Poetry has been a powerful and mysterious force throughout history. It has sparked controversy, changed lives, and molded the world with writing. Its manner of self-expression comes in many forms and has been through many changes. However, there have always been standards for what is and is not acceptable for poetry. Critics decide what can […]
You should be scared
Scared of symmetrical smiles
of mystical eyes
white teeth
breath purified
Of have a nice days
the month of May
Everything okay?
Yeah, everything’s okay
Of positive thinkers
steady blinkers
gnomes in gardens
clean-cut shavers
Of old ragged flags
of I love you shags
of trend-setters
in trendy rags
Of the hopers
the delayers
these slayers
of evildoers
Of I wish you were heres
of the small-talkers
the how’s the family
the licenced stalkers
Of nice tattoos
of blue suede shoes
of decorative punks
with baby cunts
Of happy parents
at children’s parties
of bored housewives
who dreams of hippies
Of A graders
degraded B graders
pissed off C graders
and the maybeers
Of sofa violence
on Mary Jane
comedies
of hobby pain
Of live and let live
it’s all the same
just stay out of my fucking garden
and play the game
Of polished lines that seem to know
that points away towards the foe
Rhymes that time perfectly
Yeah, you should be scared of me
I’m just kidding
have a nice day
Performed by Hannah Ehman
POEM:
What would I do with me, without you?
Do any of us know what might be true?
More than I was, less than I have been,
A part of me missing, no nib in my pen.
Scratching at life, yet, leaving no mark,
Like rubbing two sticks without a spark.
Words are too weak, should I just quit?
Is your sacred fire what keeps mine lit?
If my dreams fleeting, passing clouds;
Will I know wisdom before my shroud?
Sewn into canvas, dropped into the sea,
Buried to nourish a newly planted tree.
Life into death into life, still unknown,
Must know the next life is still our own.
I wonder, the future is all wait and see,
What will you do with you, without me?
Performed by Hannah Ehman
POEM:
There was a crooked man
Who had a crooked home
He had a crooked fence
And had a crooked gnome
He had a crooked garden
Which people came to see
Have you ever seen a hedgerow
Zig-zag past a tree?
You need a crooked key
To get inside his house
Else no-one can get in
Not just his crooked mouse
He lives all by himself
For he never found a wife
He’s not rich or famous
But has a happy life
In his lounge he sits
On his crooked wooden chair
It’s such a perfect fit
You’d think he wasn’t there
He reads when in his chair
Exciting crooked books
It may sound quite simple but
It’s harder than it looks
By his crooked fireplace
Sleeps his crooked cat
Curled up warm and cosy
On her crooked mat
When he cooks his dinner
On his crooked stovetop
He doesn’t spill a thing
Not one crooked drop
In his crooked attic
Above the crooked stairs
Ornaments are abound
Antiques and crooked wares
Nearby is the market
Where he does his shopping
One day he stubbed his toe
And went home crookedly hopping
A quick walk down his street
Was a challenge in itself
He’d be heading straight for you
Then bump into someone else
He goes to work each morning
Driving his crooked car
He bakes bagels every day
For people near and far
He loves all crooked food
Jellybeans and bananas
Crooked cucumbers daily
Cashews and cabanas
His favourite sport is hockey
On grass or on the ice
Or to throw a boomerang
And catch it once or twice
He said when he retires
He’ll sell his crooked house
And move out to the country
With his crooked cat and mouse
—
Producer/Director: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Festival Moderators: Matthew Toffolo, Rachel Elder
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editors: Kimberly Villarruel, Ryan Haines, John Johnson
Festival Directors: Rachel Elder, Natasha Levy
Camera Operators: Ryan Haines, Temitope Akinterinwa, Efren Zapata, Zack Arch
Performed by Hannah Ehman
POEM:
It was thus in the time of siege and famine:
A poor farmer sold his little daughter
To the asrais and nixies of the mere
So that the harvest might not fail again.
Then the farm prospered and all were fed
So no more was thought of the bargain
Though the reeds at the water’s edge
Sang of the prize that was expected.
And Meggan, growing fair but also strong
Took to ploughing with her horse,
Coming on her sixteenth birthday
To till the rich silty fields by the lake.
It was springtime and fine weather
And she and her horse Meadowmane
Worked quietly from shore to headland
As the gulls followed the turned turf.
