Tag Archives: Spoken Word

Happy International Women’s Day!

How was your March the 8th? What did you do to celebrate the inspirational women in your life? How many people asked you:

1) Why is there not an International Men’s Day? (There is, 19th November by the by.) Isn’t it a bit sexist to have a women’s day?
2) Why do we even need one anyway?

Regardless, we spent the day watching this video on spoken word poetry by Sarah Kay. She’s incredible.

Let’s keep fighting until one day, every day is ours.

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Guante: 10 Responses to the Phrase “Man Up” (Spoken-Word)

Boy babies get blue socks.

Girl babies get pink socks.

What about purple? What about orange?

Yellow? Chartreuse? Cerulean? Black?

Tie-dye, buffalo plaid, rainbow

There are so many beautiful colours and combinations of colours

Yet,

Boy babies get blue socks and

Girl babies get pink socks.

 

I want to be free to express myself.

 

 

Absolutely, undeniably incredible. 

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Katie Makkai “Pretty”

Pretty by Katie Makkai

 

 

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry. “Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother. “How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb. That’s why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine! “Don’t worry. We’ll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy. But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved. Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!” All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.” And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me. This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables. About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable. This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters. “You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely ‘pretty’.”

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NEUTRAL NORWAY.

Neutral Norway are a magnificent poetry collective based in Falmouth, Cornwall. Here is a beautiful poem by one of the founders, our very own Abi Christmas.

C U NEXT TUESDAY

I see it
reflected in your
unblinking gaze
between split thighs
absorbed in it.
I’m not talking about virginity when I say I gave it away too soon.
I only recently discovered it
wrapped concealed, covered it,
let it out of the bag
wondered
should I tame it
trim or shave it,
what to do with it
once I’d
preened and plucked it
shy away from it
or open up to it?
It’s a secret tucked away
at the back of my mind
until eyes catch
skinny hips, round belly, shapely thighs
opening up
our common knowledge
suddenly mentioning the unmentionable.
Do you sleep on it
when I wake to it’s opposite
persistent, pressing
on the base of my spine
longing for it
cursing for it
fighting for it.
You can never own it
momentarily posses it.
One day I’ll sit
wide kneed
wide smiled
knowing that
I made the most of it.

Abi Christmas, June 2011

Check out the Neutral Norway playlist on Youtube and spend an afternoon pondering on words, dreams and thoughts… http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLEA6809D7FB75FE44

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Spoken Words: Poetry in Performance.

Ruth-Eloise Lewis reads ‘A poem with no name’ on the Bird’s Nest Stage at the Stroud Fringe Festival 2011.

More of this poetry at: http://yarnandlace.wordpress.com

 

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