I am honoured beyond all doubt to have spent the last two months preparing for Hullabaloo 2014. Emma Field, Lyle Hendriks, and I, Jamie Fajber, took to the stage intending to pour out all the many, many hours that we have spent writing, practicing and refining our poetry. It is to my great joy that I can say that the Gleneagle team came home with 2nd place in BC!
In every single aspect, credit here goes to our mentor Jacob Gebrewold. It’s hard to take what he has given us and put it into words. He took Emma and I, two novice grade 9 poets who showed maybe a little bit of potential, and turned us into silver medallists in TWO MONTHS. Even more impressive is Lyle, who came so far in just a few weeks, when he had to step up to fill in the gap on our team.
Jacob is miraculous. Without a doubt I can say that I have never met a better role model for all things life than Jacob Gebrewold.
In these recent months, my heart has been expanded to fit new quantities of love for so many people that I have met. Hullabaloo was an incredible experience in every way I could describe it.
Rehabilitation to school has been tough. Sometimes, life after something so perfectly wondrous seems pretty unglamorous.
However, there are things that can help you begin to appreciate it all again.
2) Being excessively intent on school.
3) Sleep loads.
I fully intend to keep on writing and performing poetry. This has blown up more than I could have ever dreamed of, and I want to do nothing more than perform and workshop in classes at Gleneagle, maybe help spread the art form.
On the note of In-Depth night itself – I am going to be performing some pieces of course! I don’t actually need a learning centre. Depending on the time we are allotted, Emma, Lyle and I may or may not conglomerate our time so we can do some team pieces as well as some individual ones; however, if we only get three minutes we will probably stick to individual pieces to showcase everyone.
I will be posting a new poem very soon as well – its in it’s first form but I’d love to get some feedback!
These words will never be recorded – never be transcribed into the annal’s of history, the lament of the one’s chained to doom. I would scream to the very heavens for eternity if I thought for a moment that it would make a difference… this isn’t fair.
I know it’s childish, this fear of death – but I assure you, Camille, I go into God’s hands with my head held high. It is not the act of dying I am afraid of. No, surely not, what I fear is what I am leaving in this world of the living.
This revolution was born from the fruits of OUR LABOURS, Camille, the sweat from our brows and our backs greased the cogs of this machine. We changed the very foundation of France, overthrowing the corrupt monarchy and all we get for it is an early unwanted death. For our services to our country we are rewarded with oblivion.
Oh Camille, what wondrous men we were, what wondrous men we could have been.
Camille, they will surely weep for us. Take some little comfort from that.
I curse you Robespierre.
I curse you Robespierre, such that your soul will never find it’s way into God’s light. I curse you, such that your spirit will be spit out of heaven and you will spend eternity falling, ever falling. Falling, in the way that the wind will rip you from history and your insanity will be dissolved into the air.
I curse you.
We once had, if not brotherhood, at least mutual understanding. We were creating a France that our children would be proud of. I know not when your idealism became madness but I must have failed to see the signs, because I was not prepared for all the murders, and all the terror that you instilled into this country.
Robespierre, you will follow me into dissolution. I will drag you down screaming, and we will fall together.
“Don’t forget to show my head to the people. It’s well worth seeing.”
In the dying light of day the great leader seemed to be rising out of his tomb as much as preparing to descend into it. Never was anything more bold than that great athlete’s countenance, never anything more formidable than the look of that profile which seemed to defy the knife. That great head, even as it was about to fall, appeared to be in the act of dictating laws.
Georges Danton, born on October 26th 1759, and died on April 5th 1794.
Dear Camille Desmoulins,
I write with a fervour – limitless energy flows through my veins, as France is spreading her wings for the first time! Not three months ago today, I wrote you about the revolution that was surely going to begin. Although you agreed with me, when I dared to open my mouth to present my dream I was scoffed at behind closed doors. But I refused to give up hope, and now we are on at the crest of this wave of change. Oh Camille, I feel as though I am poised to strike the killing blow! First we stormed the Bastille and with my new position as Minister of Justice I have the legal means to take action against the King!
Although, not much action will need to be taken – the King has doomed himself. In his Royal foolishness, King Louis XVI was caught fleeing France; we have all the conviction we need to bury him and his legacy and create a new France, a France built on domestic peace, stability and justice for all! I must convince the people that the King must die; he cannot be allowed to become an obstacle to this Revolution.
Camille, our Caveliers clubs has grown to more than we could have ever dreamed of. Our organization has become one of the premier places of discussion in all of Paris. Along with the Jacobin’s club, we are the most powerful political society in the city.
