Storytime: How I Met Poetry

You never know where you will find life-changing inspiration. This is why it is good to be open to even the most simple, trivial things and follow the crumbs of inspiration wherever they lead. These days my life is all about poetry. In 2012 I’ve written and performed more poetry than in any other period of my life. I’m searching for a publisher for my book and working on to making a life doing what I love. And you wouldn’t believe that what really set me on this path was Saturday morning cartoons.

Yes. That’s right. As a child I met Poetry while watching a particularly riveting episode of Batman in which Catwoman was transformed into a real cat-like creature with fur and whiskers and everything… but I digress. At the end of that episode I heard a line of poetry that would open my world to a life of artistic expression. Here’s the clip:

I was so fascinated by this line of poetry that I stayed around to read the credits and found out it was “The Tyger” by William Blake. The fact that the writer’s name was “Blake” made me even more interested (I was still young so I thought everybody with my last name was family). I kept the information filed away in my mind with the hope of one day searching for the full poem.

It was quite a long time before I was able to find it. The internet was not at my fingertips back then. But I eventually got a hold of the words, and never let them go since.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, & what art.

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

This beautiful poem, written in 1794 turned me on to a form of expression that has since saved my life and sanity many a time. You can still see the influence in my handle, JadeTygress. Who would have thought it? I had childlike wonder on my side which allowed me to wonder at the crumbs and follow them to inspiration. No one says you have to let go of this childlike wonder as you grow up. Capture inspiration in the every day. You’ll never know where it will lead unless you follow.

Walls

Been playing around with some footage from my poetry feature in January of this year. Here's a clip of me performing my poem "Walls".

The hardest part

Beautiful ruins: Photo by Kelene Blake

by Kelene Blake


The hardest part
is wearing the scars

as stripes of honor

not a shield

engraved into skin/ mind/ heart

evidence of what you’ve overcome

memoirs of the times you’ve bled

reminders you are strong enough

to heal

The hardest part

is leaving the hurt behind

taking the lessons forward

escaping oppression

not as victim

as a graduate

your commencement

rebirth into a brighter you

emerging from confined cocoon

The hardest part

is the uncertainty

embracing it wholeheartedly

not knowing where your feet will take you

after they’ve taken you through hell

there is no unlearning what you’ve seen

there is no un-being who you’ve been

there is only creating

who you will become

The hardest part

is letting go

letting grow

letting feel

letting heal

letting blood

letting love

letting yourself

live

"The End of a Drought"

U.K. Djembe drummer who goes by the name “Shadow 9” put out a call for poets and spoken word artists to submit nature poems to go with his Naturu Riddem for compilation on a free mixtape.

It looked like a fun thing to do, and since I didn’t have any spoken word poems about nature I took it as a challenge to write one. This was the result.

This was definitely a departure from my usual poetry, but I always enjoy expanding and trying my hand at different things. It is a crucial part of growth and getting better knowledge of oneself. I'm at the tail end of the longest blogging dry-spell I've experienced since I began blogging in 2010. Big changes in my life and routine have left me struggling to find balance. As always, however, poetry and creativity have kept me afloat and I will continue to grow and flourish. As such, "The End of a Drought" is the perfect way for me to end my dry-spell, dancing to a "thousand-step beat".

If you like this poem please be sure to “Like” the video on YouTube and share it with your friends.

Finding Wings ~ Spoken Word Poetry

From the moment I learned to write I’ve been a writer. When the alphabet was first injected into my mind the letters crossed the blood-brain barrier and infiltrated my circulation turning me into one of those hopeless (or relentlessly hopeful) creatures who compulsively put words in order attempting to create meaning.

But I was only half-formed, a literary Quasimodo. I found my other half in a world I have always looked upon with awe. Spoken Word Poetry. I always loved watching spoken word poets stand on stage and speak their words with passion. It was one of the things I missed about Baltimore… oh that city has poets! I’ve been writing poetry for most of my life but I doubted I could be up there on stage spilling my soul like an ocean washing over a thirsty audience.

