There will be someone to find you beautiful.
Despite the cruddy metal. Your ruin is not to be hidden.
Behind paint and canvas. Let them see the cracks.
Someone will come to sing into these spaces.
Their voice will echo off your insides like a second-grader
And her little brother four years younger, two steps ahead.
Singing ‘til the metal vibrates. ‘Til the ghost ship rings.
Sarah Kay’s debut poetry collection “No Matter the Wreckage” is out today! Yay!
Unless you have been living under a rock for the past three years, you probably have heard of Sarah Kay. You may have watched her Ted Talk If I Should Have A Daughter. (All time favorite. Her performance is beyond words)
Sarah Kay is one of my favorite spoken word poets, and when I found out that she was publishing her first collection of poetry I had to pre-order it as soon as it became available.
The book has a total of 62 poems. It combines both old and new poems. Now I can talk all day about how these poems are beautifully written but instead I will share some of my favorite poems from the book hoping that they will convince you to add it to your bookshelf.
The Oak Tree Speaks (you can read the whole text at thrush poetry)
In New York, when a tree dies, nobody mourns that
It was cut down in its prime. Nobody counts the rings,
notifies the loved ones. There are other trees.
We can always squeeze in one more. Mind the tourists.
It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t wanna live there.
You are my favorite stick of dynamite.
You are the opposite of a rubber band.
There are so many things I would tell you
if I thought that you would listen
and so many more you would tell me
if you believed I would understand.
Jellyfish Read it at la lit magazine
And somewhere between then and now irony slipped its way into
my vocabulary. Laughter became the antidote for guilt. Sacrifice grew
to be a Band-Aid for shame. And unnecessary death became the
nightmare that rode me piggyback. Somewhere in between then and
now I learned that every move you make echoes outwards from your
body like ripples on the ocean from a skipping stone. It is what has
taught me that Karma is tangible as the taste of seawater.
Don’t mistake yourself for a guardian.
Or amuse. Or a promise. Or a victim. Or a snack.
You are a woman. Skin and bones. Veins and Nerves. Hair and sweat.
You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies. Not excuses.
Get yourself a copy here.