Tag Archives: Spoken word

Afternoon Thoughts

Standard

I sometimes wish
you would reach across the miles
to somehow smooth over
mountains of wrongdoings
evaporate
oceans of salty tears
and
shine sun rays
on the tropical rainforest of my heart
where the colours just haven’t been as bright
since the day you went away

Again.

But

I remember
how
my fingernails once left bloody crescents on my palms
how
my jaw ached from gritting my teeth until they were broken
how
your empty promises split my skin like the edges of paper
and then
I remember
how much I enjoy sleeping through the night now

But still

I

wish I could hold your hand and giggle once more
wind up at the bottom of another coffee pot together
whisper secrets and promises anew
while writing poems about ghosts that linger in the shadows
I
wish that I was still the one you turned to at 4 AM
wind up choking when I hear your voice
whisper your name to remember the taste of it in my mouth
while writing poems about a love that never made sense to me

Either.

You

pretend that I never happened
only speak my name as a curse
only look my way when time stands still
only hope to keep me broken-hearted
like a child.
But friendships are not like playgrounds
and long after the bell rings
you are going to remember me
if only to sing yourself to sleep
if only to hold yourself when you are lonely
if only to remind yourself of a time when you had a home
and

safety.

Now

I remember your name when I light my Shabbos candles
because no matter what, I still pray that you are blessed
I may not be able to look at the pictures yet
but the memories are never far from my mind
I will always look for you in a crowded room
I will always answer the phone when you call.
My heart will always be full of you.

I will see you in another lifetime
where our history together will be as light as butterfly wings
and we will be together again.

end-of-afternoon-clipart-3

Creative Commons License
This work, “Afternoon Thoughts” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Building Community Through the Arts

Standard

On March 1st, 2017, I will be performing at the Kitchener Public Library at an event called “Building Community Through the Arts”, presented by Wilfrid Laurier University’s Women & Gender Studies’ department. There will be lots of great local artists and juicy community conversation regarding topics related to social justice. Please come out!

Event information can be found here.

community-wordpress

Shiver For Me…

Standard

It’s cold! Every winter, I ask myself why I haven’t left frigid Kitchener-Waterloo, Ontario for the balmy climate of Vancouver, British Columbia…and then I remember that I’m a poet, and I have no money. A gal can dream, though, and those dreams taste mighty sweet since I can remember my trip to Vancouver so clearly.

 

vancouver tree
I may have had an erotic moment with this tree.

vancouver
Commercial Drive with hippies, communists, mountains, and poets!

While I struggle through the season of chillblains (not just for Dickension characters, apparently!), let me catch you up to what I have been busy doing!

In October, the Kitchener-Waterloo Slam Team of 2015 went to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and we placed 5th in the country at the Canadian Festival of Spoken Word! Yeah! We came hard and we beat big name teams like Toronto and Guelph. I’m proud of our team’s work!

wall of bees
Queen B was very impressed with the bee theme on a Saskatoon street corner!

This poem earned me a standing ovation from the audience and some mixed reactions from my colleagues.

 In December, I performed at a fundraiser for Plan B Co-operative KW, a not-for-profit providing queer community spaces and resources for folx in Waterloo Region. It was called “Homo For the Holidays” and featured some amazing hiphop from 8th Iotomic.

In January, I performed at one of my favourite annual events – Cliterature! The show, put on by Shelley Secrett of Secrett Events, is a celebration of wimmin’s sexuality through song, dance, storytelling, poetry, and pretty much anything you can think of. Yes, there are vulva cookies. Anyway, it was a rocking good time with lots of laughter, some tears, a whole lot of kombucha, and a very generous audience.

me cliterature
Pre-show selfie!

carolina miranda photo
It’s showtime! Photo courtesy of Carolina Miranda.

Next up will be a feature in Brantford, Ontario on February 5th, 2016 (it’s an anti-Valentine’s Day slam!) and my super awesome FUNdraiser, Step Up, Speak Out: A Celebration of Resistance, which is happening on February 20th! Come out! Come out and play with me!

