Poetry Rocks... and so does The Recipe

I was amazed by the spoken word artists I heard just a few days ago in Vancouver. The Recipe, as they are called, are based out of Ottawa, and these guys are not only phenomenal poets and performers, but the messages and the purpose behind sharing their words is touching and inspiring. They spread creativity, truth, acceptance and love. I went from laughter in one of their pieces to tears in another. I feel so lucky to have caught them while they were here.

To give you a taste of the powerful pieces these guys come up with, here's one of my favorites by one of their members- Brandon Wint. It's called "Poetry Rocks". If you get a chance to see these guys live, don't miss out on it. They are out of this world!


Poetry Rocks

I picture myself after a show or a slam
being approached by humble sisters saying,
"Brandon, your poetry rocks,"
to which I say, "Sister, it should,
because sometimes,
I feel like I'm carrying the weight of a boulder.
And every heart-felt word
that I push past these lips
is just a fragment of the chip that I've let sit
on these shoulders."

And I've sat between what feels like
a rock and a hard place long enough
that you need not be shocked when sometimes,
the weight of these words hits you like a rock to the heart.

I'm just trying to create something beautiful
for every time my heart's been rocked.
So I sit with a chisel
trying to etch out a humble existence for myself,
trying to carve a statue out of the words I have left,
just to create a lasting picture of myself.

I need a monument of all the beautiful things I've ever seen
to remind me that I'm still alive,
even when I feel like I'm closer to dying.
-a statue that can give myself a smile
that is literally etched in the element of time,
for the times when I feel like my time
is better spent crying.

I was told I should write all my memories of love in stone
and write the relics of my pain in the sand
so that my love is timeless
but my pain washes away with the wind.
So I do.
-writing poems into the side of mountains
with the wave of my hand,
and in the emotional rubble
of trying to chip away at my past,
all I'm left with are rocks,

-like my mother,
who's been the rock I've leaned on.
She, who loved me enough to rock me to sleep,
who may have never loved herself enough
to stay awake to her own capacity to dream.

Rocks, like my father,
who is tired of pushing the boulder of his childhood uphill,
pushing himself against the belief
that his father didn't know how to love him.
So he's pushing to be a better father
than his father could have been.
As his son pushes to love everyone,
but isn't always sure what love is.
A son, Brandon Wint, who loves his father
but has struggled not to judge him
because Brandon too lives in a glass house,
wanting to let all the sun in.

But Brandon hasn't grown up enough to know
how not to shun him.
Some struggles like father struggles
so it's hard to know what the sun is.
And in the absence of certain sun,
all son sees sometimes is darkness.

I, son, want to keep carrying these rocks,
'til they turn into pebbles
-pebbles I can carry in my pocket
and place at my feet
as I'm walking through the shadows of my past.

One day, I want to be able to look at my light pockets
and be able to laugh.
But until then, I want these words to be propelled by a breath
as soft as a summer's breeze.
I want that wind to give rise to more than lofty words
but give true loft to these human wings,
so that when I'm flying high,
over top of all the rocks that used to be in my way,
I'll know exactly what to say when that same sister says,
"Brandon, your poetry rocks.
And your words hold enough weight
to make mountains give way."
I'll say, "Sister, they should,
because a mountain is just a pile of rocks, anyway."

© by Brandon Wint- from The Recipe