5.7 by Sheema Kalbasi

I don't care if you are you and I am I. I am not some exotic flower. Whatever coat you have on, I will put it on to warm me... and the shoes however small... I will walk in them to balance our height difference. You don't need to convert for me; I have already converted to you. You see I never had a religion to begin with. I was born naked from all religions but your love.

I know that was not the point. I know there is no conversion. There is no coat, no balance, no shoes but the naked truth of me finding you first, not you finding me. You, whom will never know who I was when I was sitting on the white sheets.

Y o u, not b e s i d e m e.

And the words that are already written. The words that are already said, are already felt, and are already gone.

And I try to take them back into my empty bowl of hands. To put my hands on the chest. The chest into rest. The rest in to the heart. The beat back to the soul. The soul, back to what it was before you.

Alas! I am 5.7




8.5 By: Ashley Kalchik

I care about the way we are. You know that I am both strong and weak. The way you leave me, scares me like the way we both don’t agree with religion. You see, you leave me like the citrus smell of oranges. I fear scratching on the door like a cat.

That’s exactly my point. Me scratching the door, only to see when it opens, you are gone. I know you know who I am. And how I feel is not something that should be new to you. When actually, ‘twas I that left you scratching.

O
The thing is, is that I feel Y ME U.

The distance, our only weakness. Long walks, the only cure. What you are guilty of is leaving me on the highway again, in the black, beaten, breathless, and perfectly okay. Only to hear the scraping of sterling silver on the pavement.

And I, to count the time, the time that kills my mind, my mind that wants to find, the way you were before I shut the door. Sorry cat.

Finally 8.5!

adventure

Ironic to you
Life to me
Life can never be bad...ever.
It can only be new and challenging.
If problems arise in your life again and again, that only mean that you are not learning that lesson and it must happen over and over until you get it.
So learn the rules of the game.
once you know how to play and roll the dice, it is fun.
I mean after all, at the end of the game when you count all of your money, the paper you hold is nice but, while you are playing,the laughter is what you will remember. The fun durring life.
there is no such thing as a problem, only a situation.
all a person can do is think of it as a new adventure.

Crab

When I eat crab, slide the rosyrubbery claw across my tongueI think of my mother. She'd drive downto the edge of the Bay, tiny woman in ahuge car, she'd ask the crab-man to crack it for her. She'd stand and wait as thepliers broke those chalky homes, wild-red and knobby, those cartilage wrists, the thin orange roof of the back.I'd come home, and find her at the table crisply unhousing the parts, laying the fierce shell on one side, the soft body on the other. She gave us lots, because we loved it so much, so there was always enough, a mound of crab like across between breast-milk and meat. The backeven had the shape of a perfectruined breast, upright flakes white as the flesh of a chrysanthemum, but the best part was the claw, she'd slide it out so slowly the tip was unbroken,scarlet bulb of the feeler—it was such a kick to easily eat that weapon,wreck its delicate hooked pulp between palate and tongue. She loved to feed us and all she gave us was fresh, she was willing to grasp shell, membrane, stem, to go close to dirt and salt to feed us,the way she had gone near our father himselfto give us life. I look back andsee us dripping at the table, feeding, herrow of pink eaters, the platter of flawless limp claws, I look back further andsee her in the kitchen, shelling flesh, hersmall hands curled—she is like a fish-hawk, wild, tearing the meatdeftly, living out her life of fear and desire.
Anonymous submission. "Sharon Olds "

To reflect back, Sharon Olds Talks about herself in her youth going with her mother to get crab. To me her mother sounds small yet, a great provider. She talks about what the crab claw looked like to her, flawless and all. I believe she was compairing the claw to her mother. At the end she says " She is like a fishhawk, wild, tearing the meatdeftly, living out her life of fear and desire. I really like the way Sharon compaired her mother to something as interesting and random as a crab claw. The voice was pretty much delightful in remembering her past. The way she talked about eating the crab pulled me twards this revolation. Also the way she talks about her mother sounds like she was a great provider."She loved to feed us and all she gave us was fresh, she was willing to grasp shell, membrane, stem, to close to dirt and salt to feed us,"

Beats in my head

The refrigerator that keeps me cold.

The magazine that says half smiles are attractive.