On a start, a milk-white charger appeared
Its golden mane and tail flashing in the sun
Its dappled flanks afire with rainbow flecks
Snorting and prancing in courtship and display.
‘I know you Brookenhorse’, said the girl
‘The mount of Jenny Greenteeth Grindlelow
Sent from the dark depths of the mere
To claim me as a prize for the tarn-hag’.
Then the enchanted stallion came up
And nuzzled Meadowmane on the cheek
Nipping the old cart horse on the neck
At which the Brookenhorse shape-shifted
And took up the plough collar and traces
Heaving the ploughshare and coulter
With such force that the task was soon done
And the meadow seared with perfect furrows.
At which the Brookenhorse bolted for the lake
Taking with it both the plough and its mistress –
And she trapped by the reins that she had wound
To the handles was dragged beneath the water.
‘Welcome my beauty’ said Mother Grindelow
‘You my drowned princess are my catch now
Take up your deathly pallor and sleeves of green
And sing with us amid the mere of midnight silver’
‘I have my prizes now – my temptress Morgwen Fey –
And the sharp steels of the foreshare and coulter
With which to forge a sword of endless enmity –
The enchanted plough become the stuff of strife’.
But Meggan shunned the hell-bride and her watermaids
And dreamed of the bright spring meadow flowers
And the warm sun and scent of heaving Meadowmane –
Finding at last the Brookenhorse in its watery stall.
At which it flared its nostrils, reared and stamped,
Abject in its thrall to the monstrous Borrag Queen,
Now become once more an ancient broken steed
Mere knucker bones and hide, bleached by the depths.
But Meggan wept that it had lost its rainbow glimmer
And placed her arms around its neck in comfort
Reaching to her kirtle purse to find a scrap of bread
That she had kept to share with Meadowmane.
At which the Brookenhorse glowed fine and white again
Lustrous and resplendent in its strength and beauty
And she broke down the stall gate and freed the horse
Leaping to its back as it bolted for the sunlit sky
Seizing the sword of enmity now become destiny
That mystical Cut Steel – Cleft Evil wand Excalibur
Until at last they came to safety and the light of day
Where she became her maiden self with Meadowmane.
And her father threw his arms around her with joy
Lamenting only the loss of his much-loved plough
But handling with amazement the magic sword
That shone among the peaceful fields of plenty.
So in time a knight came, seeking justice and love
And found at last the sword beaten from the share
Taking it up reverently from the Lady of the Lake
Bringing her and her treasured milk-white foal to Camelot.
—
Producer/Director: Matthew Toffolo http://www.matthewtoffolo.com
Festival Moderators: Matthew Toffolo, Rachel Elder
Casting Director: Sean Ballantyne
Editors: Kimberly Villarruel, Ryan Haines, John Johnson
Festival Directors: Rachel Elder, Natasha Levy
Camera Operators: Ryan Haines, Temitope Akinterinwa, Efren Zapata, Zack Arch
Performed by Hannah Ehman
Poem:
In a lifetime spent yearning
through which came wishing and dreaming
within many splendid, unquiet enthusiasms
a voice murmured back the word, prayer!
I was needy and you were solicitous,
my mind always straying to paradoxes.
Instead I uncovered brazen devotion,
the perkiness brought such euphoria
and so I screamed, ‘Is that a blessing?’
Mattering and assaultive within theodicy
Urging and purging within my slyness,
shyness or otherness, I could not awaken.
Tossing its ghost into all desires,
‘It’s that barrenness,’ I muttered
Quirkingly back into my memories
craving the eccentric, eclectic fantasy
the yearning, an essential evanescence
an evolutionist laughed at me in retort.
‘It’s that piety,’ I whispered.
The saintliness simply smiled.
Just give up your fear for Lent this year.
Hold up your hands.
Surrender your terror.
Feel the bands of panic
loosen in your chest.
I know. I know!
It’s not the best of times.
But just think about all those
forty days without your silent fear.
Better than cutting out the beer
or chocolate, though
you might think you are
on the path to career suicide
seeing as all these seem to be built
on daily doses of lethal
intimidation.
Think of it as answering
the hero’s call in the desert,
braving storms, fighting demons.
Accept no imitations.
No cross would be too hard to bear,
no thorny shard would prick your resolve
to its conscience’s very quick.
