poetry

poetry

And Soul: A Poem Recited By Bailey Garb

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Bailey Garb is fifteen from Chicago Il. In addition to her small form and red hair, she is a monster swimmer and an intern at the Institute of Politics. Also, she recites poetry! She won second in her district this year for reciting And Soul by: Evan Boland. Writing, reciting, and listening to poetry is a healthy way to face grief. Simply writing a quick poem alone before you go to sleep can make all the difference. If you are interested in poetry, see below for several competitions you can get involved in! For Writing; Teen Ink: http://www.teenink.com/Contests/PoetryC.php For Reciting (Slam); Louder Than A Bomb: http://www.wbez.org/series/louder-bomb For Reciting (Classical); Poetry Out Loud (POL): http://www.poetryoutloud.org Be sure to find out about opportunities to write and recite poetry in school! Many of the options above are held in school clubs. These are great programs, however there are many more. The Transcript of And Soul is below. Taken from: http://www.poetryoutloud.org/poem/180327. My mother died one summer— the wettest in the records of the state. Crops rotted in the west. Checked tablecloths dissolved in back gardens. Empty deck chairs collected rain. As I took my way to her through traffic, through lilacs dripping blackly behind houses and on curbsides, to pay her the last tribute of a daughter, I thought of something I remembered I heard once, that the body is, or is said to be, almost all water and as I turned southward, that ours is a city of it, one in which every single day the elements begin a journey towards each other that will never, given our weather, fail— the ocean visible in the edges cut by it, cloud color reaching into air, the Liffey storing one and summoning the other, salt greeting the lack of it at the North Wall and, as if that wasn't enough, all of it ending up almost every evening inside our speech— coast canal ocean river stream and now mother and I drove on and although the mind is unreliable in grief, at the next cloudburst it almost seemed they could be shades of each other, the way the body is of every one of them and now they were on the move again—fog into mist, mist into sea spray and both into the oily glaze that lay on the railings of the house she was dying in as I went inside.