Ah, the Jacobin’s club. My friend, I beg of you, be cautious around Maximilien Robespierre. He is a silver tongued serpent that has wove his way into our ranks. He speaks of great things but he masks his true desire – to burn all of our heritage and re-establish all of France’s Institutions in line with his own likings. It is admirable to hope for a France based on pure moral virtue, but it is unfortunately drastically unrealistic, and his radicalism is unsettling. Treat him with great discretion.
Camille, I promise to write again soon. You are my visionary brother.
Poetry can be defined in many ways: self expression through words, or using the figurative to bring light to the literal.
I choose to define it differently. Poetry, to me, is the crossroads between what is real and what is abstract. Bending reality into twisted words that can wrap up the listener and deposit them in a mirrored maze… it is a thing of beauty.
Poetry can be used to disguise and mutate simple truths to have greater impact on others; whats fascinating about poetry is that it works on yourself too.
Recently late nights have become one of the constants in my life. Poetry is the tool I use to forget that: yes, next week is going to be hard, and pretend that: yes, next week is going to be what I want to do. Fake it until you become it – a powerful mantra indeed.
When do lies you tell yourself become your truths? I hope it happens quickly. Hmmm. Maybe poetry is the answer to transmuting my mistakes to answers… certainly, poetry has been the answer to many things in my life it feels.
Poetry has become a release – when my emotions run fast like raging currents, poetry is the waterfall that drops them into a tranquil pool.
Poetry has become an escape – when tragedy strikes, it is my crutch. These past few days, I have needed that crutch a little more than usual.
Poetry has become the reward – when the work piles up hard in a week and I find myself bouncing between all the cogs of my machine; poetry is the emergency lever that stops the cogs spinning for a moment so I can just reset.
Funny, how poetry has so quickly become something I sacrifice for.
Tonight, the midnight oil burns bright. The stereotypical poet inside me yearns for me to stay up late, late into the twilight hours so as to gain more writing inspiration… the boy/man who wants to keep the promises I made to myself keeps saying “stay up, finish your commitments…” but Jamie wants to sleep.
Hmm. My muse says this is interesting writing material.
That would be an interesting piece, right? Sleeping? Does it really matter? Or should I sacrifice it to the teenage gods of procrastination and overestimation of self-capabilities…
Does this even make sense?
Is this even an In-Depth post?
But it could be defined as poetry!
10/10. I see it in my dreams.
Goodnight to anyone reading this as late at night as I wrote it. And please, please, please, keep on sleeping.
Before continuing, please find a passing minstrel to sing this.
To Camille Desmoulins,
The midnight-oil burns quickly these nights.
I am no stranger to writing; indeed, as an Advocate for the people in France I am often found penning various legal pleas. Recently, however, my wrist has grown weary. Too many people are crying out in the dark – crying out to be heard in a country where no one is listening. In the Cordeliers District, my home, my child’s home, the last place in France where liberty has not yet been violated; the streets have filled up with the wretched faster that I could have imagined. I pride myself on giving a voice to those who cannot speak; however, in the past month I have not been able to make a dent in the ever growing list of the needy. I must do more to help the people. When my beautiful France has become a battleground between starvation and altruism, I know that I must act.
Camille Desmoulins, my dear, dear friend. You spoke of a France where the Monarchy is not irreconcilably hostile to freedom, where the Monarchy is elected by the people and for the people. As children we spoke of this, but now, my friend, this needs to become a reality. We can make a radical change. It starts with us; we will be the spark that will ignite the Revolution! We speak of a transformation; I say it is upon us! Let the winds of change fan the flames as to consume the corrupt bureaucracy that has been in power far too long!
These nights I stay up deep into the witching hour; writing letters, drafting documents and bringing people together. Camille, I propose that we form a society of like-minded individuals. Every change starts with a few, but we need to take action and that means we need people that can help. Together we can make a difference.
And Camille, we are not the only ones that are beginning to grow weary of the inaction. Have you had the chance to peruse the “Petition of Women of the Third Estate to the King?” Women from all over France wrote this, my friend –
The women of the Third Estate are almost all born without wealth; their education is very neglected or very defective: it consists in their being sent to school with a teacher who himself does not know the first word of the language [Latin] he teaches. They continue to go there until they can read the service of the Mass in French and Vespers in Latin. Having fulfilled the first duties of religion, they are taught to work; having reached the age of fifteen or sixteen, they can earn five or six sous a day. If nature has refused them beauty they get married, without a dowry, to unfortunate artisans; lead aimless, difficult lives stuck in the provinces; and give birth to children they are incapable of raising. If, on the contrary, they are born pretty, without breeding, without principles, with no idea of morals, they become the prey of the first seducer, commit a first sin, come to Paris to bury their shame, end by losing it altogether, and die victims of dissolute ways.
Do you see, Camille! The time to strike is now!
I have a dream for a new France, my friend, and I am now of the opinion that our vision for this magnificent nation has become more than a pipe dream.
