Very few artists can' express their hearts and minds as honestly and eloquently as this. Even owning her tendency to rush - which is the only thing I found a tad unsettling in her presentation. But what an amazing talent she has to conjure up images of beauty, sadness & yearning with such Joi de Vivre! Thank God for her.
Oh man, Sarah Kay is so amazing. I am so jealous of everyone who's seen her live, if hearing her on video can have this effect on me imagine how magical being in the audience would be!
like tea with a cool breeze that moves free and swoops leaves and soon speaks a......poem something like that i guess if i could just say it right though
she reminds me of me this is why i love just talking to random people to share view and prospective .... i do this a lot at school my frends say im engaged but im just interested in u because hearing ur story kinda makes me live u life just for an instant in time
It's been 3 years since I saw this first. Stumbled upon this video by chance and every word she said ringed like I watched it yesterday. I can't help but smile. Looking back, I realized this was the foundation for my poetry, for my love of the arts, for appreciating life's most simplest beauties.
It didn’t always work this way. There was a time you had to get your hands dirty, When you were in the dark for most of it, fumbling was a given. If you needed more contrast, more saturation- darker darks and brighter brights- they called it extended development. It meant you spent longer inhaling chemicals, longer up to your wrists. It wasn’t always easy. Grandpa Steward was a Navy photographer. Young, red-faced, with his sleeves rolled up. Fists of fingers like fat rolls of coins, He looked like Popeye the Sailor Man come to life. Crooked smile, tuft of chest hair, He showed up to World War II with a smirk and a hobby. When they asked him if he knew much about photography, he lied. Learned to read Europe like a map, upside down from the height of a fighter plane. Camera snapping, eyelids flapping, The darkest darks, and brightest brights, He learned war like he could read his way home. When other mean returned, they put their weapons out to rust, But he brought the lenses and the cameras home with him. Opened a shop. Turned it into a family affair. My father was born into this world of black and white. His basketball hands learned the tiny clicks and slides of lens into frame, Film into camera, Chemical into plastic bin. His father knew the equipment, but not the art. He knew the darks, but not the brights. My father learned the magic, spent his time following light. Once he travelled across the country to follow a forest fire. Hunted it with his camera for a week. Follow the light, he said. Follow the light. There are parts of me I only recognize from photographs. The loft on Wooster Street, with the creaky hallways, The twelve-foot ceilings, white walls and cold floors. This was my mother’s home. Before she was mother, before she was wife, she was artist. And the only two rooms in the house with walls that reached all the way up to the ceiling And doors that opened and closed Were the bathroom and the darkroom. The darkroom she built herself, With custom-made stainless steel sinks, An 8x10 bed enlarger that moved up and down by a giant hand-crank, A bank of color-balanced lights, A white glass wall for viewing prints, A drying rack that moved in and out from the wall. My mother built herself a darkroom. Made it her home. Fell in love with a man with basketball hands, With the way he looked at light. They got married, had a baby, moved to a house near a park. But they kept the loft on Wooster Street for birthday parties and treasure hunts. The baby tipped the greyscale, Filled her parents’ photo albums with red balloons and yellow icing. The baby grew into a girl without freckles, With a crooked smile, Who didn’t understand why her friends did not have darkrooms in their houses, Who never saw her parents kiss, Who never saw them hold hands. But one day another baby showed up - This one with perfect straight hair and bubblegum cheeks - They named him Sweet Potato and when he laughed, He laughed so loudly he scared the pigeons on the fire escape. And the four of them lived in that house near the park: The Girl With No Freckles, the Sweet Potato Boy, The Basketball Father, and Darkroom Mother, And they lit their candles and said their prayers And the corners of the photographs curled. One day some towers fell. And the house near the park became a house under ash, So they escaped in backpacks, on bicycles, to darkrooms. But the loft on Wooster Street was built for an artist, Not a family of pigeons. And walls that do not reach the ceiling do not hold in the yelling. And the man with the basketball hands put his weapons out to rust. He could not fight this war, and no maps pointed home. His hands no longer fit his camera, No longer fit his wife’s, No longer fit his body. The Sweet Potato Boy mashed his fists into his mouth until he had nothing more to say, So the Girl Without Freckles went treasure-hunting on her own. And on Wooster Street, In the building with the creaky hallways, In the loft with the twelve-foot ceilings, And the darkroom with too many sinks, Under the color-balanced lights, She found a note tacked to the wall with a thumbtack, Left over from a time before towers From a time before babies. And the note said, “A guy sure loves a girl who works in the darkroom.” It was a year before my father picked up a camera again. His first time out, He followed the Christmas lights dotting their way through New York City’s trees - Tiny dots of light blinking out at him from out of the darkest darks. A year later, he travelled across the country to follow a forest fire. Stayed for a week hunting it with his camera. It was ravaging the west coast, Eating eighteen-wheeler trucks in its stride. On the other side of the country, I went to class And wrote a poem in the margins of my notebook. We have both learned the art of capture. Maybe we are learning the art of embracing. Maybe we are learning the art of letting go.