I had been dabbling with the idea of trying out spoken word. I even recorded a piece here. But I did not yet think I could get up on stage. One random Sunday evening I wandered into a coffee shop desperately searching for my niche in a strange new city (and also hoping to find a little something to eat). What I found was an accepting, endearing group of people, a sandwich, and a stage. And then my life started changing… again. For someone with anxiety issues (a.k.a. “nerves”) I took to that stage like a baby eagle takes to flying when it realizes it’s been flung out of the nest and the ground is a loooong way down. Yea, like that.

I had been falling. I had not been adjusting to my new life very smoothly. Something had to break my fall stat, and that something turned out to be Kick Butt Coffee’s poetry open mic (no this is not an ad, although Andrea really is the goddess of java). They were the little nudge in my bird brain that reminded me “Hey! You have wings.”

Each time I pour my soul out on stage I am renewed. Each time I perform I rethink my life. Yes, this is what I am made for… poetry. Lost in Thought, Hot Tamale, and Ernie B (the event’s hosts) have no idea what they have unleashed upon the world – and neither do I. All I know is that my world is better for it and I will ride these winds as far as they take me.

Now I know it’s true… every time a mic opens a poet gets her wings.

Growing Up

I was looking through some of my teen poetry. I started writing poetry at about age 11 and I have over a hundred poems I wrote as a teenager. Looking through them I see snippets of the me I have become in development. Every now and again I would see a line that, though I know I wrote it, would surprise me that I was thinking that way even then. What surprised me even more is that so many things have not changed. If teen Kelene were to see me now would I still recognize me? Would I be happy about how I've turned out? Would I be okay with how drastically I've changed on what used to be the major values in my life? I'm in a country I never particularly cared for, I'm not in medical school, I didn't get married forever... would I be disappointed?

There was one particular poem that makes me think, yes, though things didn't turn out according to plan, I am still exactly where I need to be. I held on to myself and haven't strayed from the fundamental hopes I had for my life. I'd like to think my poetry has grown as I have, but this poem is still poignant, speaking defiantly to the world in my seventeen year old voice.

GROW UP? (age 17)

You, world, say I should grow up to be

a useful member of society

who conforms to unspoken rules of normalcy;

who stifles her individuality;

whose fake smile replaces genuine laughter;

who marries, gets a job, and lives happily ever after;

who settles for dull despair in place of genuine pain;

who ignores a real problem and tries for a quick fix gain;

who loves only for better and runs from the worse;

who thinks life is for pleasure and that pain is a curse;

whose deep desire is independence from all;

who wants to have pride and not have the fall.

Well world I refuse to grow up in this way

and have my individuality stripped away,

and live a life full of false pretence,

and lose touch of truth and innocence.

If to laugh is childish and to cry immature,

to unshackle my emotions against some sacred law,

then keep growing up for those who do not know who they are

and hide behind a mask to conceal any scar.

As for me, I am free and open to what life has to offer

and I am willing to learn from the pains I may suffer.

I will not ransom who I am for who I’m supposed to be.

I may not “grow up” but I will mature and become the greatest me.

(Photo of teen Kelene circa 10 years ago by some random Carnival reveler courtesy Jeanette Awai one of my oldest closest friends from secondary (high) school)

Correction: Jeanette tells me I'm 20 in this pic. Working on finding a teen pic...

Hmmmm: I still have that top and the bead necklace (which I made myself) is the same one in my profile pic.

Revolutions ~ My First Spoken Word

I'm trying my hand at spoken word. I want to make a video for this, but in the meantime I recorded it and share the link with you here. A poem inspired by the times we live in and by the keeping of good company:

Revolutions by JadeTygress

Revolutions

By Kelene Blake

Revolution cycles around the circles of oppression.

The comfortable sit and watch the discomfort of the discontent

Not realizing they are also among the disenfranchised,

Shackled by the fear of losing their fragile hold

Of the glass houses they have built to protect themselves from

The reality that lives a stone’s throw away

In poverty dwelling in the hovels of realization

That their lives do not factor into the big picture

Drawn by the minority controlling the economy

Automatons of the corporate machinery

Who have traded their humanity for spending power.

