read a poem Archives - Page 4 of 7 - ⚡️Kristen Kalp

Posts in "read a poem" Category — Page 4

You come to find your voice by speaking.

You come to find your voice by speaking

Not by planning to speak
or reading transcripts of speeches
or buying courses to make your voice sound best
when you finally open your mouth
at some point in the distant future.

You come to find your voice
by uttering the truest words you have
in any given moment.

I hurt.
I’m struggling.
I can’t.

The first words are the hardest.
You’ve been silent for so long.

I need help.
I want some more.
I’d like to try.

The words grow more precise and powerful.

I need.
I want.
I am.

You’ll waver, here: the world will say
you don’t have the right.

I need, I want, I am.
I need, I want, I am.

By now you’ve come too far to honor any sound
save the steady drumbeat of your own heart.

I am, I am, I am,
and you are, too.

I’ll read this poem aloud to you AND talk the vulnerability of joy, diving deep into your psyche, creating healthy boundaries, and the wisdom of puppies in this interview on the Love, Jo podcast with Joanna Platt.  Go and listen!

For the unsung voices among us.

grandma

In honor of Women’s History Month, a poem for the ones who came before.

Dear Grandma

You never once got to stand on a podium
and make everyone listen. You buried your husband
and your son, and you worked all day every day
until you retired to the old brown chair.
No one was ever weighed down by your opinions
or objections or your voice in the world.

You never once got to stand on a stage
and hear everyone’s ears turning toward you.
You never got to be paid for your work:
shuffling laundry and sons from the dresser to school,
burning a line between the sink and the stove
so deep you couldn’t see your way out.

Your husband married you not out of love
or even something like affection, but because your sister
was already taken, and then you settled down and lived
in the same house on the same plot of land
until the old brown chair got thrown out.
Now you sit in the nursing home asking

Where is he, why doesn’t he pick me up
and take me home. For the first time, everyone listens
and answers carefully — repeatedly, relentlessly —
but you can’t hear the truth. Your voice warbles
around the room and returns to you, confused:
Where are you, why don’t you pick me up and take me home.

P.S. More poems here, or in book form here.

The Uprising.

There is no name for a nation
undoing its moral underpinnings,
freeing itself from the constraints
of the democratic experiment
the same way a woman sighs with such relief
when taking off her bra before bed.

There is no name for the dreams that come after:
drowning, climbing, plummeting to a certain death
and waking to find only faint sunlight
making its way through the window.

There are no maps for this place,
this soft burning that is not hate
but keeps trying to be.

There is no name for the uprising of the human heart.

P.S. 69 more of my poems here.

Invocation

After burning Brand Camp to the ground and taking a multi-month sabbatical, I wrote this as the keystone for beginning again.  Before the website and the sales pages, the plugins and links and SEO, there were only these words.

It’s the prayer/poem I offer for every visitor to this space, and it’s my deepest wish for you today.

Invocation

Help me breathe life into the space
between who I am and who I’m becoming.
Help me transcend the path that is merely obvious
for the one unfolding through the things I can’t not do.
Help me choose to follow those breadcrumbs and in the process
to make something solid in the soul, something lasting,
something holy.

Help us breathe life into the space
between who we are and who we’re becoming.
Help us transcend the path that is merely obvious
for the path calling to us through the things we can’t not do.
Help us choose to follow those breadcrumbs and in the process
to make something solid in the soul, something lasting,
something holy.

P.S.  69 more poems here.

For when it all falls apart.

When it all falls apart,
let it.

Trying to save a brick here
or a scrap of gold there
during the act of tumbling to the ground
doesn’t help and isn’t wise
and probably means you break an arm or a leg
during an acrobatic feat gone wrong.

When it all falls apart,
let it.

And on that morning, long from now,
when you find those three pieces
that have survived,
you’ll see the way they fit together
into some new and necessary
way of being.

When it all falls apart,
let it.

P.S.  More of my poems here.

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