Step Up, Speak Out: A Celebration of Resistance

resist
Legal fees? More like BEAGLE FLEAS! hyuck, hyuck, hyuck!

Other than some wicked writer’s block, that’s about all that’s new with me! I’ll leave you with a writing exercise I did today trying to inspire a poem. The task was to create a list of nouns. Here is my list:

figs, dates, earth, brown, calendula, bees, sunflowers, rose petals, bee hives, honey, alchemy, sand glass, robin’s eggs, twigs, marsh, cemetery, wildfire, smoke, barn, nettle, clover, dew drop, bluegrass, socks, trees, paint, clay, rope, anchor, salt, amber, candle, incense, lighter, crystals, ice, snow, apples, coffee, cigars, apothecary jars, beeswax, maps, books, and sextant.

I couldn’t come up with a poem out of all that, but maybe you can! Share and give me some inspiration!

Trees, Bees, and Babies!

Peace and Blessings,

Bethy ❤

Easy

Standard

“You’re so lucky,” they say. “The words come so easily to you.”

Easy.

This poem took me three days to write
and I carved out my insides with a pen like a serrated spoon attacks a grapefruit.

Easy.

The hopscotch jump from bottle to cigarette to coffee to knife drawer…
My every sentence a secret suicide note written in the blood type of ink.

Easy.

Pushing past the hunger in my belly that punches me like a fist,
Convincing myself that if I can only keep writing the desire to eat will fade,
The fear of poverty will evaporate,
That the Universe will move so that my rent will get paid
Just this month…just this month…just this month…

Easy.

Words don’t just “come” to me like a sheepdog bounding towards his human companion –
They are chipped away from each of my bones like ice from a wedding sculpture,
Melting before I can even hold them in my mouth.
Poems do not arrive with grace:
I pull them from me with tweezers and rubbing alcohol like splinters from infected flesh.
When I stand before you with a piece in hand,
I am more propped up than a corpse in a Victorian memento mori photograph,
I’m leaning on a bewildering sense of self-satisfaction that comes from stringing sentences together like patio lanterns.

Easy.

It’s easy not to write another poem.
It’s easy to believe that the new poem will never be as great as the last poem.
It’s easy to believe that words are like bombs and that poems are PTSD flashbacks.
It’s easy to believe that no one reads what you put down on the page and that you will be forgotten.

But the words…
The way the words come…
The way my thoughts manifest into lines for you to read…
Those are anything but

Easy.

signup-easy-sign
Image by Mr Fox Composting

Creative Commons License
This work, “Easy” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

What I Did On My Summer Non-Vacation

Standard

I still remember the first day of Grade Seven so clearly. I was mature. I was womanly. I was wearing a one piece floral jumpsuit with a massive Peter Pan collar. My hair was permed. My braces were blue. Our assignment was to write about what we did on our summer vacation. I concentrated really hard on making my writing small, neat, feminine, orderly…what I perceived “grown up” writing to look like. I was certain that this would be the year that I would blossom into a beautiful maiden that the Phantom of the Opera would love to kidnap and spend eternity with. Or maybe Queen Marlena from He-Man. What can I say? Twelve was a confusing age.

I’ve neglected you, my poor poetry bloggy-blog. My precious blueberries. In the spirit of my Grade Seven perm, please accept this report on my summer’s activities.

In June, I went to Capturing Fire in Washington, D.C., an international queer spoken word summit. This Ontario, Canada gal met a lot of great people and learned the true meaning of the word “humidity”. Cheeses H. Crackers. At one point, I was performing and I was desperately certain that the audience believed I was literally peeing myself because sweat was pouring down my legs like I was an incontinent granny (not yet, suckas! not yet!).

Capturing Fire
It’s not urine, it’s liquid genius. Photograph by Dominic Berry.

