Sarah Kay: Jalizza's Poem

Sarah Kay is an excellent preformer in her own type of soft-spoken way. I really loved the poem because of all of the simple imagery she uses. It's fairly simple to understand, and I really enjoy her soft tone. It feels almost relatable- like she's talking right to me. The actual message of the poem was very sweet too. As a daughter, I understood all of her metaphors well.

Destiny's Presentation: Taylor Mali


Taylor Mali is known for his exaggerative spoken word preformances.
His poems are mostly spoofs on other topics like grammar, society, humourous topics, etc. The poem that Destiny spoke about, 'Like You Know', is a poem describing how America's ability to speak has diminished to 'declarative sentences that aren't really declarative sentences?' It's funny, actually, because it's true. Mali uses his audience and their common knowledge of ridiculous people in order to get the proper message of his poem across. He always manages to do it successfully, seeing as how people always manage to laugh.

                     Slam Nation


      I am really enjoying Slamnation. I like the whole idea that they honestly rate from 1-10 because I do believe there are certain levels of how good or bad poetry can be. I also really like the criteria, because poetry can be critiqued in many ways like how it looks, sounds, and even feels.
      It's also really great how each poet has their own very different style, and it's easy to tell what he or she is passionate about depending on the content of the poems. I really like how they write their own poems as well. 
      I think my favourite poem so far was the collaborative one a male group did. I forget the name of the team, but the poem was cool because each person played a different voice in someone's mind. That's so awesome it blows my mind just thinking about it. Why aren't people more creative like this?

Crows
Devyn Delgado


At half-through noon,
right passed the hour,
I gazed on a succulent cherry-tree flower.

Its dashing cream pedals
were radiant, like light
provoking my thoughts of oppression and fright.

Then, unlike any eerie dark sound I had heard,
my ears succumbed to the sharp sound of a bird.

To my surprise, dismay, and hands hung low,
my eyes caught a sight of a lingering crow.
T'was my sixth dark fowl I had seen that week.
1,2, and 3 had appeared beside me.

Mere coinsidense? I thought,
when I'd seen 4 and 5.
But the sixth..
oh the sixth..was the face of demise.

See- that week, the week prior
to my sightings of crows,
had been strewn with bad things-
things of new, things of old.

I had gone mad, yes I had,
from the mouth of others-
speaking of lust, envy and hate for their mothers.

See that week, the week prior
to my sightings of crows,
had been strewn with bad words,
words of new, words of old.

I had cursed to the skies,
"Please replace those vile shows-
replace them with wordless, emotionless crows."

So I sung high a promise
that was heard from the skies,
that my mouth would forever be free of demise.

Film


I can recall a time where
things were not the same as they are now-
in every aspect.

That time lies here,
in this shiny film.
Look inside of it, and you will find me.

There I am, full of blind life,
and stuffed with naive joy-
oh how the irony comes and goes.

Time is a leaf in the evening breeze,
but never returns for greeting.
It goes on, forever and ever.

That time lies here,
in this shiny film.
Look within, and you will find my arm with another.

Here and now,
I am with new skin- with arms untwined,
and the skin of old is here- in this shiny film.

Music

MUSIC
by: Charles Baudelaire

USIC doth uplift me like a sea

Towards my planet pale,

Then through dark fogs or heaven's infinity

I lift my wandering sail.

 

With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee,

And through the cordage wail,

I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me

Beneath her sombre veil.

 

I feel the tremblings of all passions known

To ships before the breeze;

Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown

 

I pass the abysmal seas

That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair

Of my despair!

A Moth in the Garden

A Moth in the Garden



It is only noon
when the moth
makes its way in here.
The Garden of mind
is this garden here.

I wake from my nap
when I hear its wings.
I hear paradise,
when I hear its wings.
Like angel voices,
when I hear its wings.

I look toward it
and it taunts right back.
Its eyes soon meet mine.
It is a crystal
on a garden leaf.
I want to catch it.

With strain and void strife,
I leap for that moth.
An aura of fear,
surrounds the creature.
I feel its laced wings
on my finger tips,
as it flies away.

My pupils follow
the path that it takes.
And painful droplets
slide right down my cheek.
It one past noon.

The Life of A Man


Weaving and waving,
the life of a man.
It is tied like a knot,
tied and then untied
as if an attempt
to torture meaning
right out of its mouth.


You cannot hear cries
from falling flowers,
because all flowers
are not heard inside
the presense of kings.


Lurking late below,
a southern village.
With no phones to talk
to kings of the world.


Because us flowers
are only flowers,
and flowers bloom deep
in the fertile earth.
Whilst kings sing false songs
on the shaky clouds.


Weaving and waving,
the life of a man.
It is tied like a knot,
tied and then untied
as if an attempt
to torture meaning
right out of life's mouth.