MSA 2009 Slam Poetry: Well, Thank You by Taylor Phillips

This masterpiece of slam poetry is, quite simply put, Scintillating.

MSA 2009 Slam Poetry: 16 year old Taylor Phillips performing her brilliant slam "Well, Thank You".

Well, Thank You-by Taylor Phillips

When I found out there was going to be a slam,
I went straight to my dorm room, pen in hand
Ready to compose the next grand
Word symphony
To give a worldwide audience a personal epiphany
To write a poem for everyone,

I had censored before I’d even begun.
In a world where only 25% of adolescents read outside of class
How many are going to listen to a 16 year old slam
And know enough to give a damn.
I wanna write a poem
that only the worthy can understand

I wanna write a poem for smart people.
For true knowledge comes from the heart people,
For the search for that truth is an art people
For finish what you start people.

I wanna write a poem for gifted kids
Teens with minds like Pringles lids,
Once you pop, the fun don’t stop,
I wanna speak for the cream of the crop

Geniuses of the 21st Century, this is for you

Because you know “Live long and prosper” was first said on Vulcan
And when you solve a rubix cube too slowly,
You don’t stop sulkin until you win yet another chess match
In 17 moves flat
Or dip a tennis ball in a 3 liter vat of
Liquid nitrogen
Which we all know,
Is atomic #7.

I wanna write a poem for the scholastically driven
Who use their cerebellums to better the world we live in
And who don’t have to look up cerebellum to know
That they’re seeing this all thanks to their occipital lobe.

I wanna be the poet for the know-it-alls
Making metaphors from the trajectory of ping pong balls
Who knows that density is M over V
And the decimal of one third is point repeating three

I wanna write a poem for the literarily inclined
Who turn to Frost and Dickinson to find
The same drama as Desperate Housewives
Who make Styrofoam and saxophones pertain somehow to their lives
For those who say scintillati ng instead of doubleplusgood
And irked instead of irritated
Enthralled instead of fascinated
Proclaimed in lieu of simply “stated”
Deplorable instead of hated
Opaque instead of shaded
The brilliant and jaded
And seldom celebrated for the selves that they’ve created
And the many,
No,
The PLETHORA,
Of lives that they will change.

I wanna write a poem for kids with good grammar.
Who know that if someone asks how you’re doing
How Y-O-U apostrophe to the R-E doing.
You say WELL, thank you
And can differentiate between whom and who
And lie and lay
And which and that
Who never ask the question “where are you AT?”
Because at’s a preposition, we don’t end sentences like that

I wanna write a poem for the kids at MSA
Who when I say BOOMBA
Respond with HEY!
We’re going to rule the freaking world someday
It’s FUN to be brilliant
But schools make it a chore
And I don’t quite know
Who’s being left behind anymore
So here is a poem of appreciation
To the future doctors and teachers and shrinks of our nation
And actors and authors
And computer technicians
And judges and journalists
And pediatricians
Moms dads and professional musicians

Reading is sexy and don’t you forget it
Mediocrity consumes, but not us, we won't let it.
We’re nerds because we strive
Moving this world forward with our inner drive

So I wrote this poem, out of my own fierce pride
For the youth, the world’s future, personified
because it’s scary, but it’s true
The future’s us, you guys

-Written for the 2009 Academy

Republished by Blog Post Promoter

I Swear by Rumi

Rumi - I Swear

I swear, since seeing Your face,
the whole world is fraud and fantasy
The garden is bewildered as to what is leaf
or blossom. The distracted birds
can't distinguish the birdseed from the snare.

A house of love with no limits,
a presence more beautiful than venus or the moon,
a beauty whose image fills the mirror of the heart.

I Swear by Rumi

dreaming I Swear by Rumi

Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Ode to Autumn by John Keats

Ode to Autumn
by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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