While in D.C., I met a fabulous person named Brynn Possible, who has a super cool tumblr called A Guide to Dancing Naked. She saw me perform at a little show named La-Ti-Do, and did a little write up on me, saying some kind things considering I was feeling like a hot mess and in dire need of a venti triple vodka valium mocha latte, with extra whip (and chains). Anyway, you should totally learn to dance naked by reading this uplifting and positive tumblr, as well as check out Brynn’s acting and singing: A Guide To Dancing Naked.

There was no rest for the wicked upon my return: I next performed at The Cherry Park Cherry Festival in Kitchener, Ontario. I must have lived in Kitchener for over a decade before I realized cherries and cherry festivals were a thing…and at one point, I lived three blocks from Cherry Park! But truly, the Cherry Park neighbourhood takes cherries and Cherry Festivals seriously, and rightly so, because their festival is a heck of a good time! My friends on the Kitchener-Waterloo Poetry Slam team also celebrated the harvest onstage with me: Taylor Heywood, Bashar Jabbour, and Oracle Whyz…all amazing artists in their own right, and worth your investigating.

Me at Cherry Park Cherry Festival
But can you *FEEL* it?!

After our performance at The Cherry Park Cherry Festival, the team and I performed at the 10th anniversary of the Latitudes Storytelling Festival, which was held in Victoria Park, in Kitchener.

latitudes
Emoting, you know, like I do.

Then, it was off to Toronto to perform at The Secret Handshake Poetry Reading Series hosted by David Bateman and bill bissett. The show was really beautiful and everyone was so kind…but my favourite part of the day hands-down was watching the geese swim on Lake Ontario with fellow performer (and a true goddess of love) Honey Novick and bill bissett.

secret handshake
Sweatin’ to the Poetries Volume 6. I actually looked gorgeous before I got on the bus, so cram it with walnuts, Buddy!

August was born, and I shlepped to St. Catherine’s, Ontario, to feature at their slam at a lovely cafe, where I had a delicious $10 grilled cheese sandwich. Only $10? No, freaking $10 for a grilled cheese sandwich. Granted, the cheese was from local cows who lived in green pastures, the bread was artisanal, and the sammerich came with a side of organic tomato jelly (read: ketchup). Definitely a long way from the “grilled cheese” of my youth where my sister and I would microwave no-name process “cheese” slices on white bread (definitely not the artisanal kind, either). I had a grand time at the St. Kit’s slam – the people there were so warm and supportive! I laughed a lot, met some new friends, and heard a wide range of poetry.

After a very brief three hours of sleep, I was at the bus station on my way back to Kitchener to perform at a private house party in honour of someone special’s birthday. Gigs with pop and cupcakes are always the best!

A few weeks later, I facilitated a workshop I created called, “An Appetite for Poetry: Exploring Poetry Through Food”. I thought it sounded really sexy and I was super pumped to give it, but only one person showed up. Apparently, everyone was full of poetry that day!

An Appetite For Poetry
Cue sad trombone music.

Suddenly, it was September, and I was performing at the Veritas Cafe, housed in Wilfrid Laurier University, as part of their RadWeek (the version of Orientation Week for people who don’t necessarily want to chant silly songs, run relay races, and whatever else the other kids are doing). I personally love the idea of RadWeek, and I wish it existed when I started at Laurier a trillion, billion years ago.

September 13th, I was back to Toronto, this time to feature at Lizzie Violet’s Cabaret Noir. If you are ever in the Toronto, Ontario area, you should really check this monthly show out. The variety of artists and the powerful love of the audience will have you floating in joy. I could not have had a better time, and I hope Lizzie will have me back some day.

Caberet Noir
Photograph courtesy of Mr. Zed Dulac.

