PRESS RELEASE
THE YOUTH POETRY SLAM - SEASON #8!
Presented by the Texas Youth Word Collective
EVENT: They Speak Youth Poetry Slam
DATE & TIME: Saturday, November 21st , 2009, 4 pm
ADMISSION: $5 cover,
PLACE: The Independent
501 Studios
501 Brushy Street
Austin, Texas 78702
CONTACTS: Tova Charles (512) 963-8292, Project Coordinator
Dr. Sheila Siobhan (512) 422-6653, Co-Director
E-Mail: u21slam@yahoo.com
Website: www.txywc.org
November is best known for giving thanks, watching football, and tryptophan naps. Professional taste testers, when comparing different foods or drinks, use a palate cleanser. It just so happens that the weekend before Turkey Day, we have just the thing: The They Speak Youth Poetry Slam. After listening to the words and works of these teenagers, you will go home with one more really big thing to be thankful for: the plenty of an intelligent, thoughtful conscious generation to come. The performances of these young people will stir your soul, make you think, and make you wonder what the future will be. You are cordially invited to come get yourself a heapin’ helpin’ of nutritious slam poetry to tide you over until turkey and dressing are pulled out of the oven.
The Chinese consider the number 8 to be a lucky number, signifying sudden fortune, prosperity. This being our 8th season, the Texas Youth Word Collective (TYWC) is looking to make this year’s youth slam just that – a sudden fortune of poetry prosperity. This season will bring some new twists, starting with the name of the slam: the They Speak Youth Poetry Slam. Why the change? Because we wanted the name to be a worthy identifier instead of a simple descriptor; a name that exemplifies the character and motivation of youth slam and its participants.
Another twist on the new season: monthly writing workshops. TYWC will be conducting monthly writing workshops so that youth can hone their writing skills and prepare their work for the slam. Through the workshops, we hope to not only encourage youth to write more new work but to produce more challenging, quality writing for performance. This, we hope, will raise the participation and competition in the youth slam. These are just some of the upcoming changes/improvements we are making this season.
So, we invite you to come help us continue to launch this, our 8th season of the city wide youth poetry slam,, the They Speak Youth Poetry Slam See what all the excitement is about and be inspired by the voices and leaders of tomorrow. Those participants between the ages of 13 and 19 will be eligible to compete for a spot on the team we take to Brave New Voices 2010 in the home of the stars, the City of Angels, Los Angeles, California
Please come for a night of stirring, thought-provoking poetry. This project is funded in part by the City of Austin through the Cultural Arts Division and by a grant from the Texas Commission on the Arts.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Letter to the Broken
Letter to the Broken:
The pieces that you have found in the sink
are not the reminisce of your soul
but rather the skin that you have grown out of.
You have been looking for your salvation in glasses half empty.
but it has been in your hands the whole time.
Look at how your fingers are in love with pens.
Gliding in blocks, committing their lives to acts of suicide
so you can see that your life is built for their sacrifice.
Your words are more than the lyrical vomit on pages that you are use to but
Rather the lining in dark clouds, smiles that cradle the sky
and you will never know this,
at least not in the way you should.
You hold damage goods
like your hands were not held together with the same duct tape.
I wish you were not so in love with the fallen.
The ruins are no longer built in your likeness
but windows that you have kept open for too long.
When will you realize that walking though white snow is not God,
but your Demons in white suites.
Hiding their intentions in your veins,
Knowing that you were an angel in your right,
they made you mistake your flight patterns for crash landings.
You have confused the clouds for concrete.
These arms are big enough to hold your worries,
Stop following dragons ,
I promise you don’t need them to impress your prince.
We will hold hands back to sunlight.,
be the lost children of the forgotten
and grin when we remember what royalty felt like on our skin.
I am waiting for you to realize that the wings tattooed on your spine
don’t compare to the ones on your shoulder blades
and binding them wont hide the fact that they are there.
Halos cannot be turned off just dimed.
The bend in your arms were never meant to receive the Devils candy,
He’s greatest accomplishment was to make you believe that he never existed.
Reaching heaven doesn’t start with your nose but your heart.
Things we take for granted,
I know that you hold your sobriety with fragile fingers.
But press our palms together
I will show you how God speaks through life lines.
I still see the life that you have been striving for in your eyes.
You know stars don’t really shine the same since you decided that you were better left in shadows.
