You Have Not, Because You Ask Not

So, in all honesty the blog slipped my mind. Studying for finals, doing poetry shows, and practicing for Brave New Voices (http://youtube.com/results?search_query=brave+new+voices&search_type=) had me preoccupied. As well as trying to find ways to gather money to publish my first book of poetry--on college student wages.

I had this bright idea, so I thought. It hit me like morning breath from your significant other, only you don't care because you love them. I wanted to further my cause, by getting my poetry into a book. No lie, I was checking out webpage’s like donatemoney2me.com and cyber begging, and e-panhandling. I was serious.

Thing is I was about to quite on my poetry if it meant I had no products, as if the book or the cd came before the poetry. Even before finding these at first glance-comical sites. I was gradually putting poetry in the corner as if it'd done something wrong, while it had done everything right, in its own way.

Dr. Williams, the director of Multicultural Affairs on Florida Atlantic Universities Boca Campus completely shifted my perspective when she'd reminded me of this.

I so rudely slammed my bright idea down on her lunch table in the cafe today.
I thought I had it all figured out, I got my deep magenta empty bin of Charmin adult wipes, wrote in black Sharpie "Help me publish my first book of poetry," placed a sheet that told the donor about the author, and the latest newspaper articles I had been published in, to see that I was for real.

In all my confident actions I was doubting poetry all along, Mrs. Williams reminded me that it was God given, that those sorts of talents speak for themselves and no amount of money could hold it. She reminded me of the urgency some authors had to get into the newspaper and how I had been written about without knocking on a single door. That plenty of authors publish and never go out to address the public externally about their work--but somebody pays for their words.

Dr. Williams said, you're putting your talent in the corner and neutralizing it, while you go place a tangible value on something that is intangible; it's over there yelling "BUT, look what I've already done".

Dr.Williams offered up the sort of wisdoms you can't pay for. They were like, shooting stars, and fire flies. So beautiful to the ear, I wanted to catch them or at least take a picture, so I wrote. She reminded me, "the poetry came before the book," and I wrote. "You already have the credibility," that I jotted too. "The talent is already working for you , don't neutralize it" and take that energy away from what it's done because soon it will become about the money and not the poetry. I sat in awe. I nearly betrayed the very thing that had never turned its back on me.
In an instant I compacted my words into nothing, even after the tears it caused to flow from the eyes of those who heard it, from the inspiration it left middle school students, the copies of it people had requested, from the attention it had won, and the golden praises people didn't know the worth of helped to keep it alive.

Poetry had not been some gold tooth rapper talking about soup and soda. It was not just violently ranting and offering no alternative route. Poetry had been truthful, had substance, had life, and truth all into one. And it had been signed and sealed by God.

She did not stop there though. She gave me an innovative way to offer listeners an opportunity to give back to the poetry, after it has enlightened them, stirred them, awakened them, made them smile, and made them feel good. She said, this is what I think a poets hat would look like. You know those little magnet words? Well, she said, it would have those all over it. The moment she said that, I knew the way that seemed right to me would have led to a death of not only my poetry, but myself, and those people who were to hear it.

The first thing she said to me though, was, if you need money, why are you performing for free? I never wanted it to be about the money. But was it because I didn't think my talent deserved to go further by other means? All along the value had been in the talent. I needed not to explain my poetry first, but let my poetry explain itself. And then, could it charter waters of open mics to islands of books and cds so it could be heard in any arena.


I leave you with some of Dr. Williams last words that continue to ring in my ears...

"You have to be prepared for the universe to give back , or it can't."

p.s. I found this ridiculous 12-year-old poet, enough said:

And the Winners Are

All 10 poets took to the stage, in front of the 300-capacity African American Research Library auditorium—housing friends, family, and HBO. Now was the night we had all been preparing for. The process was something like Akeelah, training herself for the spelling bee, reading from the dictionary and jumping rope to the rhythm of the words. Four more poets (I was number fifth); it would be now or never.

Along with FAU freshman Jasmine “SwEEt VenoM” Bailey this would be my last shot, the cut-off age is 19 and I would be 20 after Brave New Voices ended for this year. The anxiety was through the roof, for this was one of the most unconventional slams many of us had ever participated in. Never before had I ever had to perform my poetry while my competition stood and stared me in the mouth and calculated my mannerisms. But this one was different. If you weren’t number one or 10, you had it easier. This was something like an open mic, you had no choice but to get comfortable because some of us had a while.

Not only did we have to stand on the stage with our competition, but it was a three round slam. Each round, two poets would get eliminated except for the third round, where six poets would be left standing. Each poet was very talented, and it was truly anyone’s guess who would be left by the end of the night. I didn’t know if I would make it, but Jasmine kept reminding me that we had to speak things into existence, and that I was just as good a poet as the others.

Come the third round, we were allowed to hear our scores and most poets did not score under a nine on a 1-10 point scale. The sixth poet performed, the judges held up their white score cards, the score keeper dueling as a score counter did her duty, and the scores were in the hand of the host. My chronic elbow pain began to kick in, and I was ringing my hands like I had juvenile arthritis. I mumbled a quick prayer as we had all been doing throughout the competition night and I stared at the ground, the lights beaming down on the poets and the cameras waiting to capture the team came together.

The host reminded us that it was about the poetry and not the points as we waited for the news. First place SwEEt VenoM, 2nd place Jon K, 3rd place SOULfire, 4th place El Nino, and 5th place T.P. topping off our 5-poet slam team.

When SOUL came out of the mouth of the host, I was gone, I ran to the left of the stage to SwEEt VenoM and it was on. We nearly broke each other, as I type this I relive the moment and I want to go back. The euphoria of those seconds and that night could never be duplicated. I made the team and I was going to experience it with my best friend.

