Poetry of a Survivor

I don't really want to say a lot about this poem. Over at http://dversepoets.com/ (on twitter as @dVersePoets) we were reminded this it is still Anti-Bullying Awareness Month, at least for a few more days. So that was what sparked this poem. Bullying is something I dealt with from ages 5 to 19. I went to Catholic Schools K-12th grade. So I didn't even escape my tormentors on the weekends. But kids aren't the only ones who bully. I've seen plenty of adults do it too.

Lyrics from the 1st stanza are from "Fatty" by Mung (also covered by the Street Dogs, which is how I actually found the lyrics. Lyrics from the 2nd & 3rd stanzas are from "Me, I am Anger" by Bryan McPherson. Lyrics from the 4th stanza are from "Make It Stop (September's Children)" by Rise Against; go find the music video, it will break your heart.

Let me know what you think.

Poetry of a Survivor

The lines were already drawn

as early as Kindergarten.

Forced to run from the popular girls

three times a day around the playground at recess.

Caught and I was shoved around,

down to the dirt.

They torture and this shit’s unkind

Everyone pointed and laughed.

I started getting stomachaches

three times a day, during recess.

The summer before third grade

the chasing game ended.

By then I was fat,

and ‘they’ never let me forget it.

Huddled by the crab apple tree

at the corner of the playground

my best friend and I tried to hide.

We were always found.

Do you remember me?

You’re the one who threw rocks at me in 1993.

Middle school brought new feelings,

and new ways to be tormented.

“You have a crush on Luke?”

“He’ll never like you, you’re too ugly!”

“You’re not his type, you’re fat!”

At home I hid behind my smile.

My best friend and I stuck together.

At church on Sundays

we dodged our tormentors.

Choosing the chapel entrance

we avoided the congregation

of the popular girls out front.

The cool kids are all walking

Like lions in their cage.

High school brought some relief.

Getting lost in the hallways was easy,

being short in a sea of students

hid me well.

I couldn’t hide

so well in the classrooms.

I tried to make myself small

walking in the door.

But as soon as I entered

the well dressed rich kids

started snickering, commenting

silently at first

then obviously so I could hear

about my chosen outfit,

my new glasses,

and how I carried my books.

I sat silently in my desk,

head down,

waiting to disappear into the halls again.

Make it stop

Let this end.

-----

Energy

I love extremes: bright to blinding darkness, calm to crazy, sad to ecstatically happy. I like observing going from one extreme to the next. This is a poem that I've been wanting to write for a while now. The other day I think I finally got that spark I needed because of something that was said. So here ya go! Let me know what you think! Thanks!!

Energy

My favorite time to get tattooed

is late Tuesday morning.

At first, it’s just Mike and I.

The quiet hum of his machine

fills the calm space.

The other artists and their clients

trickle into the shop around noon.

The humming is overtaken

by a buzz of new energies.

We all talk and laugh

and the owner inevitably

turns up the volume when his and my

favorite band plays over the stereo.

A friend planted an image

in my thoughts the other day

of him, alone in his rehearsal space,

quietly replacing his guitar strings,

sitting in the calm energy

until his band mates arrive.

They talk expressively in Swedish

(which I imagine to be faster

and way cooler sounding than English).

The band starts rehearsing,

transforming calm energy into power.

In college I loved to sit

onstage in our theater

writing, doing homework, memorizing lines,

enjoying the quiet and calm.

My friends would trickle in

striking up conversation, hanging out, waiting for rehearsal,

until the space was filled

with voices, laughter, and electricity.

Words from the Streets

I've been listening to Louise Distras, Mark Lind and Frank Turner lately. Musicians who have come from working class backgrounds. So I'm sure that having their music pumping into my ears lately sparked this poem. Two quotes that I read recently that have been floating in my brain also prompted this poem.

"The words of prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls and whispered in the sounds of silence." - Paul Simon

"I like people with depth, I like people with emotion, I like people with a strong mind, an interesting mind, a twisted mind, and also someone that can make me smile." - Anon

The title was inspired by the Casualties song "Sounds of the Streets" which is also about the working class.

I hope you like it! Let me know what you think! Thanks!!

Words From The Streets

Running on a treadmill,

between songs on my iPod

the music playing in the gym

sneaks its way into my head.

Some new 15 year old pop sensation

sings about “the big Gs”

and “the honeys all around.”

I walk through the streets of my town.

Two musicians play reggae

on the corner

and my feel naturally move

in time to their rhythm.

I stop and listen,

smile, snap a picture with my phone,

wave at them and move on.

Out on the trails in the city

music from working class musicians,

singing about their struggles and hardships

feed into my head.

I sing along,

throw my head side-to-side

violently while I jog,

not caring, actually kind of hoping,

that others could be listening.

I stop under the highway bridge

to read the spray-painted-on poetry,

You have to struggle

You have to fight

You have to win!

I smile, nod my head,

re-energized I run

with a renewed passion

to take on the world.

Observations

One thing that I think punk rock does so well, especially Celtic Punk, is to bring out the beauty in the less-than-pretty aspects of our world. The punk world lost a legend today, Phil Chevron of the first Celtic Punk band the Pogues passed away from cancer. This poem, if I can, I would like to dedicate to him and the music he left with us.

Song lyrics are from "Fork in the Road" by Brutally Frank.

Observations

It’s almost a cliché scene:

bright blue cloudless sky,

perfect green grass,

flowing water bouncing off rocks,

a girl laying on a bench,

notebook open, pen scrawling away.

What’s less cliché

are the sounds streaming through my headphones—

a 3-piece, fast paced punkabilly band screaming

Get me out of this fucking hell—

and the thoughts running through my head.

These thoughts are of the less pretty,

yet more intriguing sights,

on my way to this pristine park.

The plate with the stubbed out cigarette butt

abandoned in the alleyway behind a restaurant.

The seemingly hastily drawn face

on a peeling orange post

which I stopped and contemplated for 3 minutes.

Dancing water jets spew out of concrete

and draw me back to the here and now and

to the eternal question I face

as a poet, an artist, a human:

How do I rectify the beautiful and the not too pretty,

and fit them into one?

The white caps in the river, their power,

catch my attention,

they compliment the pounding drum beats,

marrying my auditory and my visual.

I’m reminded again that sometimes

I need to stop searching

and just observe,

and write down the experience.

Silence

Silence

I’m the girl whose acoustic playlist

consists of others’ ‘get-up-and-go’ music.

But lately I’ve been craving,

peace,  stillness, silence.

Crowded city streets,

bumper-to-bumper traffic

flowing at all hours.

The non-stop jabber of interns

gathered right outside of my office.

Two reports in two days

of gunmen rampaging in public.

Home is quiet, calm.

I turn off my computer,

silence my phone,

don’t even bother with the television.

I lay & read on my couch

until I fall into a restless sleep.