Power pulls the strings controlling a marionette society

Who puts shoulders to steel to push a stalled economy

Over the edge of a calamity because they refuse to see

That despair cannot be healed by retail therapy

And prescriptions for drugs are not permissions for life

Or lives lost in cries muffled in smoke

Billowing from burning oil fields

And the desperate gaze of starving babies too weak to cry

Haunts the conditioned mind’s wandering eye

And says this picture is wrong

This mirror is broken

But if they are not us then it’s we against them

And what’s ours is not theirs but what’s theirs could be ours

Because we must maintain this masquerade

At all costs.

But what is the cost of a life?

What is the cost of our lifestyle?

What is the price of gas as we fill up our tanks

With the blood of the thousands

The liquid gold that flows through the veins of an economy

Built on the backs of slaves

Carried on the backs of the struggling working class

Whose weary feet massage the backs of the elite 1 per cent

One life lost, per cent pumped into the tank of oppression

One humanity diminished by each bullet fired

One world shattered by illusions of separation

We come full circle, all… over… again,

Revolution upon revolution without evolution

Of thinking as we fail to realize that

One humanity, one human race

Is destroying itself over wealth that does not exist

Save for in the minds of those we seek to destroy.

The world turns in revolution

As our axis of evil shifts to the next target

To the next ideal that needs to be replaced

With something more convenient

As we fight conformity in the name of the same

As we defend nationality against, women and children

Fathers and sons, brothers and sisters playing with guns

Running around playing capture the flag

To use them as decorative shrouds

On the coffins in which we bury our guilt

Six feet under the propaganda of hate

Targeting that which does not comply with the current agenda

The land the coltan the diamonds the oil

The ideals we sell for access to the soil

So our one earth revolves and the soil soaks with blood

While the revolution continues to cycle

Through history’s familiar rhythms of injustice.

Flight Over London

By Kelene Blake

Crimson sunset

breaks the horizon

pale blue sky above

separated by a darkening band

of peach

from the fields of clouds

rollicking below me

and under that...

far far beneath the clouds

points of light

to match the sunset

blink up at me

a hundred thousand sunsets

from homes and hearts

settling in

for the cool summer night.

(Photo by Kelene Blake: Tower Bridge, London)

The Dead Still Dream

by Kelene Blake

The dead still dream

As they turn in their graves

Whenever we fail to grasp

The freedom for which they died

The dead still dream

Because we are still slaves

To corporate agendas

Corruption and crime

The dead still dream

Of the roads that they paved

With their blood, their tears,

Hopes, courage, ideas

The dead still dream

And the living still crave

And the chains are still stifling

Our hearts and our minds

The dead still dream

Of the love that they gave

To a future that stands indifferent

To a struggle which is not yet over

The dead still dream

And they dream of us

Walking with courage

Into the future

(Photo by Kelene Blake)

About You

By Kelene Blake

You may think this poem
Is about you
Well
Maybe it is

About how tenderly
You looked at me
Sometimes
About how softly
Your whispered kisses
Would brush my lips
About how your touch
Sometimes
Would bring me to stillness
Would make me quiet
And yielding
About how your passion
Would flare
And flow through me
Making me a goddess
At whose altar
It was your pleasure to worship
Sometimes

You probably think this poem
Is about you
Well
Maybe it is

About us
Being friends
About us
Being lovers
About how awkward it was
To be both
About how impossible it was
To be neither
About the chaos of emotions
That time
And distance
Can only translate
To pain

I think you think this poem
Is about you
Well
Maybe it is

About you
And me
And we
And what we had
And what we couldn’t have
About what we wanted
And what we sacrificed
And what we achieved
About how well we worked together
About how bad we were for each other
About what we became
About what we lost
About what we never had

I’m sure
You think
This poem
Is about you
All
About you
Well
Maybe it is…
Or
Maybe not.

