April 1, 2011 Poetry Challenge

Today’s prompt is “the town in which you were born.”

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This poem is by Chris Funkhouser, professor at New Jersey Institute of Technology, and a performer at WXW 2009

“St. Louis Blues 2011″

I dislike to literalize that electronic computer Roman deity visible light shelter down
I hate to spectate that visitor darkness influential person sign down
‘mortal, my tubing someone, he’s a sound woman this metal ‘round

Feelin’ twenty-four hours like I feel day
If I’m feelin’ future like unhappiness nowadays
I’ll weapon emplacement my draw wheeled vehicle and my gross exam play

St. Gladiator pink with her pyrotechnic skirt
locomotes that golden adult male around her
If it wasn’t for her and her
That libertine fix would take let by nowhere, nowhere

I auspicate the St. Prizefighter blues
blues as I can populate
That man’s swan in a substance like a rock and roll mouth in the Irish large indefinite
amount Or else he wouldn’t bring about transport so far from my mate

I train dear my infant like a primary building mamma’s Black man love his veggie Indo-European
Like an American state insight commissioned military officer wealth his mint’n seein’
aggregation my junior till the mean solar day currency one’s approaching

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This is from Bill Riley, senior broadcast producer at Global Hue

“Where It Started”

We were all born in the same town
named after a mercenary hessian who
the enfabled historians say was a homosexual.
Dean smoked a lot
and sang boozy saloon standards,
hit it big.
Jimmy worked the odds
got free of the mob
and his glasses needed glasses.
The monkey comment did him in.
My Pop hit a made man over the head
with a chair once who
said he knew them both.
I drink, itself a gamble,
and sing old songs in my stained underwear
beating the odds
every time.

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Taylor Mali, WXW Poet Laureate:

“Driving Lessons”

If the right of way is yours, take it
but do not insist upon taking it.
And if the right of way is not yours,
don’t take it, but don’t insist upon not taking it.
This is what my father taught me
during one of my driving lessons,
but how has this not also been the story of my life?
Taking what is rightfully mine when I could,
when I have been allowed; watching
someone else take it when that is what happens;
giving what is not mine to those who are not me;
and perhaps too often taking what I have never deserved,
that for which I have no right to hope or ask,
but which is nevertheless held out to me
like an open hand.

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Omar Holmon, 2011 Featured Poet:

“Ship Wreck”

My mother is becoming ghost ship
her body’s been at mutiny for sometime now
parts of her battle flag that have torn
the floor boards of her fingers creek banshee wails

I find her ship wrecked against her bed
staring at the ceiling, when I ask what she is doing
she responds “Trying to see God’s face”

She confess that she’s been breaking down lately
the compass in her chest won’t point north anymore
that its becoming harder to navigate with all these people at the helm

The doctors, they tell me she isn’t herself
that for her its like being lost in a sea of voices
where a lucid moment is a view of sanity’s shore line

The visitor sign in sheet has become my captain’s log
my signature sits like lighthouse on the page

When she catches a glimpse of the shore line she manages to ask
“why is it always you? why are you always the one”

My white flag response is “because I’m your son…and probably the favorite”
her smiles gets eaten away by the question of “are you my son… is that really you”
and this is where the shoreline fades

I have been captain of this vessel some 26 years,
although my sails have changed she has always
been able to recognize her own craftsmanship

When the woman that gave you life is losing the deed to her own
your body becomes a bonfire burning on a shore line

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matt mcfadden, pittsfield poet, founder Outspoken Series:

“The town where you were born”

is known for falling-down factory buildings,
faint chemical smells
and ancient cemeteries
returning to dust.
There’s nothing much to do here.
You and your friends would get high,
spray-paint pink flowers on rusty trestles,
dance like lazy ghosts putting off the rest of their after-lives.
You said most folks past a certain age
just shuffled around
waiting to get cancer.
Swore you’d never go back
(your face turning red),
said you didn’t want to give your bones
to the ground of this town
when you died.
But your parents don’t believe that.
They say you always loved it here.

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Seth Brown, reigning WXW Slam Champion:

“Hometown”

Howdy there, my name’s Seth Brown, and East Greenwich is my hometown.