Last, but not least, the slam team and I held our giant fundraiser to help us earn some moolah to get to the Canadian Festival of Spoken Word in Saskatoon this October. It was a hiphop/poetry mashup called “Words on the Beat, Fire on the Mic: Spoken Word & Song”. I don’t want to seem like I am bragging, but this was one hell of a show! The whole team and I did our poetry thing, while we had dC of nSRk, Chris Golden, Rooster the Computer, and our very own Oracle Whyz rock the mic in the hiphop department. I am pretty sure I fell in love with hiphop all over again, which, for me, is a big thing to say, since hiphop and my cats are the longest relationships I’ve ever had. Hiphop and I are fluid bonded.

stefani took this
Photograph courtesy of my bestie, Stefani.

So, in conclusion, my poetry peeps, if you are indeed out there and somehow still reading this, my summer was busy, but fun. I hope that reading my tales of adventure kept you busy until the commercial break ended.

I leave you with a music video of one of my favourite songs played at “Words on the Beat, Fire on the Mic”, called Hands Up, Don’t Shoot by Chris Golden and Oracle Whyz (formally known as YBS Frack).

QueenMarlena_fullsizeimage01
It’s the sword.

Want to play with me on Facebook?

Check out my artist page!

 

~ 4 AM ~

Standard

~4 AM ~

I’m not reading C.R. Avery in the bathtub,
Prostate-exam deep into the middle of the night,
Chainsmoking Djarum Specials because I am depressed.
Really, I’m a big mama burlesque queen holding court in Bubble Kingdom.
Some birds wash for the hell of it.

~ 4 AM ~

I left my heart and my phone charger in Vancouver.
I miss one more than the other.
The mountains were the headboard to our bed,
And the ocean was the wet spot on our sheets.
I really wish I remembered my phone charger.

~ 4 AM ~

There is a piece of mail that I never open.
That last Christmas card you sent me
Sits on top of my stereo between the case for Erykah Badu’s Live
And some seashells from a vacation I never went on.
It’s getting harder to remember the sound of your laughter.

~ 4 AM ~

It scares me that when I die,
No one will notice that I am gone.
Everything that I ever loved will end up in a dumpster.
Flowers will grow through my ribcage.
Tree roots will crack through my pelvis.

~ 4 AM ~

He told everyone that I was too sad.
I didn’t have his cocaine to rub into my love to make my heart numb.
I had confessed I had a fear of abandonment.
He said he would never leave, and it is true.
I still find bits of his lies wherever I go.

~ 4 AM ~

I’ve stopped writing love poems for people who don’t appreciate them.
Instead, in red lipstick on cocktail napkins,
I write “if you park on my street after 2 AM, you will get a ticket.”
It’s not romantic, but neither is a $30 fine at 4 AM.
And let’s face it: nobody is staying for my complementary continental breakfast.

~ 4 AM ~

Dried umbilical cords, resin, old teeth, feathers, and herbs.
Prayers, spells, chants, incantations, dirges, and degrees.
Psalmistry and palmistry.
Someone once asked if I was a good witch or a bad witch.
I said if they ever figured it out to let me know.

~ 4 AM ~

She writes me notes saying that she hopes that I am okay.
I don’t know how to tell her that at 4 AM,
Nothing is okay.
The only thing to look forward to is the contused eye of night
Finally fading into the orange-green bruise of dawn.

 

4-AM
Is this your picture? Please let me know so that I may credit you.

Creative Commons License
This work, “~4 AM~” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Black Light Beauty

Standard

The important thing is not to leave a trace.

I empty the ashtray,
Clean the pipe,
Rinse out the wine glasses.

We touch, but leave no fingerprints.
Our kisses drift off our lips like stray eyelashes in warm, summer breezes.
You always leave after soaping me off your face and hands because I am the scene of your crime,
Your black light beauty,
The reason you flip the mattress and sleep in a t-shirt.

I burn cedar and sage,
Dump out the trash can,
Push bleach around the floor with a mop.

My apartment is tidy,
If you don’t look too closely.
My heart is pure,
Except for the gun powder burns.

It is as if we are never inside each others’ bodies,
Except for the DNA residue.
It takes forensic serology to place us together.

The important thing is not to leave a trace.

forensic evidence

Creative Commons License
This work, “Black Light Beauty” by Beth  is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.