Honestly the first time i watched her, it became hard for me to listen to others. It's just, the way she delivers her poetry is so relaxing while everyone kinda shouts at some point. I just-- gosh im obsessed
Sarah Kay once again has inspired me to write a poem. Now I've got another one poem of my own after watching this. YAY! Thank you so much for this lady.
I see the moon. The moon sees me. The moon sees somebody that I don't see. God bless the moon, and god bless me, and god bless the somebody I don't see. If i get to heaven, before you do, I'll make a hole, and pull you through, and I'll write your name on every star and that way the world won't seem so far.
I first saw this poem my sophomore year. I've loved spoken word for so long now that I forgot this one even existed. It's still so beautiful it makes me want to cry.
The song she first sang is the only song my dad knows in English its become my favorite so that when he has left me I have more than just his guitar and his music written down from when Mexico was his home. I will have the music sung to me when I was a baby and I love my dad . I try to remember all the songs he sings and his voice was intoxicating to me it was relaxing and makes me happy when I sit on the edge of my couch singing in Spanish the songs I love with him while he played his guitar. This is the only way I could find this song
Absolutely loved the main bit. Sarah Kay is an amazing poetry teller. She breathes life and meaning into her pieces and I can't help but be captivated by her and her words.
"Although some use stories as entertainment alone, tales are, in their oldest sense, a healing art. Some are called to this healing art; and the best, to my lights, are those who have lain with the story and found all its matching parts inside themselves and at depth. In the best tellers I know, the stories grow out of their lives like roots grow a tree. The stories have grown them into who they are. " - Clarissa Pinkola Estes Sarah Kay is a healing poet, obviously.
I wish I could tell a story like that - the way she forms the words and leave things unsaid, the way she speeds up and slows down at the right moments and describes just enough to inform you , but not enough for you to feel satisfied- but desperatly craving for more! Fantastic!
I just stumbled across Sarah Kay while searching for something else...I honestly thought this form of story telling was a dying breed, but I could not have been more wrong. I am so happy to have found her videos, perfect entertainment on this rainy day. This poem gave me absolutely cold chills. Love it.
When I listen to you I get lost in my own thoughts sometimes I pause the video to complete my thought and sometimes I forget to pause. My thoughts are like screams of crying baby hungry to be heard.
I'm very impressed with this young ladies art of presentation, her story telling skills are almost without equal.Long may she continue to be thus and carry on entertaining us.
you provide so much inspiration to a once hopeless soul! i too wanted to take on every career known to man. when i realized it was impossible, interrogating others about their lives was the closest thing i could get to having different lives. i want to maximize my experience on this earth. i want to be a quilted blanket. and have all my experienced with diveresed individuals sewn into one masterpiece.