Good and evil rest on your shoulders,
but they speak the same language these days,
so new guidance is in order,
listen to this new soul that you have left
under white lines and razor edges.
it has library of dreams in store for you..
Remember you are no longer apart of the broken
but the restored…..
Welcome home.
The pieces that you have found in the sink
are not the reminisce of your soul
but rather the skin that you have grown out of.
You have been looking for your salvation in glasses half empty.
but it has been in your hands the whole time.
Look at how your fingers are in love with pens.
Gliding in blocks, committing their lives to acts of suicide
so you can see that your life is built for their sacrifice.
Your words are more than the lyrical vomit on pages that you are use to but
Rather the lining in dark clouds, smiles that cradle the sky
and you will never know this,
at least not in the way you should.
You hold damage goods
like your hands were not held together with the same duct tape.
I wish you were not so in love with the fallen.
The ruins are no longer built in your likeness
but windows that you have kept open for too long.
When will you realize that walking though white snow is not God,
but your Demons in white suites.
Hiding their intentions in your veins,
Knowing that you were an angel in your right,
they made you mistake your flight patterns for crash landings.
You have confused the clouds for concrete.
These arms are big enough to hold your worries,
Stop following dragons ,
I promise you don’t need them to impress your prince.
We will hold hands back to sunlight.,
be the lost children of the forgotten
and grin when we remember what royalty felt like on our skin.
I am waiting for you to realize that the wings tattooed on your spine
don’t compare to the ones on your shoulder blades
and binding them wont hide the fact that they are there.
Halos cannot be turned off just dimed.
The bend in your arms were never meant to receive the Devils candy,
He’s greatest accomplishment was to make you believe that he never existed.
Reaching heaven doesn’t start with your nose but your heart.
Things we take for granted,
I know that you hold your sobriety with fragile fingers.
But press our palms together
I will show you how God speaks through life lines.
I still see the life that you have been striving for in your eyes.
You know stars don’t really shine the same since you decided that you were better left in shadows.
Good and evil rest on your shoulders,
but they speak the same language these days,
so new guidance is in order,
listen to this new soul that you have left
under white lines and razor edges.
it has library of dreams in store for you..
Remember you are no longer apart of the broken
but the restored…..
Welcome home.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
The New Book is going to print this weekend.
If you would like you copy.. please e-mail me at tova_charles@yahoo.com... once I can figuare out the paypal thing we are gonna kick it old school.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Brother. Hero. Friend. Warrior
“God Bless America.. Land that I…”
Since when did lying become a part of the soldiers’ creed.
I still sleep with the letter that you sent to me 6 months ago…
still smells like the day you left.
Cold and unknown.
You told me to don’t let mom see this because this is for siblings only…
we wore that title like
matching varsity Jackets
and they never went out of style
even when we had to cut
the back out of yours
so you could wear it to your new home.
In an effort to break you they shattered this family.
Your bones have become too brittle
to mend you back into the brother I knew .
They treated you like a burden
But you died like a King.
You wrote
to me in your last week.
I have been holding the mailman hostages,
30 mins, Monday through Saturday,
I know that you wouldn’t
lie to me
They much know you special you were cause they can’t let go of you either.
I will never see silver jewelry boxes the same…
since when did they make one
big enough to fit my hero.
I am still sending you e-mails …
CC’d God just in case you haven’t
stopped running away from bombs….
It reads your little sister misses you…
write back sometimes,
I will be waiting.
But for now
I will looking into the stars,
hold the flag they say is in your honor,
and pretend that the mailman will finally bring me good news.
Since when did lying become a part of the soldiers’ creed.
I still sleep with the letter that you sent to me 6 months ago…
still smells like the day you left.
Cold and unknown.
You told me to don’t let mom see this because this is for siblings only…
we wore that title like
matching varsity Jackets
and they never went out of style
even when we had to cut
the back out of yours
so you could wear it to your new home.
In an effort to break you they shattered this family.
Your bones have become too brittle
to mend you back into the brother I knew .
They treated you like a burden
But you died like a King.
You wrote
to me in your last week.
I have been holding the mailman hostages,
30 mins, Monday through Saturday,
I know that you wouldn’t
lie to me
They much know you special you were cause they can’t let go of you either.
I will never see silver jewelry boxes the same…
since when did they make one
big enough to fit my hero.
I am still sending you e-mails …
CC’d God just in case you haven’t
stopped running away from bombs….
It reads your little sister misses you…
write back sometimes,
I will be waiting.