You’d shrug off tax demands,
VAT, NCT, and all those other levies
apocalyptically breaching the banks of some Mississippi.
Nothing would faze your glacial gaze.
You would be as serene as the fat Buddha
sitting in your garden, all smiley
transcendence of suffering’s meaning.
Is fear the fire in the belly?
Or is it what gets us out of bed each morning?
Does it turn us into rabbits made of jelly?
Or acolytes fawning over bullies,
subjugated by every bellow?
They say the colour of cowardice is yellow.
Or is it the purple of our bruised pride?
Is it more a slow brown stew?
What do you hide? Is it
your leaden defeat and inaction?
The spilt blood of your rage’s actions?
Have you considered Agent Orange’s
decades’ long legacy?
Have you noticed the seeping
of septic envy? It seems that fear
can make up a whole rainbow coalition.
Can you give up fear for Lent,
maybe just for one year?
Bee Smith facilitates Word Alchemy Creative Writing Workshops in West Cavan and is on the Irish Art Council’s Writers in Prisons panel. Her articles can be found widely across the blogosphere. She is the author of “Brigid’s Way: Celtic Reflections on the Divine Feminine” available as an ebook on Amazon. BrigidsWay.
Drinking
smoking
observing life
I am lost in my senses for months
watching the sea for hours
watching the sky for days
burned by the sun
lying in a rock
nirvana
found myself dead
lying in a rock
died like a lizard
lived like a try hard
gone as a lazy rebel
far away
alone in a beach
sand in my body
eyes open without moving
watching blue sky
I am returning where i came
I am free
I am nothing.
I’m the new broad in town, so let me introduce myself:
Susie Golightly; been rhymin’ since I was twelve.
I never thought a skinny white girl could rap off-the-cuff.
I wasn’t like the Lady of Rage who rocked tough and stuff.
I used to rap in front of the mirror into my microphone hand,
“Me, Myself, and I,” and “Parents Just Don’t Understand.”
But I’ll never forget that day I heard his whiney voice say,
“Hi! My name is… Slim Shady.”
I was hooked in an instant, drawn to his wit like a magnet.
A lyrical genius, spitting out nonsense that made sense.
I was no longer afraid to express myself.
Had more words in my head than a 40-foot bookshelf.
GoGo Rusha was born, and then Susie Golightly.
Both personas were known to bring life to the party.
Susie boozy slippin’ everyone roofies.
Life was so surreal it felt like the movies.
Sleepin’ all day, slangin’ all night,
higher than balloons, livin’ the circus life.
I’d seen more criminals and crazies than a penitentiary,
realized my life was a waste; too rudimentary.
So, I got out the game and back into college.
Earned my M.A. and gained book knowledge.
Half street – half geek,
could’ve been a cop on 21 Jump Street.
A Girl, Interrupted – my personality disorder: petulant borderline.
I’ve been corrupted, like Tyler Durden, got two beautiful minds –
Call me the Madd Rapper, lost in a land of jibber-jabber.
Fell to the bottom of this hole and I can’t find a ladder.
So, it’s home sweet home in this underground rap pack,
And I’m keepin’ the Beat alive like my hero Jack Kerouac –
Doo be doo be doo, it’s the hepcat crew –
bringing it to you on the ones and twos,
makin’ the scene, livin’ life on the brink.
Droppin’ bomb beats six feet deep,
‘cause society condemns what it doesn’t understand.
Escaped the callous world into this wonderland –
This place is so dope, think I’m gonna stay awhile.
So, pass that hookah Absolem, and let’s smoke some freestyles
~Susie Golightly
Narrated by Val Cole
Editor and Visual Design by Kimberly Villarruel
Produced by Matthew Toffolo
After centuries of living with nothing, but my love to you, friends,
I found myself surrounded by the luxury of feelings and I am safe
now, I am alive, I am breathing again, but where were you, my friends,
when I was broken? I am calm now, but where were you my friends
when the emptiness encircled me and I was afraid? Where are the friends
when I need them most? I was yearning for knowledge, but from this
day on, I don’t want to know a thing except for, will I be able or not
to love you again, friends. Maybe everything and maybe nothing that I
have given or maybe not given away will ever be really as mine, as my
own breath? Hello friends, I found you after centuries of living with nothing
but my expectations — our life is what our expectations are. I thank you all.
David Dephy
January 2, 2020
