Tag Archives: Poetry

Poetry as Activism

If you’re wondering why my blog post is starting off with 3 random youtube videos,  just give me a second to explain.

For around a year now, I’ve been a pretty big fan of spoken word/slam poetry, which is basically poetry written with the intent to be performed in front of an audience, rather than read on paper. And generally, the intent of spoken word poetry goes beyond just the expression of an emotion of the description of an object or event – spoken word poets write with the intent to evoke thought, enact change, or raise awareness.

Check out one or two of the links I posted above (especially the first – it’s a personal favorite) to get a feel for the genre, especially if you’ve never come in contact with spoken word poetry before. The first deals with rape culture, the second with abortion, and the last with gender identity.

Spoken word poetry is one of many intersections between art and activism – and as it’s extremely personal, passionate, and interactive, I’d say it’s a very effective way to get an issue across to an audience.

In the first poem, “Blue Blanket” by Andrea Gibson, the realities of rape culture are conveyed in a way that’s much more effective than most logical approaches could deliver. Poetry appeals primarily to pathos – therefore, for emotional issues like rape, or abortion, or gender identity, poetry serves as a highly effective platform to convey complex issues to a broad audience and help to stir up a movement.

For me, when I heard “Blue Blanket” for the first time, I was struck especially by the last line “She’s not asking what you’re gonna tell your daughter/ She’s asking what you’re gonna teach your son” because for the first time I realized how skewed rape education is; We focus so much on telling girls not to walk alone at night, to always be careful, to avoid riding elevators alone, etc. and spend very little time focusing on teaching boys to respect women, and making sure they understand the  gravity of sexual assault.

Just food for thought and something to look into – poetry isn’t everyone’s thing, I know, but I’ve found that it’s hard to watch a substantial amount of slam poetry and not, at the very least, be moved to rethink your perspective.

Diary of an Existentially Confused Teenager (The Poetry Edition)

So I’ve been staring at my computer screen for about half an hour now, written about 5 false starts, and generally given up on producing another anecdotal account for this week, on the grounds that I would essentially be writing the same story as last week  in a different setting, and as vitally interesting as I’m sure my life is, I doubt you want to read about the same thing twice.

Instead, I think I’ll just share with you all a poem I wrote earlier in the week that kind of sums up the essence of my thoughts for the moment (I’m nerdy and shameless, I know).

I believe I titled it “1:15”:

It is 12:19 on a tuesday night
and I am learning the oddities
of the passage of time.
it is 12:20 on a college school night
and I am remembering what it felt like
to be  child in the fall
the way the crisp air meant
pumpkin carving and leaf piles
and the smell of the woods
in autumn.
and I am regretting the way
now, it means a cold walk
to go get wasted
and a cold stumble home.
it is 12:24 on what I guess is technically
a wednesday morning
and I am wondering where minutes go
and why I never notice their passing.
Life is so fleeting
youth was gone before I had time
to make a note of its going
and loss of innocence is a cold thing
to wake up to in the morning
your mouth tasting of stale beer
and your bedroom smelling
like the remnants of the night.
Sometimes it’s like my past is crying,
I don’t know how else to describe
this presentiment of loss I feel.
My grandmother sent me $50 today
and as I used her love to pay
for a bottle of jack and a dress
she would have died to see me in,
I remembered younger days
making up scary stories on the swing
after swimming in her pool
and knowing she still thinks of me
as a child.
why does growing up feel so cold?
it’s 12:36 on a fall night
and I’m wondering when magic
became disillusionment
and how wonder managed to turn
to this cold, creeping apathy.
it’s 1:00 on an irrelevant night
in an irrelevant life
and I’m wondering who I will be
when I wake up in the morning. 

 

I would offer you all some analysis, but I feel like that was pretty straight forward. I just thought I said it better in poem form.

(By the way, I was still me when I woke up).

Your favorite Existentially Confused individual,

Kaitlyn S.