august twenty-third 2005 a quote from
the Sun Sentinel reads scores killed as
Katrina pound states along Gulf Coast
the lichen dips its furry fingers just
inches in but it’s enough how nice to
know when to stop I woke up late today
cracked open the faucet and dipped my
frail fingers in until they pruned and
wrinkled I can’t write with tight skin I
leave the paper soaking graphite shading
the dripping shadows the paper just sits
pruned and not wanting to dry off and
that must be enough to feel the earth
crackle but to not fear the water
creeping through the cracks to hear
prune and think of the fruit here cane
and not hurry to run but to taste the
sugar melt into your mouth my fingers
are tightening up so I dipped them in
the stream again but they take longer to
wrinkle last September I was appointed
as a national student poet in the White
House joining for other writers as
literary ambassadors to our region’s my
main duty during my year of service is
to go out in the southwest region
connect with new communities and spread
my love of poetry the piece I just
shared was the poem i read in the
appointment ceremony with first lady
Michelle Obama for this poem I tried to
focus on material related to a specific
event which in this case was Hurricane
Katrina so that I could approach the
issue with real compassion everything I
learned while writing this poem not only
made me a more caring person but also
taught me how deeply poetry can heal far
too often poetry is perceived as a form
belonging only two yellowed textbooks
and ancient scrolls instead of what it
really is an art filled with freedom
creativity and connection as a writer I
find joy and inspiration and spreading
my love for verse two other young
writers by showing them the fun and
creativity that poetry is built upon
even as arts funding dwindles in
these schools around the nation the
concept of art is still president most
students lives but for the most part and
forms like drawing and painting in my
work I try to build on the visual
foundation to establish poetry is
another medium that can channel that
imagination and imagery visual art of
any kind and then become a tether for
poetry as a part of education if poetry
is taught as an accessible art form that
more and more young kids will find a
seat fitted just for them at the table
of creativity then as they began to
integrate imagination into their
identity they’ll begin to develop just
like I did in 7th grade a deeper and
more sweeping sense of confidence and
power my humanities class five years ago
words broke free from the textbook and
morph into a tool just as in that same
year I fell in love with visual art
through photography I fell in love with
writing through language language like a
camera set to manual was a delicate
expensive machine the required caring
curiosity to operate I couldn’t just sit
down and write I needed to sit down and
work as we dove into the churning sea
storms available and explore the marbled
midst of Greek gods I learned how to
write from ancient masters and how to
swim through my imagination for my work
in other media by feeling a words true
texture at witnessing how its color
swirls and blends when part of a larger
thought I saw the poetry and paint we’re
two tools not too different from each
other and one of my first assignments as
a national student poet I was to visit a
local museum I chose a dallas museum of
art and write a poem influenced by a
piece of artwork there originally I
thought to myself alright I’ll just find
a fancy portrait and fill that space
with a personal story instead when I got
to the museum I found myself somehow
magnetically attracted the sculpture and
design instead of just painting right
about something so functional like a
chair I realized when providing
experience completely different to any
I’d had before as a writer the chair I
chose was a beautiful glass and Rose
sculpture entitled miss Blanche asheru
kamata my poems title is frozen
frozen the skies freeze into clean cut
glass along my back the little princess
Rose sleeps in my arm the scarlet drinks
the Starlight a crisp formaldehyde
clutch fills my curves with cutting
grace there is no marbled elegance to my
beauty I shine in the dark like gloss on
Matt like shadow on stucco a firmament
breasts on my amethyst legs and I
magnified the ground for the stars my
life burns on with deathly perfection my
roses were weaned on knife-edge glass
and molten sand there was no adapter to
bloat the pedals with love my roses are
beautiful but just beautiful enough in
my poetry I strive to force my words to
carry more than I think possible and I
can only do this but forcing my mind to
look deeper at the art that gives my
life meaning from sculpture to painting
to film visual art pushes my
understanding of the world to the cliff
that invites me to jump fearlessly into
my poetry as much of my world changes in
ways that often deeply unsettle me
poetry is the place I turned to for not
only solace but also inspiration my time
of the world of poetry has shown me that
poets are some of the most active
energetic and passionate people I know
it’s a family built upon accepting
anyone and everyone and even if you
don’t write poetry still has a place in
your life just as crayons and markers
fuel children’s creativity poetry as a
messy elegant and freeing art form it
helped young students create if through
visual art more and more kids learn
about creativity and poetry that the
next generation of creators and thinkers
be one marked by inclusion and passion
instead of paranoia and closed
mindedness the world is changing there’s
no denying that the poetry is and always
has been a safe haven for everything
worth cherishing now before I leave you
today
I’d like to share a more recent poem
I’ve written one that I hope embodies
the apathy a compassionate poetry has
taught me it’s entitled refugee refugee
he said that he was from where the river
flows they took tea with salt and sand
that he mixed water and oil in his veins
he thought the shadows were slower on
this side of the coast that the rain
fell thicker in here at the ground
forgot herself he smelled of dust and
honey like a be stripped of stripes and
spike just formless fuzz and to open
eyes his wings were clipped memories of
an easier home loss to beige wind he
seemed a sandbox of all things for him a
stone skipped across starred in sees an
older moon closed his eyes a hotter kiln
hardened his skin a wetter Sun forged
his steel I didn’t know him now I saw
his face among the crowd on sidewalks in
the streets our fingers never touched I
never felt the whirl of his warmth or
even a fleeting touch but then I saw he
had a sister and what else could he need
to prove his humanity to me thank you [Applause]