THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, September 30, 1994 TAG: 9409300754
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY ALICIA LUMA, HIGH SCHOOL CORRESPONDENT
LENGTH: Long : 171 lines
THERE SEEMS TO BE an overabundance of poetry in this world. It has inched its way into magazines, onto coffee-house walls and all over teenagers' notebooks. Gone are the days when poets were revered by the masses, and a beautiful poem was respected.
Now everyone's a poet.
Cyrano would be turning in his grave if he saw the way poetry is written today. All it takes is an idea and a thesaurus to write a poem, a fair amount of guts to read it at a poetry slam and a few four-letter words to make it a crowd favorite.
But some young poets seem to understand what poetry is, and we've managed to catch up with a few of them.
One of these poets once said that a poem is like a pearl. It starts with a tiny bit of aggravation that is coated and made beautiful. The result is a pearl. Or in John's case, a poem.
John is a storyteller, plain and simple. He spins yarns about mothers, dogs, roses, aliens and toilets.
John usually gets his ideas when he's ``extremely tired and I start typing, or when I'm sitting at the (now-defunct) Cabaret Voltaire and I don't have anything to read (at the slam), so I write this crap, this discombobulated cluster writing.''
He's been writing for about five years, and he gives a metaphor concerning his style: Poets have a naked man running in their heads when they write poetry. Some people pick his clothes out very carefully, while others just throw the clothes on him.
``But with me,'' John said, ``The guy puts his own clothes on.''
John's career goals change almost daily because there is so much he wants to do. He is a whimsical poet who mixes reality and fantasy, and although he doesn't think he's exceptional, he has a long list of bragables.
For example, he claims to have written a sequel to Macbeth on an entire roll of toilet paper. Everyone in the local poetry set knows him and raves about his work.
John rejects depression as a muse for poetry.
``Depression sucks,'' John said. ``There's no point in writing about it. Depression is boring. Who wants to hear about it when we all have our own? Depression isn't meant to be shared; it's meant to be suffered.''
John keeps his more personal poetry to himself, and the few who have heard it say it far surpasses the stuff the slam attendees love so much. That stuff he can write in a matter of minutes, and it's almost always amusing. *** The Alien
Dancing with a silver alien by the light
of the moon
in the silhouette of his face is lined
with gray.
Twirling the alien within my arms that
hold and caress his
dismay away
Kissing the silver alien lined with gray
on top of his golden
head that shimmers his brain.
Dancing with the silver alien in the
moonlight by my boat
that sleeps in the bay
Falling with fallen angels on a humid
night that made me sweat
in the middle of May
and floating downward like a feather
with rudders of lead
with the surety of time and space
and wonder
Racing them down they have lost their
wings ``the ones i've found''
that i'll use to fly to see my
alien love tonight
And i'll dance with him all night through
the trees and the glow
that lights the moon and the
skies and the silver lining
by the bay.
And again i'm dancing with the silver
alien lined with gray
by the light of the moon that
broke our sweet worlds
away.
- John Grant
Malcolm has been writing poetry since he was a freshman in high school. He first started reading his works aloud because he liked to hear himself talk.
``When I first start writing,'' Malcolm said, ``the exact words I write aren't quite as angry, the emotion just grows as I speak.''
Malcolm's carefully chiseled works of frustration are called the ``spoken word.'' This type of poetry is like a long, oral, one-sided conversation about something that angers you.
It has gained popularity through the success of author and musician Henry Rollins, who recently held an audience captive at Old Dominion University by screaming about himself for three hours. And Maggie Estep's spoken-word album, ``No More Mister Nice Girl,'' is selling quite nicely.
A few months ago, Malcolm took part in a spoken-word ``war'' at Praha, an art space in downtown Norfolk. That was only after spending many nights spouting and shouting at the now-defunct Cabaret Voltaire during the infamous poetry readings. Lines like this earned him the gig:
``Righteousness was murdered up on a cross in the middle of a big celebration. And Morality? Well, we beat the hell out of him because he kept talking and wouldn't shut up. Everybody knew what he was saying was right, but hey man! he was crashin' the party and reckin' all our fun. . . ''
Malcolm plans to continue writing as he gets older, but believes he won't have as much need to read publicly.
``I think I'll always rant and rave though. I'm a very angry person,'' he said.
Malcolm looks forward to finding someone special who can calm him down, get married and ``continue the life cycle,'' but he doesn't get out very much, so he's not sure if it will ever happen. *** ``Righteousness was murdered up on a cross in the middle of a big celebration. And Morality? Well, we beat the hell out of him because he kept talking and wouldn't shut up. Everybody knew what he was saying was right, but hey man! he was crashin' the party and reckin' all our fun. . . ''
- Malcolm Powell
In a world overrun by free verse, Autumn has chosen the more traditional route of rhyming verse. At one time, poetry wasn't poetry if it didn't rhyme. Now rhyming poetry is frowned upon by the poets of our day as something they could have written when they were 8.
But to Autumn, rhyme ``feels more effective,'' she said. ``It gives me a chill when I hear rhyme, and free verse just doesn't offer a lot to me.''
Autumn wrote her first poem in third grade for a school counselor whose mother died. Since then, her inspirations have included nature, drugs and the bouts she has with depression.
``Anyone's poetry will also inspire me,'' Autumn said. ``It helps me to hear new styles and allows me to experiment.''
Autumn said she puts off feeling things until she knows she can handle dealing with them, so a lot of her recent poetry relates to issues from her childhood.
Autumn often carries big bunches of flowers and passes them out to friends. She goes to great lengths to make people happy.
But because Autumn spends a seemingly large amount of time cheering people up, no one would think she had time to feel the feelings that inspire her poetry. *** Poetry Garden
Upon my light let no darkness fall
yet to that darkness my heart would call
Seeking joy in the name of pain
let inspiration be my cane
Something bright to block the night
that seeps into my brain
From hateful shouts a poem sprouts
that thrives off all that's good
And from those words reason is heard
and problems soon resolved
Through my pen emotion bleeds
as paper rips at evil weeds
that have grown far too long
once I've faced fear I know
that I am strong.''
- Autumn Harris MEMO: Alicia Luma is a home-schooled student in her junior year. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo by D. Kevin Elliott, Staff
John Grant, 19, 1994 Green Run High School graduate and local
bagel maker
Color photo by Beth Bergman, Staff
Malcolm Powell, 19, graduate of Churchland High School
Color photo by D. Kevin Elliott, Staff
Autumn Harris, 16, junior, Richard Milburn High School in
Virginia Beach
by CNB