He was also the only other person on campus I discovered does spoken word. And damn does he do it. He made the No Coast Slam Team with me, and I'm uber glad he did. He's mother-freaking awesome. He's legit, deep, interesting, non-judgmental (at least not verbally that I've seen :-) and creates beautiful works of word art.
Hmmm, not to be confused with wordart for Microsoft Word. Because that would just be gross--I think there should be a legal ban against wordart. But his words are truly artwork, and I can't wait to see what sort of fantastic things we'll come up with working together over the summer.
Oh! And Fitts wants to get us into the prison with him (he does prison ministry) to perform the "Peaceable Kin-dom" poem. We performed it for Peace Week, and Fitts really liked it. I really hope it works out, cuz I think the piece is amazingly powerful. And it would just be an incredible experience all on its own. There are so many awesome things happening in my life right now involving poetry, from the slam team to Tiny Hands, that I just don't even know what to expect next.
The latest poem by Steven Hutchison:
I wish poetry were like a dandelion.
After it’s blossomed and the pedals have all fallen out,
I wish I could blow a little breath over it
And watch as the seeds spread out like migratory birds.
Knowing that these seeds, these words, will bring change
And understanding that the source of the transformation
Is not found in me, but in that same spirit,
Ever-fleeting, creativity.
I wish poetry were an axe.
I would wield my weapon wisely
And take aim for that one in particular,
That overgrown tree of hatred.
I would swing, and I would swing, and I would swing again
Until that cursed tree, to my relief, would bear its ugly fruit no more.
And gazing upon its stump on the forest floor,
Should my hands begin to grow calloused and sore,
I would stand and hold the hand of my fellow lumberjacks.
I wish poetry were graffiti,
So that I could tag the ceilings of each greeting
With my love and feelings of joy.
I would buy cans of paint the color of my soul
And I would blot out the systems of fear and control.
I would paint over the mirrors that told you you were fat.
I would paint…
I would paint sounds of pianos and scat.
Sometimes I wish poetry were a knife
So that I could sever the ties that bind me to this world,
That I could fly.
And see from the nest of some falcon afar
The world in perspective.
Then I might see you for who you are.
But alas, poetry is but mere words.
Well damn it, I disagree and so does this here bird.
For I have painted the skies of the eyes of too many,
And I have seen seeds blossom into gold and green,
And you can bet your ass I’ve taken a few swings
At the trunk of that God-forsaken cherry tree.
So fly, cut, paint, blow, fall that tree, and for heaven’s sake,
Partake of the mystery of Poetry.
After it’s blossomed and the pedals have all fallen out,
I wish I could blow a little breath over it
And watch as the seeds spread out like migratory birds.
Knowing that these seeds, these words, will bring change
And understanding that the source of the transformation
Is not found in me, but in that same spirit,
Ever-fleeting, creativity.
I wish poetry were an axe.
I would wield my weapon wisely
And take aim for that one in particular,
That overgrown tree of hatred.
I would swing, and I would swing, and I would swing again
Until that cursed tree, to my relief, would bear its ugly fruit no more.
And gazing upon its stump on the forest floor,
Should my hands begin to grow calloused and sore,
I would stand and hold the hand of my fellow lumberjacks.
I wish poetry were graffiti,
So that I could tag the ceilings of each greeting
With my love and feelings of joy.
I would buy cans of paint the color of my soul
And I would blot out the systems of fear and control.
I would paint over the mirrors that told you you were fat.
I would paint…
I would paint sounds of pianos and scat.
Sometimes I wish poetry were a knife
So that I could sever the ties that bind me to this world,
That I could fly.
And see from the nest of some falcon afar
The world in perspective.
Then I might see you for who you are.
But alas, poetry is but mere words.
Well damn it, I disagree and so does this here bird.
For I have painted the skies of the eyes of too many,
And I have seen seeds blossom into gold and green,
And you can bet your ass I’ve taken a few swings
At the trunk of that God-forsaken cherry tree.
So fly, cut, paint, blow, fall that tree, and for heaven’s sake,
Partake of the mystery of Poetry.
