Amy Weaver is infamous on the Dallas poetry scene, as much for off-stage antics as for the dynamic nature & intensity with which she delivers her poetry. Her poetry is introspective, her approach fearless, and her stage presence dynamic. She is a survivor of abuse, and uses this medium to reach others who have been victimized. Her work runs a gamut of cultural timelessness from Literacy to feminism, diversity to biting social commentary. She is a slam veteran: 8 teams, 3 NPS final stages, coach of 2 Dallas teams and 2001 Dallas Slam Team champion in Seattle. She also has extensive experience organizing/running/hosting poetry festivals and events. She has a fondness for bourbon and has been known to hump a few legs. Currently, she is at work on her first novel , publication of her work, and writing her poem fingers into bloody stumps. To book her for performance and/or workshops please contact www.madnessofamy@yahoo.com.
Three Poems (March 20, 2011. Issue 26. The SLAM & FLASH Issue!)
Illiterati
my brother recently told me
he’s only read 3 books cover-to-cover
in his entire life
this is his fourth year of college,
I (in my seventh)—
not a doctor, but I know
there is a bit more required reading than that.
he tells me
- no, sis, I’m not talking science or history,
I mean the books that I want to read
hell, if it’s any good anyway
they’ll make it into a movie
his mentality scares me
because in our
fast-food-fast-forward-handheld-hyper-connected society
there are more of him
than there are bookworms like me--
so what does this mean for our children?
hollywood is a shortcut, baby, and we like it easy
we park our children in front of TV’s
convince ourselves it’s okay because they’re educational
‘hell, Dora the Explorer speaks two languages’
we might as well say hasta luego to their fragile imaginations
because we are letting somebody else think for them
we place them in training for the average six hours daily
they’ll spend attached to an idiot box
living vicariously through 2-d characters on 55” flat screen
numb
there is something beautiful
in the physicality of turning a page
something fulfilling in recognizing
there is more message in charlotte’s web
than saving a pig
weaving her magic of insight and understanding, man,
she’s saving the world
there is an awareness of this that comes best
chapter to chapter at night before bed
placing the promise of hope in a small child’s head
because maybe they can do it too
you don’t get that metaphor in a 90-minute movie
without the looking glass,
Alice was just a lonely girl
napping under a tree
we place a higher value on tests than education
and our children our suffering
can’t read between the lines
they don’t know how to read
why bother
they can watch the movie
i see more value in teaching them
nothing is more exciting
than what you create up here
hollywood can’t subsidize
how that makes you feel in here
it’s apparent, even to me,
we are slipping
from a vice president who misspelled potato
to America’s first son ‘Nucular’ W. Bush
even the ivy league leaders of our nation
are often poster boys for illiteracy
we are one of the wealthiest,
most advanced, countries in the world
we are quickly becoming the dumbest
when no child is left behind
imagination becomes a dirty word
like recess…art…music…poetry
our children learn more about test taking than critical thinking
it’s going to hurt them later if we sell them short now
its only going to hurt us later if fail to allow them to dream
conjure metaphors from places unseen
it begins paper to pen
it is not remote controlled
technology makes us lazy
takes away our desire to think for ourselves
discover the wonders of worlds we create
for ourselves
we’ve got to tell them--
there is nothing more powerful
than what lives inside you
nothing more dangerous
than allowing outside forces to define you
and there is nothing more wireless than a book.
there are no cords, no strings
just whole new world of exciting things
cradled between your palms
while your parked at a park beneath the trees
the breeze of spring on the back of your neck—
inspiring mad hatter red queen and cheshire dreams
you’ve got to trust me, people
I guarantee
the book is better than the movie!
