This week: Button Poetry Edited by: ~Minja~  
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"Aren't we all waiting to be read by someone, praying that they'll tell us that we make sense?" ― Rudy Francisco
"Whatever you are feeling right now, there is a mathematical certainty that someone is feeling that exact thing. This is not to say you aren’t special. This is to say thank god you aren’t special." ― Neil Hilborn
"My heart is a messy bedroom I always distract myself from cleaning." ― Sabrina Benaim
"I am certain everything is a poem if you catch it in just the right light." ― Blythe Baird
"Before I die, I want to be somebody’s favorite hiding place, the place they can put everything they know they need to survive, every secret, every solitude, every nervous prayer and be absolutely certain I will keep it safe. I will keep it safe." ― Andrea Gibson
"My Spanish is wondering when my parents will be American / asks me if I'm white / yet." ― Melissa Lozada-Oliva
"My mother taught me this trick: if you repeat something over and over again it loses its meaning, for example homework homework homework homework homework homework homework homework homework, see? Nothing. Our existence she said is the same way. You watch the sunset too often it just becomes 6 pm you make the same mistake over and over you stop calling it a mistake. If you just wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up one day you’ll forget why." ― Phil Kaye |
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hen Button Poetry reached over 1.2 million Facebook followers and 163 million views of YouTube videos, poetry critics suggested that poetry performances on social media are "a mockery of the whole canon" while poets and linguists have criticized the effects of viral poetry on poetry writing, noting potential homogenization of writing styles among newer poets. All this, of course, didn't stop performance poets to continue writing, publishing, and performing in front of the big auditorium.
When people ask me what is Button Poetry, I give them a picturesque answer: imagine yourself, sitting in some cabaret, watching Sylvia Plath on the stage as she is reading her "Lady Lazarus". Can you imagine all the strength she'd need to deliver her message at that moment? The turmoil of feelings she was going through as she was writing some of her most disturbing work? And now you watch her standing there in front of the same audience she aimed her poem to as the words fly around like the shrapnels, looking for a heart to wedge itself into. If you still can't imagine it, I'd like to suggest you watch this emotional and anxiety-ridden performance by Sabrina Benaim, "Explaining Depression To My Mother", from her book "Depression & Other Magic Tricks", published by Button Poetry.
Often times, readers imagine poetry writers in an isolated environment with a sheet of paper in front of them, trying to conjure the right words that would describe a certain emotion, feeling, an object of admiration, and so on only to hide away when the work is done. While this is probably the truthful interpretation of one's writing process, this certainly isn't the case with performance poets, no. Once their writing process is finished, once their thoughts and emotions feel right as on the paper so in heart and mind, they swallow the entire work only to give it a real voice. And this is something performance poets are unique for, the reason they have a certain value in today's society.
Button Poetry doesn't encourage only one theme but rather one, universal knowledge: that the human experience is amazing in all its complexity, trials, and tribulations. Perhaps, the only thing a reader must do here is to stop hiding from the shrapnel aimed to him and, for the first time in life, make a home for it in his heart.
Until next time, let your heart revolt a little.
~Minja~
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#2127876 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: I live in half-truths.
At any given moment,
my mind is a house half-standing
with a hurricane-damaged drifting roof.
I am always at the busy intersection
between learning to be at peace
and wanting to not exist.
No matter where I go,
there I am,
driving my small car,
dreaming tender dreams
about redemption
tasting like midnight ginger tea
and humming moonbeams.
_________________________________
Excerpt: And so we lived, for ten long years—
seven of them spent in matrimonial bliss—
with our game of cat and mouse,
both sticking to our roles so well:
you the hunter, me your prey,
until one day,
when I got away
your stranglehold on me frayed
and I ran and I ran
and I didn’t look back
I got help, patched me up
stitched my seams back together
_________________________________
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#2015543 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: Watch him turn,
he laughs the
hearty laugh of
a man never starved
of attention,
affection,
possessions.
Tells me I'm
fartooskinny
to work security.
Too young to
tend the bar.
Not sober enough
to pass out food
and not talented
enough to
plan events.
________________________________
Excerpt: my body is a big theater
hosting your coarse fingers
every Friday night,
demolishing itself with cheerful songs
they play with my ribs
like delirious Mozart
my body is anorexic model
starving for creative ideas
on how to die painless
and won't beg for mercy
sharpened knives and razors
_______________________________
Excerpt: This is a forum where you can submit your poetry readings through YouTube videos.
_______________________________
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Poetry: July 22, 2020 Issue [#10279]
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