Spoken Word: Amanda Oak

>> Friday, March 11, 2011

This beautiful spoken word video from Amanda at "Kind Over Matter"
Simply gorgeous~

Sunday Worship : Bending like Photographs from Kind Over Matter on Vimeo.

From Amandas blog: A little back story on the poem : I wrote it back in 2006. When the casualties of the Iraqi War were spiking. When Bush was obviously still in power. When I was in a long distance relationship. He was living in Philadelphia & I was living across the state, where we reside now, near Pittsburgh. We would meet every other weekend almost halfway, at a hotel & spend the weekend together. I wrote this in a rush, after one of those weekends. It came from the deepest parts of my heart. Thank you so much for listening/reading & being so open to me sharing these bits of myself with you.
sunday worship, bending like photographs
the women in my family were taught
to bury their tears in the bathroom,

usually under the shower spigot 

that behaves like a broom sweeping 

the pieces of our splintered hearts
down the drain because 

from a distance & without sound 

the involuntary contraction of the
voice box, the bending & bowing
of the upper-body can easily be
mistaken for laughter
the mouthful of air that gets wedged 

in your windpipe & your lachrymal
glands like clouds creating a slick track 

for your mind-set to slide downward 

are secrets to soft to share when the sun 

is nowhere in sight to soak up the trickle
before it runs rapid sailing toward the edge 

of your waterfall chin


yesterday morning, in bed, my lover & i,

our awareness of concern was almost
as absent as our irish & indian bloodlines,
thin like the light coming through the tiny 

imperfections in the drapes standing 

as bodyguards, protecting us from the 

outside world, our relations, acquaintances, 

the war pounding so hard on the heavy hotel
door is easily ignored but never all together

forgotten, while we rested our love on cheap 

cotton sheets, some are forced to lie in blood
we are caught in a tearless generation, our

wet looseness was rubbed out with the industrial 

revolution, the screeching of gears replaced
the outward cry of communal emotion & we

have yet to make our way back, we run around

our pain like it's a christmas tree, sit around it,

decorate it, photograph it, but never climb 

up in it, sometimes the weight of decision 

stretches its self so far out across my shoulders

that i can barely even move, i just march

back & forth like the misguided minds

that run this godforsaken nation

our sunday morning was not spent stiff

in a church under the scrutiny of the
religious right with their flashbulb eyes
flickering against every one of their sins 

because we
were in bed,
bodies bending like photographs,

learning what revolutions 

are supposed to be 

fought for


& that pleasure 

is just as infectious
as tears or laughter 

but it takes a whole lot of strength 

to carry any one of them out

alone

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