ghost ships, grandmothers, icing on cake — erased narrative

tonight I felt briefly, for the first time, that poetry is dance. spoken word poetry. the expressiveness that is embodied in physicality, carefully emphatic bows of the arms, deliberate fingers drawing gliding shapes in the air, brushing the temple, cupping the ribs, curling into undulating waves against the precipitous cliffs on the coast of ireland.

and the voice is its own rhythm, lilts on her lips.

I’ve never felt for poetry the way I do for prose; too many teachers in stuffy classrooms prompting inane interpretations of line breaks and stressed consonants and the breath a phrase takes as the narrator’s brother rattles a last inhalation in his chest. too many rules drawing lines around the emotion, too many thematic analyses bleaching the colour out of the words, too many lists of technical jargon flattening the paper. but the spoken word sings.

via ghost ships, grandmothers, icing on cake — erased narrative

This was so beautiful, well-put and apt that I decided to share it (My first share! who knew you could repost on WordPress?)

Shout out to erased narrative, one of my favorite bloggers/writers here.

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