Week+Four!

Week Four Poems Write a gender poem that considers the question: What does it mean to be true man or a true woman ? Think of examples of good/bad men/women in your life and in literature and pop culture and children's books, the Bible and in this school and in...you get the picture. This could be a how-to poem; you know, a 'how to be a good woman' poem. Sarcasm (a great literary device to us Slammers) could be employed. It could have an angry tone, but also be willing to put in some beautiful moments describing true womanhood/manhood.

Get your Slam on!

True people Are themselves Instead of Wearing someone else’s countenance As a mask

True people Are open Like salad All parts a visible part Of the whole

True people Are honest Though they may not be amazing They don’t pretend otherwise

True people Are themselves

-Clara "danceslikethelightonleaves" Stickney

Diary of A "True Man"

__//November 5, 2003//__ //Dear Journal,//

//Today is the first day I have written in you,// //I have decided to call you “journal,”// //Not “Diary,”// //A truly sissy word.// //No, but “Journal” sounds manly,// //Powerful, commanding,// //Like me.//

//I found you at a yard sale,// //Errr, I mean, not a yard sale,// //No no, those are for women.// //No, I found you in a barn,// //That was rotting,// //Yes, and I could hardly step anywhere,// //Without falling through,// //But I managed.// //Why was I in there?// //Well, I was... saving a lady,// //Yes, a woman, from rats.// //Rabid rats at that.// //Any way, I found you in the attic.//

//I liked the robust, box-like nature,// //You had.// //I admired the brownness of your covers.// //To show my admiration,// //I punched a hole in the wall.// //My fist went right through it.// //Then I went and shouted mean things,// //To my wife.// //Ha!//

__//November 7, 2003//__ //Dear Journal,//

//I am back for a second shot,// //That is, to give you a second chance.// //My anger management counselor,// //Suggested that I continue writing in you.// //Said it might help me channel my emotions that aren’t anger.//

//Of course, I channel those emotions all the time,// //Just through anger.// //When I’m sad, I’m angry,// //When I’m happy, I’m angry,// //When I’m hungry or thirsty,// //Ill or healthy,// //Amorous, Envious,// //Confident, Flustered,// //I’m angry.// //Even when I’m scared,// //I’m angry.//

//Not that I’m scared.// //Ever.// //No, real men like me// //Are never scared.// //Ever.// //I only fear faggots.//

__//November 8, 2003//__ //Dear Journal,//

//My counselor read what I wrote,// //In you yesterday.// //He seemed nervous.// //He oughta be, around me.// //Four-eyed wimp.//

//Anyway, he suggested that// //I try writing everything I do in a day,// //So I guess I’ll give that a shot.// //Ha, yeah, I’ll give it a shot like the one// //I gave to that bear when I went hunting.// //I’m gonna mount it on my wall.// //So yeah, here it is.//

//My day://

//First I woke up.// //I ate oatmeal,// //No! I ate meat.// //My wife, I told her to cook my meat,// //She did.// //Glad to see she knows where she stands.//

//I went to the gym.// //I can bench press 500 pounds.// //Easy.// //And then I did 60 chin-ups.// //Easy.//

//I played football with some guys,// //I beat the hell out of Al.// //And then I came back home.//

//Then I went to the bar,// //Drank a few bottles of beer,// //Got a little woozy,// //But whatever,// //It’s fun that way.// //Oh yeah, then I got into a fight with some guy.// //I don’t remember why.// //Ha, what a prick.//

//My wife,// //She thought she had the right,// //To tell me that I couldn’t keep coming home// //Drunk every night.// //Bitch.//

__//November 8, 2003//__ //Dear Journal,//

//So my counselor read what I wrote again.// //The idiot was all concerned,// //Wimp.//

//He told me that he thought I was exaggerating,// //He must be scared,// //That I can bench press 400 pounds.//

//Oh, and then he was all worried about,// //The drinking,// //And said that that was illegal.// //What do I care?// //It’s my life, I can live it the way I want.// //And then he told me my relationship,// //With my wife is abusive.// //Like what the hell!// //I never said in the journal that I laid a hand on her!// //What a jerk!//

//Oh, and wanna hear something else,// //That dimwit asked?// //He said,// //“Was that meat you ate for breakfast,// //From the bear you shot?”// //No, of course not, pinhead!// //Bear meat sucks.//

//You know what?// //Screw this journal,// //Screw my counselor!// //Forget it!// //I don’t need this!// //I don’t need the help of some,// //Pencil necked squirrel,// //With his little glasses peering at me!// //How easily I could smash those glasses,// //How easily I could smash his face.//

__//December 4, 2003//__ //Dear Journal,//

//It looks like we won’t be seeing each other any more.// //I mean, it has been a while all ready.// //Seems I got in trouble with my counselor,// //When I met fist to glasses,// //And glasses to eyes.// //Sharp shards to the eyes.// //I know it’s been a while.// //I’m in trouble.//

//My wife is leaving me too.// //She says she’s had enough.// //I figure she feels safe enough,// //Now that I’m being locked up,// //For a few years.//

//But when I’m out,// //I’ll show them.// //I’ll show them what a real man is.//

__//September 18, 2008//__

//Dear Journal,//

//I’m back.// //I’m out now.// //And you know what?// //I think I’ve changed.// //I don’t need to beat people up,// //To show them I’m tough.// //I don’t need these tall tales,// //To make people fear me,// //Or love me,// //As I once thought they did too.//

