Below is the more video from Wednesday afternoon's tryouts -- this one with Sylvia Holland, performing her poem "The Dreamer," along with text of the poem and a self-critique by Sylvia.
"The Dreamer"
By Sylvia Holland
She speaks in a dialect only recognized by birds
that catch her attention.
She cruises up wild blue yonder.
Straight ahead
her eyes pause on illusions.
Her world is reflected in blue ink,
and she signs off again,
immerses herself in her painted voice.
On scriptures, scrolls, sheets that somersault down her earlobes
as brain matter
Drip, drip,
here I am.
She’s a dreamer.
Her eyes are closed
and her mind open.
Her eyes are open and her mind is closer to the idea.
Her religion is non-mask-wearing-nature loving – she doesn’t know –
she just wants to love life religion,
soon to be invented.
Her torn sneakers are her moccasins.
She dances the shuffle-jump-twirl step.
Her battle cry sounds a little like a slam poem.
And Communion was her first kiss.
First confession held the words “I love you”
whispered so softly that the deer didn’t run away.
Her fingerprints leave impressions on every star,
and her smile impresses the moon.
She’s five foot five and a half,
but her mind can shape shift and grab the unreachable.
Her blue eyes
like best to soar in their color
and capture the clouds.
With inked prints she colors them gray,
and droplet bits of her imprint
cascade on to every surface imaginable.
She is a little scattered,
but she knows where every bit of herself tends to meander.
We play hide and seek.
She dissembles into atmospheric hypnotisms,
but I still seem to find her lips
in the bottom of a fountain
like a lucky penny.
My feet tread on top of the highest clock,
tapping the vibration of the gears.
Her ears are in some far off field making music out of silence.
Bits of my hair trace the ripples in puddles
and outline the curves of waves.
Her hands are stuck to tree branches,
camouflaged into leaves.
They clap, shake, and wave hello just as the wind blows.
We always find ourselves bumping into each other
Though rooted to the ground by that one source
We’re a little scattered.
Sylvia's self-critique
I was tittering back and forth between two of my poems, and the night before our audition I finally decided on one- “The Dreamer.”
I was forced to memorize that night and with my scattered mind (hence the meaning of my poem) it’s really difficult for me to memorize something in that short of time. Although I did the best I could at the time. I read it over and over again, and by the time I was in the shower in the morning I was able to get the beginning and the end, the middle was still a little tipsy. By the time I was on the stage I had it almost down. There were only four lines thrown about the poem that threw me off.
If I had it down and completely memorized like I do today I would have been able to focus a little more on the performance. There are some spots where I could work on my voice and get louder and a little rougher I already have the soft voice down. There is also so much movement I could do, because of all the imagery embedded in the poem. If my mind wasn’t constipated with memorization I could have done these things. And if my brain wasn’t so scattered then I would have been able to have it memorized in time, but then that would mean my poem wouldn’t be talking about me. Altogether there is a reason for everything. On a side note, I just have to remember to not rock and to plant my feet. Next time i perform this piece I’ll have it down.
Comments