There is a little wizard in the corner of my Microsoft Word screen, a little pink man with a white beard, and a blue gown and pointy cap with yellow moons and stars. I'm mumbling my latest poem draft, wondering how it sounds... and the little wizard yawns!
And now he's snoring. I'm thinking, "well, I never" and "booo," and he looks up and waves.
- Mark States, a poet at the Bezerkeley slam 9/03/03
- Women, Bukowski 157
and i used to think the answer was external.
the other day, i wanted to punk out of the slam because i felt ill. and not nervousness or real sickness. upset at myself. knowing i needed desperately to write something knew, something i know i need to right.
stepping off stage feeling a bit like a fraud
dropped a favorite poem, but offended to hear people applaud
though i remember truth of one amazing night of dancing through beats
inspiring a four in the mourning poem about letting go & dancing away
my heart knows i only pretend to not be mourning
my heart knows i dance around what i most need to say...
i finally scratched out a piece about shit i need to make peace with.
now i ask, am i writing my truth? if i pen the most urgent relevant reality in my heart, then that's my true poetry, not good or bad. simply me.
- Saul Williams