We Are ONE I reminisced of a time long ago when I was only twenty years old. I was studying English 101 at the University Of British Columbia in the summer of Eighty-Four. It was at a summer session because I had failed English 101 two years before. A failure due more to my citizenship in a different realm than to the failings of my intellect, aptitude, or the magnanimity of my core. “You have such a poignant and evocative writing style,” wrote my teacher on the short story I had submitted the week before. I had written about a lonely sojourn on a desolate beach in the pregnant moment, When sunset injures day's abandon and grants night the freedom to roam. I had written about the mighty North Shore mountains, Hoary with age and reverberating with an energy ineffable to the mind, But savoured by the soul. I remembered how exhausting of mind, but above all of the soul, writing that short-story had been. I tried to reveal my spirit bare and exposed. I tried to destroy the ramparts and blow open the heavy gates shielding my secretive core. But through my exhausting efforts, I had only succeeded in weakening the facade between me and the world, Usually held at arm's length, But through my story then, only slightly nearer yet still remote. There is an essence within everyone hidden in a chamber far beneath the veneer that encrusts our core. We seldom allow it expression beyond just its fractured shadows dancing on an external wall. But if we all dig deep and reach into this secretive chamber, We will, to our astonishment, discover we are all reaching into the same chamber, Not a separate one for each within the all. And then we will grasp each other's same-hand. We all share the same soul. I knew that in the novel of my compulsion I would have to expose this chamber, Ramparts and heavy gates destroyed once and for all. And my novel would then cry out from this collective chamber, And speak for my left and for my right with one voice for all. It would be the ineffable ground of being reaching out to humanity from the navel of Creation, Proclaiming the dawn of a Third Age. It would announce the sunset of the Second Age before this coming dawn. A moment pregnant with change that will forever be remembered in the annals of the Civilization of Man. It would herald a paradigm shift far greater than the Renaissance, Not just an age of reason, but of reason and divinity intertwined as an inseparable whole. I envision the Third Age to be promoting the two primordial dancers, The abstract magical and the other its complementary whole. To engage in the Dance and thence unshard into the Eternal Garden from whence we all came forth. They are in Eternity entwined but sharded into the realms of space and time. They are shards of the divine. Would composing such a novel be an arduous journey, Exhausting my body and above all my core? Would I be as a drowning man, Gasping for breath, Kicking and screaming while with futility grasping for shore? But would every paragraph and page exhaust me, Yet also leave me yearning for more? It would, I am sure. This arduous compulsion will also uplift and invigorate me with waves of catharsis and frisson. And I pray dearly for the same in my reader, of soul-piercing joy. If I fail to evoke the same in my audience then I would have failed to breach the ramparts and the gates shielding my innermost chamber, Our collective soul. Only within this innermost shared sanctum can I truly touch someone's soul. And by touching one, I will be touching them all.
I had planned to study the entire night, i swear i had but it is now 3am and I have not even opened my book. I HAVE AN AXAM TO STUDY FOR. I need to stop... but I can't.
when I was 16, this gave me the words for so many emotions I did not have the words for. I broke down in tears at the time. It gave me everything to be inspired for the entirety of my life. I am forever thankful to you sarah. you did the damn thing. and I hope to one day do the same. thanks dude
For those who are turned off by the beginning, please be patient for this one. Her speaking is much better than her singing. Excellent talk that's worth waiting for.
sarah, i thought i would get to do everything too. but i learned that as long as you can find one thing you love and get it to get one person to learn something or think differently, even for a brief moment, it becomes your everything,
You have very beautiful eyes reminiscent of innocence, childhood and your voice can easily calm a crying baby and lull him to sleep. I watched some of your poetry and I'm glad that my time was well spent and my heart is happy to have known your existence. Love to you
WOW! Beauty in All Respects! You are blessed, Sarah Kay, and you bless us with your being. (just remember to not let it go to your head, that would be such a shame...)
"We have both learned the art of capture. Maybe, we are learning the art of embracing. Maybe, we are learning the art of letting go." So spot on, so personal and so painful. :(
it is nice to hear someone speak about discovering the soul and the benifits that come from following it. princess ballerina astronaut is what should all aspire to, quick before its too late
ProjectVoice's work helped me out of a several years long funk. Now, I am a cynic by nature (at least, so I have become). The influence of humanism (as defined by psychology) upon Sarah Kay's works makes them far from my preferred style. So, when I say that her passion made me realize just how much I can accomplish with using my verbal talents instead of compulsively poring over concepts and twisting myself into knots. well, it shows how strongly I feel you need to listen to her and Phil.