But for now
I will looking into the stars,
hold the flag they say is in your honor,
and pretend that the mailman will finally bring me good news.
Hear Me.
He said I was made for him,
knew that I wouldn’t say a word.
He’s confused the absence of voice for acceptance
Pleading for him to stop.
No, in any language should be deafening,
he refused to look at me.
Said I wanted it
and fighting would only make
this last longer.
Feel better.
Wish my eyes were gouge out the same time that my voice was,
Never been unwilling to read lips
felt his swollen lips rake over my skin,
I am sure the surface was distorted by sun along with his sense of family.
Heavy hands wrapped around petite waist,
I was made just for him.
Being your brother’s daughter does not
mean off limits just easier to get to.
Role playing , his favorite weapon.
He, the master
I, the slave.
He always picked rooms with mirrors
coronas capturing every agonizing moment.
Said, seeing us together
in reflections would
turn his sin into our salvation.
I didn’t find any salvation
Just his sweat, mixed with my tears
and a shredded hymens mingles into the same fractures of my childhood.
I didn’t notice when his curled toes and body spasms overwhelmed him.
All I could see was a little girl,
Screaming at me to save her,
I watched as life slowly seeped from
her beautiful brown eyes,
cut wrist to know she still had some left to keep fighting.
These positions and visions are nothing new.
This temple has not been my own since I was 13.
now ,16. Breast and hips are too fully formed
To hide my uncle weekly play dates.
But no one say nothing. No one sees nothing.
I am tired of fighting,
From the life that God thinks I am strong enough for.
But sometimes, I am just a girl named Amanda,
who loves reading, hates math
and looks more and more like the mother that my uncle could never get over.
I want to say:
“Help me”
“Stop”
“No more”
This voice is getting stronger
I live for the day when he will
Finally hear my voice through the cracks of my fingertips and his love.
knew that I wouldn’t say a word.
He’s confused the absence of voice for acceptance
Pleading for him to stop.
No, in any language should be deafening,
he refused to look at me.
Said I wanted it
and fighting would only make
this last longer.
Feel better.
Wish my eyes were gouge out the same time that my voice was,
Never been unwilling to read lips
felt his swollen lips rake over my skin,
I am sure the surface was distorted by sun along with his sense of family.
Heavy hands wrapped around petite waist,
I was made just for him.
Being your brother’s daughter does not
mean off limits just easier to get to.
Role playing , his favorite weapon.
He, the master
I, the slave.
He always picked rooms with mirrors
coronas capturing every agonizing moment.
Said, seeing us together
in reflections would
turn his sin into our salvation.
I didn’t find any salvation
Just his sweat, mixed with my tears
and a shredded hymens mingles into the same fractures of my childhood.
I didn’t notice when his curled toes and body spasms overwhelmed him.
All I could see was a little girl,
Screaming at me to save her,
I watched as life slowly seeped from
her beautiful brown eyes,
cut wrist to know she still had some left to keep fighting.
These positions and visions are nothing new.
This temple has not been my own since I was 13.
now ,16. Breast and hips are too fully formed
To hide my uncle weekly play dates.
But no one say nothing. No one sees nothing.
I am tired of fighting,
From the life that God thinks I am strong enough for.
But sometimes, I am just a girl named Amanda,
who loves reading, hates math
and looks more and more like the mother that my uncle could never get over.
I want to say:
“Help me”
“Stop”
“No more”
This voice is getting stronger
I live for the day when he will
Finally hear my voice through the cracks of my fingertips and his love.
HE
He is a fatherless son.
He is the bullet of suicide prayer.
He is death fighting not to live, but so afraid of the die.
He is the little boy who wanted a Barbie but smiled when he got a baseball.
He is the receiver of his mother’s unwanted touches.
He is a dick who has used himself in acts of hate.
He life in full circle.
He hides his seeds in men’s secret places but refuses to call himself gay.
He is gay, and fears that his mother calling him faggot may be the cause
He is a husband with commitment issues.
He fits his father’s shoes so well that he is now a sonless father.
He is a beautiful mistake and doesn’t understand why that makes sense.
He is sharp notes in Beethoven 5th Symphony
He is the piano that we won’t keep in tune.
He is more than the part that make him whole.
He is love
And just wants believe that his life was not one big joke, but knows that the punch lines are only getting better with time.
He is hate
Just tired of trying to prove himself when the look in your eyes say other wise
He is alive.
Just waiting for something to die for at least then he would have the last laugh.