Jasmine and I had discussed scenarios that could possibly take place. Going to Washington D.C. together was not one we were sure would play out, after all my best friend was my competition—whom I met a year prior when we were in high school, in what could be more ironic than, competition. We were thinking we would have to slam off against one another because of a tie, or she would go without me, or me without her. But on the stage we cheered one another on, exchanging looks to affirm one another’s performance once we finished our poems, and our famed handshake (come to a slam or open mic on campus to see).

To have something to look forward to makes living worthwhile. To know that hard work pays off drives me to keep on going when I think I can’t go any further. Cold midnights spent reciting my poems in the breezeway while students study in the 24-hour lounge, practices in front of Jasmine in the pits, bathroom performances and flashing my radio flash light equipped with a siren in our eyes—I would do it all again even if it meant I wouldn’t make the team.

--All to make a long story short, very short.

Peace

To Whom It May Concern

I admire the poetry of this next poet. For she is able to do something few can, speak VOLUMES, in a few lines. This is a piece I feel we can all relate to. But I'll let her speak.

Coming to the page,





FAU Freshmam, Jaunell Silvera with her poem:


To Whom It May Concern

Decipher still, I break even
Clock in and step into a world with no feelings
So selfish.
Hinder into the tempt of the restless
Time slips away, unfinished tasks still linger
Shamelessly advancing ahead, and yet, still a novice
Thriving to win, in a pointless struggle
Shortcomings give a dose of reality
Revealing a part hidden, shame comes to past once this trait is given
No purpose, but dormant longing
Find it
Life is so senseless; still our senses try to make sense of where the mind went
Dry cry, and flooded tears, the world is deaf,
No one truly cares no matter how much you say your prayers
Sad, mostly regretful of apparent efforts, shoulda, coulda, woulda
You never did
Self-infliction beholds this predicament
Even so, it is facile enough to be shifted to the host
Knowing what you need to do the most
Denying the faulty accident is you
That you’re the one that failed to come through
Money spent and all out of luck,
Worthless
Ground zero, at the point of surrender,
Humble beginnings no longer deliver, the contentness, I associate myself with
No cares in the world, material possessions hold no value
The windows of opportunity have walked right out the door

Louder Than Life

This week’s blog will be a bit different. Okay, so maybe I am buying time to wait on more of your submissions. But really, I want to tell you all what can happen when you do what you love.

I thought I had thrown in the towel.

Slam poetry (competition poetry) to me, had become overrated and all the poets I would ever listen to seemingly spit (did poetry) just for the audience. More than enough simply wrote in metaphors, or punch lines. It was better the audience whooped and hollered for your last hot line and miss the next whole stanza, then for silence to blanket the room. Being on the stage, you really never know what is taken place below, unless you happen to make eye contact with the nearest onlooker. Catching the travel of a tear down the dimple of anyone’s cheek, and you would have shoulders like a football players shoulder pads. It would never matter again what any poet did as long as you knew you were true to your art. And that’s what it had come down to for me.

So, here I was competing yet again to make it to the finals stage to get a chance to attend the prestigious annual Brave New Voices (BNV) International Youth Poetry Slam 2008 hosted by Youth Speaks (http://youthspeaks.org/). This was my last shot. And here I had said I was through, I guess I should tell you why. I lost the first preliminary bout held, to compete to get to the Louder than Life finals stage (LTL, like many other cities is a qualifying poetry slam used to help select the representative team of a city at BNV). My loss was a major blow to my confidence, in a sense I had lost to a rookie. But, because competition was never something I liked to maximize over the purity of a poem, I was forced to come to terms with my lack of preparation for this slam. A prideful part of me seems to have thought I had it in the bag because I had done this before. I’ve slammed and performed so many times I don’t have a number. I didn’t bounce back as easily as I wanted to, I marked it off as my just not being a slam poet. I said, I would just stick to open mics and random performances to open shows and the like—I would shop around my CD and poetry book, sell my poetry as best an open mic could and I would be happy. But the competition was calling my spirit. I knew I had something to say, even though I had no clue exactly what I would said, poems show their faces as often as Jehovah’s Witnesses, only not as predictable. The competition would be in Washington D.C. this year, and I had been meaning to brush up on my travel. What better way to do it then mix one of my primary passions (poetry) and my desire to see the world.

The last preliminary bout came and went like a blur. I spit with my soul and won second place amongst some of the best youth poets in the city. My Co-founder and best friend Jasmine “SwEEt VenoM” Bailey was even my competition during the first preliminary bout, and will be my competition on the finals stage. We’re connected at the mic (how I love the wordage of poets) as she says so when it comes down to it, we would be happy for one another if one of us didn’t make it. As the scores were being tallied, I tried to play it cool, prepared myself for a win, while preparing myself for a loss. They called us by our stage names from highest place to the lowest place. Lowest containing three winners apart from the original two, I was second place and realized after it marinated. I won whether or not a third poet was chosen, and if I hadn’t competed I would have missed my spot.

As finals approaches, I’m steady trying to memorize my poetry, getting my hand gestures together, figuring out what I’ll emphasize and how, and experimenting with some new styles. It’ll be a hot and heavy slam, HBO will also be present to film us going at it—poet for poet, word for word, performance for performance, creativity for creativity. Come out and support the youth and be apart of this South Florida history.

See the flyer below:



Also this just in, ( I've always wanted to say that) SwEEt Venom, my co-founder for Unadulterated Poets and I were on Mecca Loungue Radio Show, to promote our club and poetry, check it out. I'll post the embedded link here and if that fails the url is on the left side tool bar under: Want to Hear Poetry?



Thank you again,

Peace