be processed better.
Hidden Places
“If you run, you hit the bullet.
If you walk, the bullet hits you.”
-Sarajevo Saying
She hung there for three days, her body
between the trees swaying in the wind, before
someone came and cut her down.
we can never measure the cost of inaction
Scrunched between crates of goat and chicken feed
he watched the world turn red as with brute force
they molested father and sister, hacked
mother with unborn brother to pieces.
this whole place was simply a catastrophe
waiting to happen
corpses stacked like bricks
on top of him;
two bullet holes
had not done their job.
they were sitting ducks
peace is not simply
the absence of raging war
Fighting futile,
his youthful voice begged
If you walk, the bullet hits you.”
-Sarajevo Saying
She hung there for three days, her body
between the trees swaying in the wind, before
someone came and cut her down.
we can never measure the cost of inaction
Scrunched between crates of goat and chicken feed
he watched the world turn red as with brute force
they molested father and sister, hacked
mother with unborn brother to pieces.
this whole place was simply a catastrophe
waiting to happen
corpses stacked like bricks
on top of him;
two bullet holes
had not done their job.
they were sitting ducks
peace is not simply
the absence of raging war
Fighting futile,
his youthful voice begged
I'll never be Tutsi again!
As the machete severed
his words from
his being.
his words from
his being.
most now seemed reconciled
to the outside world’s indifference
She made one final phone call, hidden
on the dusty beams of her rafters
as the rumble of nearby explosions
offset her resigned
words, I must go, she stated.
They're here.
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