Grew up in a house on four acres of land, three of which were swamp.
But there was still a substantial yard and we would romp through the forest and roll down the hill,
A quiet little area, and my parents still live there, with Suburbia just down the block.
To get there you simply walk out the front door, up the twisted gravel drive,
Turn left at the road, then left at the fence, and voila: Suburbia.
I’ve been down that path a hundred times,
And I can still see it clearly in my mind.

Howdy there, my name’s Seth Brown, and Providence is my hometown.
Highschool there five days a week, and I’d spend my free time
On Thayer Street, in every ethnic restaurant where I could eat,
Feeling the beat of my feet upon the concrete as I walked those streets a hundred times,
Hope to Meeting to Thayer, always retracing the same lines.

Howdy there, my name’s Seth Brown, and Williams College is my hometown.
Not Williamstown, as I could never lay claim to 98% of the township,
Which I realize is lame, but I lived within the College bounds,
And while my knowledge may have been geographically limited, I knew every inch of the grounds by feel alone,
Because I always walked at night, and I would feel alone, but I didn’t need other people, or sight,
To make my way down the road alongside the field alone, for a 3am walk I must have taken a hundred times.
I had my thoughts, and my walking stick, and that was fine.

Howdy there, my name’s Seth Brown, and North Adams is my hometown.
Even if I’m not a lifelong resident, after nearly a decade
I think it’s evident that even if this isn’t where I was born, went to highschool, or lived in a dorm,
It’s where I perform, alone and in a group: poetry, comedy, improv troupe,
My gaming nerds, my potluck artists, my theatre crew,
Finally for the first time in my life I really do feel like I’m a part of the community,
So I walk these streets day and night with impunity, and I’ll continue to do so a thousand times.
There are many towns. This one is mine.

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Emily Pulfer-Terino, English teacher, Miss Hall’s School:

“A Storm”

You have to make a figure out of a fear.
Quick in the spine, the mind, you find
a likeness for what jars you. Think
about a mirror, how it shows what you might
not have seen. April, even now the cloud
they promise will become a storm: rain or snow,
awful roads. Who knows. Curtains still
and vertical as bone against jarred windows, air.
My grandfather wears his teeth out, wears
his face loose and implacable as fabric.
His liquid breath is thick now, imminent
as steam heat coming on. A lush, familiar sound.
Think about a mirror, tilting, filled with nothing
but a cloud before the face of someone still alive.
Room dim, monitors like veins or like video games.

They say there will be a storm and I fear even air,
these drawn, unmoving curtains, and this breathing.
And how quick I am to make a scene of likeness.
I turn the world to something I can stand.

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By Lianna Brown, Grade 9, Miss Hall’s School:

Gray haired and small, she stands in her kitchen.
Her hands, hold onto the table cloth so hard that
They turned red. But I grab her hands, and calm
Her. They are soft like a pashmina, but still as
Rough as sandpaper. She turns away from me
And grabs her cake out of the oven. She places
On the table. Her kitchen is warm, warm the Turks
& Caicos. She was born on that island and her
Skin still holds its glow. I ask why she baked the cake.
“I bake cakes everyday dear. Its another day that I
Get to live. I’m celebrating life.”

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By Harnoor Mann, Grade 9, Miss Hall’s School

“The Hymn of the Sugar Cane”

My flute grows smaller and
Smaller the more my mouth
Fills with its sweet song.
I swallow the notes slowly,
To not rush the tempo of
The melody. I pause to gaze
At how short the flute has
Become, and play it even slower
To elongate this symphony
That nature’s hands have created
For me to guzzle on.

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By Kelsey Rich, Grade 9, Miss Hall’s School

“Airplane”

The white bird lifts into the air
Gliding sailing flying
Across the country
Across the sea
The white bird soars
She leans left
And dips her long slender wing
Into a fluffy white cloud
Sleek and smooth
Graceful and delicate
She makes a landing
On that long stretch of pavement
They call a runway

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Morgane Cornu, 9^th Grade, Miss Hall’s

“The Jail of winter”

Twenty of March was not long ago.

Every smile was finally coming.
The idea to be in spring made people new and happy.
Winter lost and was supposed to let his place to another season.
Prisoners of the cold must take out the handcuffs,
They must go outside and contemplate.
Contemplate the new flowers,
Contemplate the free birds,
Contemplate the green grass.
Snow abandoned, snow left, snow disappeared.
We all wish this was true, but guess what?
After eleven days of spring, in a little town of Massachusetts,
The ground, the trees and the houses are covered with snow.
The birds don’t sing anymore,
Flowers are closed again,
Grass is not visible anymore.
When is spring going to deliver us from this cold winter?

