The Diva, The Frog, & The Renaissance - Thrilled for Today's @writingproject of Poetic Citizenry with @CWPFairfield

We are welcoming Bishme Sheppard to Project Citizen today, adding the Shep-set brilliance to what the Diva Attallah has brought to us for so many years. Today, his voice is added as we think about language, rhythm, and the magical box (a workshop I've been doing since 1998....and one that never gets old).

I can't wait to see what our youth will do when they are unleashed with the poetic possibilities born from this workshop. They have already proven themselves to be a talented crew with narratives, op-eds, mix-tapes so I look forward to seeing what they birth into the world today with free verse and rhythm.

Meanwhile, modeling the task at hand, here's the poem that I'll highlight today that was written yesterday from the ten items I pulled from my magic box. This is going to be fun (in the day it's supposed to feel like 107 degrees outside).

We Are a Project of Citizens

~Bryan Ripley Crandall

Listen, do you hear me?

    projecting citizenry with my poetry?

         fighting to write what matters, finding symmetry

within my hope, this democracy…

such buoyancy, 

a beauty within diversity

that deserves to be heard, revolutionarily,

these words, my weaponry 

that fights the absurdity of this world.

Just hear us, brilliantly,

the countdown, actually….

1….2….3

where we fight to be free

both rhythmically and patriotically.

With a dance to the dynamite

the Diva deliciously doodles

amongst dragonflies and daffodils, 

workshopping words & wondering, 

apprenticing, imagining, dallying

in the dichotomy of our practice & thoughts 

finding & determining 

ways to be fixed on the page.

This is the renaissance of frogs, our rage,

rebirthing green curiosity,

intellectually, 

with princely, wide-eyed dragon fire & incense intensity

 pond-like, speckled & rubbery, 

burning candles, tongue-tied with serendipity, 

this honey-roasted agility

  of apple tarts, fresh bread and cheese, 

cottage pie, & chamber pots, (oh please)

 in the speckled woods of this imagination

 slimy good, plump hoodies, this explanation

of why we leap towards protest & voice….

(it’s the frog-way…there’s no other choice)

Give the boy a guitar & orchestrate his soul on stage,

morning birds of summer, buttered with barbecued, melodic rage,

mozzarella musicals, an orchestrated basil & tomato opera for the age

vanilla humidity hip-hopped, ice-cold gospels harmonized upon the page,

this is the chorus of our teenage angst, rampage,

with scary pockets, a symphony, performing our outrage upstage,

soul-rapping, swinging, jazz-making singing 

salad of lemonade vegetables, grilled corn & buttered Bishme,

do….re…..me….fa…so…la….te,

Yo! 1….2…..3

Language is so slimy, 

somewhat grimy, greasy, 

guttural, grunting, messy, 

lapping waves within the slippery slurping of moist alphabet soup…

the wooly words pitter-pattering  in prickly porcupine poop

fishing for love against the toxicity of hatred, 

be-bopping & booping, my soul’s fed,

smoothing the feverish and frigid chills from the clammy, bumpy waves.

Language is soothing…it helps me to rant and to rave. 

Just listen, do you hear us?

    projecting citizenry within our poetry

         fighting to write what matters with human symmetry

within our quest heterogeneous democracy…

such buoyancy & beauty within our beautiful diversity

deserving to be heard, 

we’re revolutionary,

with words as our weaponry 

to fight the absurdity of the world.

Yes, we will be heard, hypnotically & brilliantly,

because it’s our countdown, actually….

fighting to be free, with purpose, patriotically.

3…2….

until we’ve won!