(Photo by Kelene Blake: Sculpture at North Bridge, Edinburgh, Scotland)

Inventory

By Kelene Blake

Out of space
Out of time
Out of sight
Out of mind

Out of patience
Out of energy
Out of strength
Out of sanity

Out of ideas
Out of words
Out of solutions
Out of hope

But there’s still some love

Out of cheeks to turn
Out of tears to cry
Out of masks to wear
Out of souls to die

Let’s wrap this up
There’s nothing left
Except a little love
And a lot of pain.

(Photo by Kelene Blake)

Beach Day

My vacation is coming to an end, and in honor of that I'm posting a poem I wrote just before the beginning of this vacation. It is a Sestina, a verse form requiring repetition of end words in a particular order. It's not the easiest verse form but it gives interesting results.

Beach Day

by Kelene Blake

Early morning at sea
I watch the waves
Reveal the shore as the tide goes out.
The beach, deserted at this early time,
Lets me soak the dew in
As daylight rises.

I can feel my chest rise
As serenity blows over the sea
And I breathe it in.
I release a wave
Of my stress, built up over time
With every breath I let out.

It feels so good to be out,
Away from the high rise
Buildings and crazy time
Tables, all those people to see,
Pressure hitting me in waves
Of deadlines to get all my work in.

But everything’s finally in
And I can finally get out,
Lie on the sand and let the waves
Wash me clean, make my spirits rise
Clear across the sea
Away from the clutches of time.

And this time
When the tide comes in
I’ll sit on the sea
And let my dreams float out
Rising
On every wave.

And I will wave
Goodbye to time
And land as I rise
To the horizon, breathing in,
Sailing out
With my dreams to the sea.

Late evening time at the sea.
Waves rise and fall as the tide comes in
While my dreams and I go sailing out.

(Photo by Kelene Blake)

Shrinking Tercets

Swirling
By Kelene Blake

I walk through scattered pieces of love
Swirling around my feet like autumn leaves
Swirling like sadness as I wade through my pain.

Love
Leaves
Pain

What’s to be done with the seasons of life?
Chilly Decembers melt into soggy Marches.
Time’s changes flow ever onward.

Life
Marches
Onward

One day the tears will stop
And leave my eyes clear for looking
At the summer sun whenever it comes back.

Stop
Looking
Back

I had the task of creating my own verse form in poetry, complete with rules and example, as an assignment given by my professor M.K. Asante Jr. It's the second time I've created my own verse form. Tell me what you think about my "Shrinking Tercets"


Rules
i.) The poem is made from an even number of tercets (3 line stanzas) with 2 being the minimum.
ii.) Each pair of stanzas work together as a tercet pair and can stand alone as a single poem.
iii.) The end words of the first stanza of a tercet pair makes up the entire 3-word second stanza of the pair.
iv.) The three words of the second stanza of the tercet pair remain unchanged and must be used in the same order as the end words of the previous stanza.
v.) If there is more than one tercet pair, each must be able to stand alone as an independent poem as well as fit cohesively with the other tercet pairs of the poem.
vi.) When there is more than one tercet pair the even stanzas (3-word stanzas) should be able to be pulled out to make an independent poem.
vii.) The even stanzas are unpunctuated.
viii.) Rhyming is not required.

(Image: Artwork by Trinbagonian artist Lauralin Maynard)

Contained

by Kelene Blake

Poetry is a prison
For emotions the heart can no longer contain.
Fear, pain, love… dangerous hope
Trapped on paper, where it is safe,
Manageable;
Where it will not bother anybody.

But it does. It bothers everybody.
The emotions imprisoned behind the words
Contained on the paper
Reach out.
They will not be confined.
Instead, they call out to everyone
Within earshot, within view,
And leave their stain on hearts and minds.

Emotions like silvered blood, seep through the paper
From behind the words
And the poetry, if it is real,
Becomes a mirror where everyone sees
The emotions their hearts can no longer contain.