My fondest hope is that one day I will see it with my own eyes – and this day is coming, I promise you.
Three weeks today, Emma, Lyle and I, will be taking to the stage in Vancouver for the Youth Provincial Poetry Slam, Hullabaloo!
This is crunch time: where everyone is trying to write new poetry; workshop the delivery of the poetry; and then obsess about it incessantly. The team has been meeting up with Jacob (our mentor) twice weekly for the past few weeks, and as we get closer to Hullabaloo that frequency may even increase further.
Mentoring sessions with Jacob are a fascinating thing; it’d be interesting to record a session and then watch it later for reflective purposes. We discuss poetry first and foremost, but somehow all sorts of thing get jumbled in – business, philosophy, teaching, interpersonal skills, to name a few – Jacob passes on a lot of knowledge and wisdom in a very short amount of time. He also is completely shameless (in the best way). On the Sunday before school started back up, we met up at the Starbucks near Chapters at 7:30 in the morning. Upon Emma, Lyle and I professing we were still a little sleepy, he brought us out to the empty parking lot, and proceeded to force us all to run suicides.
Not my preferred morning wake-up call, but it was definitely effective.
Speaking of waking up: I would like to share something really wonderful with the world. It is a phrase, coined by Ms. Britta B (check her out on Twitter!), that you say every morning.
“My, my, my… what a day to be alive.”
The beautiful thing about this phrase is that you say it as angry as you feel, or as tranquil as you feel…
“MY MY MY WHAT A DAY TO BE ALIVEEEEEEEEE!”
Or as happy as you feel.
Now this concludes the reflection portion of this post… however if you stick around for a little while longer, I would love it if you wanted to offer any sort of feedback on a poem that I have written. It is titled “Rainbows and Forgiveness” and it explores the idea that parents need not be together, but for the sake of the child, reconciliation is important.
I recommend you reading out loud, but the choice is 100% yours. Again, any feedback is appreciated.
Rainbows and Forgiveness
I am the most illustrious dichotomy there has ever been
a never ending bending phenomenon
my mom and dad named me roy
roy means red in gaelic
but for me roy has always stood for red orange and yellow
I am the perennial hello to faces pressed against rain streaked windows
made from two parents that individually represent the greeting to a new day
and the beauty of washing away and starting anew
since birth I have been made up of colours
and both of you, my progenitors from separate planets
need to see my light
because I know you can’t be near each other anymore
but I am not complete when you are driven apart
of the colours I am made of
blue is what I see in you dad
despite taking up two thirds of planet earth
you are smooth cool calm
simultaneously synchronized disparity and perfect tranquillity you have the capability
to be quiet
as an empty home or so loud it
feels I’m burning up at the edges
but you put me out before I catch aflame
I see myself in you easier than I see myself in a mirror
and so I can see you are scared: you hide mom away from me like she’ll shine the light on all your insecurities
and I’ll give away my love for you
I don’t believe in impossibilities but i do believe in exceptions
I am the immaculate conception between two primal forces
you gotta trust me when I say that if you make a leap of faith here I’ll catch you
when you are without mom you are always falling its hard to be brave when you’re always falling
rain is funny that way
but when you are with mom you are lighter than air
you fly upward
and maybe for a moment you can have a silent staring contest
you always break first
of the colours I am made of
you are yellow rays burnt red bright fire dire wrath
larger than life
you have never met me but your influence continues to shape me
everything turns around you
and despite the light that blinds you
you dare to give life a chance over and over again after all the mistakes
so please give dad a chance even after all the mistakes
mankind have an expression “to err is human, but to forgive is divine”
and as the greatest celestial being I know I have to assume that you will follow your own nature
of the colours I am made of
you mom and you dad represent pieces of me
fragmented possibilities of what i could be
mom yellow and red
Your mere reconciliation brings new colour
into everything I am and everyone I touch
orange green indigo violet
of the colours I am made of
you represent the separate parts that are less than half of what was meant to be my destiny
I don’t ask for you to be together
only to put this beneath us
so we can go up, somewhere over the rainbow that I am
and see the joy that I can bring
when a family can overcome the tragedy of completely separate natures
at least, every once in a little while
you named me Roy G Biv
in French, it means regal
and so to live up to my name I promise
I do not blame anything upon you
I have an irrepayable debt to you, my parents
that will never be fulfilled
but… if I was born to be the most illustrious dichotomy
an apology, or a moment of generosity,
or a spoken-out loud affirmation that yes there was animosity but paradoxically
the sun chilled out
or the rain dried up any leftover tears
I the rainbow
would be the most proud son of the sun, there has ever been
(Thanks to Mr. Albright for giving an interesting idea about taking turns in a poem – it really helped this piece!)