"Ode to the Spoken Word Poem", Max Pasakorn
This is for the poem that didn’t want to attend Literature class,
the one that never raised her hand unless asked for directly.
She, the rabble-rowzer, razzle-dazzle teenager, the sore thumb
in an otherwise introverted classroom. The one who would ace
Oral. And only Oral, so she’d still get a C+ for English, but a D
for everything else. This is for the poem that somehow got streamed
N(A) and started breaking down because her family always taught her:
“N(A) means not applicable!” This is for the poem that struggled to get
to Poly and only flourished then because her presentation skills
had been honed for years and years sitting in the audience of a poetry slam.
This is for the poem that aced that job interview with flying colours,
got the gig at a bar, to only have the bar closed down because she
was too rowdy, just like the many other noisy poems out there.
This is for the poem that never thought she could make it as an artist
and started busking the streets, giving out her words at street-corners
only to be turned down by all busy office workers. This is for the poem
that found a nine-to-six in a dreary office in the end, learning to slouch
like it meant defeat. This is for the poem that learned hierarchical structure
is an unfortunate circumstance of being a poem, so she runs her own shows
outside, rushing words into microphones, ventilating every room she is in.
This is for the poem that nobody thought would make it anywhere in her life.
This is for the poem that did.