Pearl
the world is the daughter of a grand pearl
and we are all a grain of sand
existence began when Mother Africa spilt her veins
birthed life to seven continents—
division, well you could say that came
when the Tower of Babel fell crumbling
since then we have spent centuries building barriers
to insulate ourselves from each other
it has become cliché
to say we all bleed red
but it remains true
just as we all come from mother
each a grain of sand
searching for beauty in this grand strand of pearls
tonight, this hand reaches out for my people
a tribe without borders, colors, or creed
rainbows twilight or daydreams
rape is a shared ancestry
we are mothers and daughters
sons and fathers
nocturnal children
who blister innocence from smoldering fingerprints
that burn holes like hollow tips through soft bodies
just stay alive we fill those holes with mud and bricks
to stop the bleeding
sticks and stone deaf ears broken bones
walls so thick our shattered shells become prison-cell isolation blocks
silence is the penitentiary that allows us to keep breathing
forget the echoes of our own voices screaming
as laughter is left dancing on two left feet
crooked and collapsing
behind swollen throats
chattering teeth
so we can walk like shame in everyday shoes
mothers sisters and daughters
dark alley corners foreign customs and spoils of war
we are Mukhtaran
a battered grain of sand from Pakistan
raped by thirteen men
for a sin committed by her brother
her penance so brutal
she will never walk
normally
again
we are every grain of sand
buried alive inside Sudan
where laughter leaps like smoke from choking children
and Vumi has been discarded
from the oyster of her village
they cannot stand the smell of piss and infection
streaming endless down her legs
her womb pillaged
by sticks dicks and firearms
at the time she was nine-months pregnant
I don’t know which is more savage--
the child inside her died or that she still lives
in this world 1 in 3 women become victim
and too few are survivors
it is no different in our country
it’s easy to cast stone judgement
across dark and murky seas
in the time it takes me to spit this poem
two of your mothers sisters daughters
two american grains of sand
will lose their dignity at the hands of a monster
come creeping from beneath fairy tale bed frames
and slid between her sheets
trust me, you can’t wash the stench
of blood and spit
cum and sweat
off of intangibles
trust innocence self-worth
and you can’t wash them off me
tonight it stops here.
I will remove my fist from mouth
START screaming
we are not a broken people
we are proud beautiful worthy
I stand here an open hand
for every grain of sand
who suffers from the knowledge
that you can’t stay on your knees forever
and there is no end in sight
step out of your silence
you will find us
mothers sisters daughters sons brothers fathers
an army of you are not alone
we will hold each other tightly
hope wrapped about us
a clenched fist unyielding
don’t let go
don’t let go
this is where healing begins
life is your becoming
we all bleed red
we all come from mother
we are each a grain of sand searching
to find our own beauty transformed
into this grand strand of pearls
Piano Man
frailty speaks volumes
beneath the burden of the spotlight,
bleeding forgotten yesterdays
into tomorrows that may never come.
I have come for the music
the piano man is alive, tonight,
but the crows call him back to his beginning
back to a time when he existed
as more than a shadow of himself,
a man, not a disease.
he makes his way to the bench
his fingers never shook before
--not like today
‘sometimes it makes it tough to play,’ he says
‘but its all I’ve got left
I live in the music.’
and I believe him
pretend I am strong enough for this conversation
but somehow I’m not
this is a prayer for the living,
because we the living have the power
to craft an anthem of salvation
to raise our voices together in unison
to find peace
to heal the sick
to save the music
he is perched upon his bench beside the bar
pounding a melodious call to the angels
fingertips restless and dancing
across an ivory chorus of puppets
he is life
the melody maker
the art behind the laughter
he is imprinted on the walls
they scream in silence without him
outside he passes me a bowl,
exhales, ‘AIDS plus’
confirming my worst fears for him
a life sentence with no chance for recovery
a brilliant body infected with splintered sores
black from the ashes of fever eating him alive
beyond the spotlight
his fingertips become silky spider webs
grasping for forgiveness
so gently against the flush of erosion
he doesn’t cry anymore
just plays himself to sleep
doesn’t want me to worry, he says
he’s eating again
good pot makes him hungry
he is not weak,
but the song of death is familiar
he knows this routine
has seen three lovers pass into the nothing of disease
‘three is not my lucky number,’ he says
the piano man is dying
it’s time WE explode the science
AIDS is raping our the world population--
taking our sons and daughters
to the alter of sacrificial slaughter
and indigence won’t pay for the cure
we cannot continue to pretend
this only happens to junkies and homos
not people we know
certainly not you
it’s as easy as your ABC’s
abstinence
your body is a sacred temple worship it
teach others the art
be faithful
commitment is a responsibility worth living up to
besides, if you’re sharing partners or needles
you’re probably sharing more
use a condom and your common sense
because sex and drugs aren’t worth dying for
people, this is about education
ignorance perpetuates violence
this is a war worth fighting
because the piano man fights for life
with every shallow breath
to save what’s left of his dignity
he sees no pride in having the five letters of his name
sewn into the patchwork of a quilt
swollen the size of Africa
we both know he cannot afford to live on more than a promise
plays at the church on Sunday with the virtue of God’s son
as the crows call ever closer
he cannot afford to live--
so he lives in his music
he loves with his music
he heals with his music
he is alive inside the music