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By Courtney Gamache, Ninth Grade, Miss Hall’s School

Born for the Music

The roar of the crowd
means nothing
as you stand on the stage;
all you can hear
is silence.
Your eyes scan the faces
of strangers
looking for meaning;
why do you do what
you do?
Why are you
who you are?
But as you take a bow,
thank the crowd,
and the sound rushes back,
you know why.
You were born for the rush.
You were born for the crowd.
You were born for the music.

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Shappy Seasholtz, 2011WXW Feature poet:

FUNEMPLOYMENT

The government would have you believe that there is a problem with unemployment
in this country.
Well, let me tell you something. . .
I’ve got no problem with unemployment!
No problem what-so-ever!
As I sit here writing this poem,
In the middle of the afternoon
In my pajamas
Drinking Cherry Coke Zero
Eating Chewy Spree
Watching season 4 of Robot Chicken on DVD

UNEMPLOYMENT IS AWESOME!

I finally have to to read all the comics I have piled up
I can organize my View-Master reels
Alphabetize my DVD’s
Catalog my Wacky Packages
Dust my action figures.

Did you think this awesome mix tape was gonna create itself?
Are all these vintage cereal box jpegs gonna download themselves?
I have coupons to clip, laundry to fold and a stack of vintage children’s books
to turn into collages to sell on etsy!

I got two jigsaw puzzles started and three crosswords to finish
Not to mention all my on-line Scrabble games!

I gotta pick up Star Trek The Next Generation season 5 from the public library!

God, life is great! You wanna know why?
Because I don’t have to answer to some asshole who has bullshitted his way to managing
A Radio Shack or Red Lobster or Verizon Wireless.

I don’t have to pretend I like people.
I don’t have to serve fussy eaters with bad manners.
I don’t have to serve over-priced drinks to euro-trash who don’t know how to tip.
I don’t have to help someone find a book for a 3 year old.
I don’t have to commute anywhere on an overcrowded, overpriced subway that may
or may not be running on time.

I can make money as a poet, right?
I can make money as a poet, right?
I can make money as a poet, right?

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Robert Harrison, Architect, poet, gentleman:

The Town In Which You Were Born

You? Really? I don’t think so.
God knows it’s not the town in which you grew up.
(I’m still waiting on that designation.)
Skin and bone and blood and hair.
Renewed how many times over in the course of decades?
Truth and falsehood and memory and desire.
Continuity is a fiction.
I don’t care what your mother says.
No one believed it would be you.
Not then.
Not now.

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By Catherine Wessel, Grade 9, Miss Hall’s School:

Poetry is a rhythm, he shouts at me above the thumping of the music, you gotta feel the beat.
What if you can’t feel it, I call back after sitting a minute.
Let it come to you, is the only reply.
So I do.
I think it must be something you can feel.
You can touch poetry.
Taste it on your lips.
Let it drip through you fingers, like when you let your fingers run ripples across a clear lake.
Something that hovers in the air around you, hanging thick in the humidity.
It dances across your skin.
Poetry is just words after all, and there are words for everything.
Poetry is a rhythm, simple or complex,
and all you’ve got to do,
is feel the beat.

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By Bryte Kiser, Grade 9, Miss Halls, School

Nantucket

Surrounded by flirtatious water
While tanning in the dancing sun
The beach chairs hug my body.
Beachy blonde hair, and swim suit tans,
My friends and I roam the lighted streets.
Refreshing warm nights beneath the stars
Dazing off into distant galaxies,
Nantucket Island is what I call home.

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By Marina Yoshimura, Grade 9, Miss Hall’s School

Fooled By The Snow

Its the first day of April. For spring, I pray.
I look out and see the sky is grey.
The beautiful flowers have not yet bloomed
The snow and the cold still linger around.
When is this over? I ask myself.
Hopefully soon, but not today.
Cos’ its April Fools, we’re tricked for the day.

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By Katharine Reid, Grade 9, Miss Hall’s School

we lit up our crayons
and sucked away at our innocence
painting the sky with our smoke