WordxWord is an organization based in the Berkshires that celebrates the power of spoken word. This summer, poets and performers were once again together live and in person to share their work.
To celebrate, WordxWord organizers held a three-day festival at Edith Wharton’s home, the Mount in Lenox. One night was dedicated just for women’s voices, including Grace Rossman one of the Co-Curators of WordsxWomen. Here she is performing an excerpt from one of her pieces.
Connecting Point’s Ross Lippman brings you to the Mount for more of WordxWord’s WordsxWomen event.
Read the full transcript:
Zydalis Bauer, Connecting Point: WordxWord is an organization based in the Berkshires that celebrates the power of spoken word.
This summer, poets and performers were once again together, live and in person, to share their work. To celebrate, WordxWord organizers held a three day festival at Edith Wharton’s home, The Mount in Lennox.
One night was dedicated just for women’s voices, including Grace Rossman, one of the co-curators of WordsxWomen. Here she is performing an excerpt from one of her pieces
Grace Rossman, WordxWord Performer:
When the boys played springtime kickball, we watched your buds burst into bloom.
Blossoms like a million tiny, windblown, rosy butterflies
In the twists of our hair, pink glitter, plastic wings paid tribute.
When I held first grade recess forums in your branches, you’d contribute.
From the crook of your elbow, I led second grade summits,
Little troublemakers plotting out our fantasy rebellions.
You knew we’d back out of our walkouts and chicken out at the last second,
but you heard out every scheme and held it close like it was precious.
You said, remember these moments.
You said our protests would change the world someday.
You used to giggle at the dirty jokes I learned from older brother,
And when Tattletale told her dad, told the teacher, told my mother,
it was your forbidden fruit that told my shame to fall like leaves.
A child only seems rotten when a grown up has forgotten what it felt like to be one.
As if we all weren’t seeds once.
Little Girl Police also must have gathered in trees once.
Holding summits, raised a ruckus, buzzed about birds and bees once.
Little Girl Police must have perched like flocks of chickadees, little beaks trying on someone’s older sister’s lipgloss,
contraband changing hands, rosy pigments, stealing glimpses of what they would ripen into.
Learned to bud by budding with you.
You have known years of little fearless, blooming, rabble rousing ringleaders,
One for every ring inside your trunk.
I was just one.
I was just fine.
So many times only you were seen enough to remember that
when you tell a girl she’s a bad apple long enough, she’ll start to smell like one.
Tell her parents to be careful or she’ll spoil the whole bunch
till her own name becomes a sour taste on her tongue.
Your apples taught me that ‘girl’ is not synonymous with sweet.
I am not sorry that I wasn’t bred to be easy to eat.
Your apples taught me that if they don’t like how you taste,
they should stop biting.
As if by growing, we implicitly invited them to pluck.
You taught me **** that.
You taught me no.
You taught me the problem lies not with the apple,
but with a world that tries to swallow all the little women whole.