//No, I’m okay with being myself.// //I’m okay to be who I really am.//

//And I know now,// //To show my emotions.// //After that night,// //I sat in my cell,// //Crying like a tiny baby,// //In the crib,// //All night long.//

//And it’s funny how a prison cell is like a crib.// //You hate it when you’re in it,// //But once you’re out for good,// //You know you were in it for a reason.//

//I want to apologize.// //I want to find my ex-wife,// //And find that counselor,// //And I’ll show them what a real man is.//

// -Lincoln "Don't-Mean-To-Offend" Gray //

// Sestina for A Woman //

I am a girl, they tell me I’m women but the way I work is sort of backwards. The average high school girl’s hands are tainted if they are true, and what this women is and loves in what they call the real world, won’t stand for long.

I have seen this cause grow long and lean like the calves of a magazine woman. That independence isn’t love it’s falling the top step backwards What you find is false, what they take is true But they can’t take my hands.

Dare to believe that my esteem is in the hands of that man with the beard grown too long Dare to believe that the blue so true would be washed out without the hue of women. You can read our chromosomes forwards and backwards, the affairs of science masked by affairs of so-called love.

The girl is labeled and defined, while the women is refined by love Reality wriggled free of its cage of two tightly locked hands and soured upward, never looking backwards over its shoulder, or it’s a pillar of salt and so long sistah, you’ll never have the control of a real-live women. Sodom’s center-fold was never one who was true.

Young girl wondering how she can be of true robust and glamor and she looks at her mother with love and confusion. Flipping through the women magazine. I am a center-fold in an oversized t-shirt and dish-pan hands wondering why it’s taken this long to fall off that highest step completely backwards.

She’s got a head on her shoulders, but the logic is backwards to when high heels and office life were true living. The women you can reach out and touch loves long grocery store lines and climbing the staircase to love And rips up the magazine to mop up her hands Men and magazines long for this real women.

It has, and will, take too long for this door to flip backwards on its well-oiled hinges. For the women to peel off the page and have true flesh. She is calloused from love, which makes her soft enough to cradle it in her hands.

-Megan TwirlingElephant Mitchell

to Thich Quang Duc

i bet the flames felt good. i mean, i bet they seared the bubbling flesh right from your bones and beat flayed cognition out of your nerve endings, but i bet they felt right. like you’ve been waiting. since Prometheus walked his beat on this charred earth the whole human kind been burnin’. Crackle Snap Pop. malcolm burned a like a tin can lantern, the bullet holes his light shot through reminders of the whip snap back lash hate black ash and sack parents who bled him martin went up in flames like the martin before him, pounding 95 on the chapel-doors atlanta streets full wildfire so thick they tried to strangle it with fire hoses. Tried tried tried. sparked like a candle on the watchtower when bob sang, one from an island and the other from the red-hot midwest both wrapped the nation with vocal sensation cords, hopin to change the world while snuffers tried buffers of bullets cash and glares. Bang KaChing Grrr. they say eco-bricks burn better in the stove, and ive proved that poetry chugs on these tracks with smoke smoke smoke from the recycling bins as we grunt with our shovels that clickety clack click the typewriter tick that fuels me. i can’t imagine what it felt like to be on that street. to have your name immortalized on the album cover. but im thinking im getting close to flint-steelin that love to a blaze that you fed yourself too. True men burn. Inside out. Crackle Pop Snap Ian 'Stovepipe' Hawkes

Wake up little girl The sun is shining and a new day has begun! Little girl slept well last night, she went to bed early because she knew she had a big day of training today. Little girl eats her breakfast and puts on a cute little dress with frills

then she sets up the tea. She’s hosting a tea party for her stuffed animals today!

And then comes lunch Which of course mother prepares

The day wears on and Little Girl plays dress-up She knows she must look pretty if she ever wants to find a nice man to provide for her.

And little boy! Little boy also woke up early. But he is not going to make tea or play dress up He has to learn how to work He gets his toy trucks and plays with them for a while Then he has to train his army men.

Time wears on as it always does Little boy and girl aren’t as little as before And they turn into Big girl and Big boy.

Big girl wears heavy make-up everyday She feels her natural beauty is not good enough High heels and high hopes of being popular The thought of others judging her smothers her with horror

Big girl hides behind her facade Every day after school she goes home and cries “Why didn’t Mama teach me to be a nice girl?!” She yells at mama She screams at mama

And Big Boy He must be on every sports teams That’s the only way he thinks he can get girls And only pretty girls are good enough for him

He can’t be sensitive, caring, and no one must see him cry Daddy taught him to be strong But did Daddy really help? Because Daddy doesn’t know that physical strength is nothing compared to strength of character.

Big girl and Big boy grow old, Their 30s pass by, time goes on, and then their 40s are gone too the 50s, 60s and 70s also disappear

They are 80, most of their life is gone And they know now that Mama and Daddy were wrong Little girl and little boy are not happy They never were.

Why was little girl not allowed to play war with the boys? And why was little boy not allowed to host tea parties?

Stereotypes ruled their lives

And in old age they see that They see that their lives have been dictated by others What others wanted What others were going to say

Why can’t a person be their own?, they ask. Why must a girl or boy have to be anything like the gender stereotype? Why must their BE gender roles?

//Nicole "wow that's a BIG poem" Gile//