He is dead.
Zombie like appearance, he is too much of a coward to not get off the fence.
But today he learned how to fly.
I wish you could have seen it, his landing was beautiful.
He is the bullet of suicide prayer.
He is death fighting not to live, but so afraid of the die.
He is the little boy who wanted a Barbie but smiled when he got a baseball.
He is the receiver of his mother’s unwanted touches.
He is a dick who has used himself in acts of hate.
He life in full circle.
He hides his seeds in men’s secret places but refuses to call himself gay.
He is gay, and fears that his mother calling him faggot may be the cause
He is a husband with commitment issues.
He fits his father’s shoes so well that he is now a sonless father.
He is a beautiful mistake and doesn’t understand why that makes sense.
He is sharp notes in Beethoven 5th Symphony
He is the piano that we won’t keep in tune.
He is more than the part that make him whole.
He is love
And just wants believe that his life was not one big joke, but knows that the punch lines are only getting better with time.
He is hate
Just tired of trying to prove himself when the look in your eyes say other wise
He is alive.
Just waiting for something to die for at least then he would have the last laugh.
He is dead.
Zombie like appearance, he is too much of a coward to not get off the fence.
But today he learned how to fly.
I wish you could have seen it, his landing was beautiful.
Secrets
Dear You:
When will I become less like your secret
and more like your Queen?
When will you pull me from the
corners of your rib cage so I
can see the man I wanted to fall in love with?
When will you hold my heart like
I have always held yours?
You have mixed her and my moans into one…
calling us baby and honey so much that you have
forgotten the beauty in our names.
Our closet has become too full to fit our
insecurities, so what will we do then?
What will you do when I no longer say…
Yes, we can meet up later.
Yes, you can slip out of our bed to get your kids off to school.
Yes, I will get on my knees and do the things she won’t do…
Yes .. Yes.
Your clicks of Morris code on my temples are undeniable.
All I wanted to do was write your wrongs but you just kept turning your back on me.
It’s hard to fight for something when you can’t see
the light at the end of the tunnel,
or the restaurant,
or the hotel room.
Do you even remember what your wife tasted like?
Was she as sweet as honey like you said I was?
Does her body react to the touch of your hand like mine did,
do you sometimes forget which name you are cumming to… tell me.
I wonder if you mistake her curves for mine when
you make love to her, make lust to her.
I don’t think you know the difference anymore.
What will you do when there are no more excuses in my toolbox,
I cannot fix this anymore,
I cannot fix you anymore.
This is not just a fucking poem, but my goodbye.
So sleep, take back your broken radio you call a heart, put it back behind your newly developed walls, it and you are no longer needed.
Dream , maybe then you will see what you have done to yourself from the inside out.
Forget, the gaping hole in your ribs, it will fill with the life that you have settled for.
I hope that you find happiness in your world of secrets.
Sincerely
Your Pen.
When will I become less like your secret
and more like your Queen?
When will you pull me from the
corners of your rib cage so I
can see the man I wanted to fall in love with?
When will you hold my heart like
I have always held yours?
You have mixed her and my moans into one…
calling us baby and honey so much that you have
forgotten the beauty in our names.
Our closet has become too full to fit our
insecurities, so what will we do then?
What will you do when I no longer say…
Yes, we can meet up later.
Yes, you can slip out of our bed to get your kids off to school.
Yes, I will get on my knees and do the things she won’t do…
Yes .. Yes.
Your clicks of Morris code on my temples are undeniable.
All I wanted to do was write your wrongs but you just kept turning your back on me.
It’s hard to fight for something when you can’t see
the light at the end of the tunnel,
or the restaurant,
or the hotel room.
Do you even remember what your wife tasted like?
Was she as sweet as honey like you said I was?
Does her body react to the touch of your hand like mine did,
do you sometimes forget which name you are cumming to… tell me.
I wonder if you mistake her curves for mine when
you make love to her, make lust to her.
I don’t think you know the difference anymore.
What will you do when there are no more excuses in my toolbox,
I cannot fix this anymore,
I cannot fix you anymore.
This is not just a fucking poem, but my goodbye.
So sleep, take back your broken radio you call a heart, put it back behind your newly developed walls, it and you are no longer needed.
Dream , maybe then you will see what you have done to yourself from the inside out.
Forget, the gaping hole in your ribs, it will fill with the life that you have settled for.
I hope that you find happiness in your world of secrets.
Sincerely
Your Pen.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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