The right eye that I hold open to watch Television.

My hand that is your microphone.

The real smile.

What laugh was it again?

The white knight that I am.

I’ll save myself.

And him…

Water, add lemons, pure maple syrup, and cayenne pepper…for the burn.

Are you hungry?

Oh no, You would have guessed.

1) What voice is apparent within your poem? Please describe in detail.

The voice in my poem is just happy, i don't really know what this means.
2) What type of mood will you try to express when performing your poem in front of the class?
The mood in this peom is in the middle, like half and half. The mood is happy and a little sad.

3) What types of gestures, nonverbals, and or movement will you be incorporating into your performance?
Basically a lot of flings! and speratic movement.

4) What frightens you about this assignment? What seems exciting about this assignment?
Nothing and just moving around i guess.

5) How does performance poetry enhance the meaning of a poem? Be specific.
It is like a song and a person dancing to it.

Your Song

This is to you
You who told me the ceiling can Easily be the floor.
Who said I can do anything
And who told me to be a strong Woman figure.
The one who brushed my hair and told me that beauty is pain.
You laughed, where as I closed my eyes and held back tears.
The one who bought all of my pointe shoes, after they broke.
Who sits next to me and Pretends to understand.
Oh and let us not forget, telling Me things that I really don't want to hear...at all.
It is funny though, because, as a strong woman figure, I have come to realize that, you were right, the ceiling can be the floor, and I am okay with that mom.

It's a little bit funny this feeling insideI'm not one of those who can easily hideI don't have much money but boy if I didI'd buy a big house where we both could live

If I was a sculptor, but then again, noOr a man who makes potions in a travelling showI know it's not much but it's the best I can doMy gift is my song and this one's for you.

And you can tell everybody this is your songIt may be quite simple but now that it's doneI hope you don't mindI hope you don't mind that I put down in wordsHow wonderful life is while you're in the world

I sat on the roof and kicked off the mossWell a few of the verses well they've got me quite crossBut the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this songIt's for people like you that keep it turned on

So excuse me forgetting but these things I doYou see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blueAnyway the thing is what I really meanYours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen.
" By Elton John."

Paper

Every girl is beautiful, whether she is lucky enough to have red hair and fair skin, or dark skin with brown hair. We are All just paper. Strip away shades and hughs. strip away make-up and clothes. We are all the same. All living, eating, moving, dancing, breathing.......paper. So, be gratiouse about who you are and the way you look and stop saying, " I wish i looked like her," because if everyone looked like " Her" then no one would get to see your beauty, and that is just another painting in a museum that isn't there.

A Metaphor

The blank piece of pottery stared back at me.
It was so isolated on that large white shelf.
It reminded me of home and soon became a metaphor for my life.
I don’t know if I would erase those memories of not.
Forever it seems like I am waiting, like Amber waiting for her father on the front porch step.
The breath of color, chipped, alowing me to see its true redish tone.

Breath the movement that I live by.
You distract me though, reminding me of glazed pottery.
Forever I am mine to love too.
If only this ever changing yellow didn’t keep me so isolated.
I’ll erase this color off my paint pallet.
The colors that are at home are the ones that I will save.

What is a home without the colors on the wall.
Only to be saying, “ let the wine breath dear.”
Stop and take time to erase the thoughts of staying still.
I wish I had pottery to create and break.
Every meal wont be isolated
I am with you for my forever.

Forever on the run, that girl is.
She never seems to be at home.
Dieing to be in isolated arms.
Squeezed until her breath is lost.
Creating things like pottery, beaded bracelets, and picture memories.
Erasing thoughts of leaving in ten days.

Erase pencil from my paper, for I can never use pen.
The thought of ink forever staining the tint of the white paper.
My life ever changing like clay into glazed pottery.
What will my key look like to my home?
What temperature will I breath?
Never isolated in one small location.

Non isolated streets and open spaces.
To erase the past is impossible, unless I become clumsy.
I will breath steadily and take things as they come.
Forever he is mine and I am his.
My home will be me…and maybe his.
And our pottery we’ve created will decorate empty shelves.

We both have isolated arms that squeeze forever.
To erase our pasts and create a future, a home.
And as stubborn as we breath, we create beautiful pottery.