Poetry slam founder Marc Kelly Smith at the mic at the Green Mill. |
Ok,
here I go exploring terra incognita. It’s time for me to man-up and admit that
I know nothing about one of the most vibrant aspects of contemporary poetry—and
one of the most popular. I am talking
about the alternative universe of urban
performance poetry as displayed in its natural habitat—the poetry slam. Just admitting my ignorance is evidence of my
geezerish un-hipness.
Although
this form has well established roots in the coffee house readings of the Beats,
spoken word performance art, early hip-hop
street rap battles, it was born
at Chicago’s Get Me High jazz club in
1985—the same year I decamped the Windy
City for the howling wilderness of McHenry
County. I can tell myself that had I
stayed, I surely would have ventured the experience. It was organized by Marc Kelly Smith, a construction worker and poet who wanted to
inject some excitement into existing poetry open mics. The next year his
weekly event transferred to the venerable Green
Mill where the Uptown Poetry Slam
was officially born. And it was a
sensation.
The
form established by Smith a/k/a slampapi
has literally spread around the world.
The slam is a contest. Although
there is frequently a featured poet performing, others sign up with the host to
get strict 3 minute shots. They are
judged by a panel of five audience volunteers rating each poet on a scale of 1
to 10 in the old style of Olympic figure skating judging, high and low
scores are thrown out. Poets must be the
author of their pieces, cannot use props, costumes or instruments. They are judged on both the poem and the
performance. The audience is encouraged
to participate by cheering or booing. If
enough poets perform, there may be second or third rounds after eliminations.
Audiences
have been compared to those at professional
wrestling matches and roller derby. A poetry slam is no place for a shy English professor, the re-incarnation
of Emily Dickinson, or the earnest,
matronly ladies who spend their creative lives imitating greeting card verse. Folks
of those types have occasionally dared the stages. What happened to them was merciless.
Slam
poetry actually takes the art form back to its earliest days around camp fires—oral tradtition. The poem is inseparable from the performance
which must be in some way dramatic, comedic, scary, threatening, or cathartic.
Such
an art form is, by definition, ephemeral. Most of the performed poems never see the
printed page, or are preserved electronically on the intertubes. Even devoted audience
members may not be able to recall the poem/performance that blew them off their
bar stools five years ago.
So
how was I to proceed in finding some examples?
Good ol’ Google revealed that
there are slam poetry sites where some work is preserved, and some contestants
maintain their own web sites. A few have
even made the leap to the printed page.
Here
are three that my inexhaustive search turned up and which struck me as very
good indeed. Of course the poets
themselves would remind you that what you read here is a poor substitute for
hearing them performed live.
Here
is one by the founder of the slam, Marc Kelly Smith, who continues to host the
famous Green Mill sessions. He is, by
the way the same age as I am—65—which makes me doubly ashamed of my unhipness.
I Wanted to Be
I wanted to be
so many things.
Bigger than I
was.
A tall tower of
building blocks.
A shoelace tied
so fast.
Jelly spread
smoothly
to the corners
of the bread.
I wanted to be
so good.
A smile on
everyone’s face.
Folded hands. A
clean desk.
All the numbers
added up
digit under
digit
perfectly clear.
I wanted to
stand between the bully
and the frail
kid.
Ready to take
it. Ready to give it back.
I wanted to do
the right things.
Pull the spit
back into my mouth.
Scrape the
gum-chewed secrets
off the bottoms
of the chairs.
Drag the dumb,
go-along laughs
out of the air.
I wanted to
stand on an asteroid
whirling a
mighty chain above my head,
flinging an
outer space hook probe
into the heart
of the Universe.
And by loving…
Whatever I
wanted to love.
When I wanted to
love.
How I wanted to
love…
I wanted to grapple
the Ultimate Connection.
So what
happened?
What happened
during that great revolution?
After we pinned
our daddies to the floor?
After we made
our mothers eat shame?
After we rolled
all antiquity and tradition
into cigar size
joints,
Sucking in whole
rooms of humanity,
hoping to
assimilate all the differences
and heat the
world
with our
spontaneous combustion?
What happened
when the chain
on the asteroid
slipped out of
our hands?
When the ones we
loved
loved others?
When our laugh
became the dumb laugh?
When the spit
shot quick and hard
from our teeth?
When we gave the
kids the beatings?
What happened to
our dreams?
What happened to
me?
I wanted to read
all the books
of unerring
truth.
I wanted to tie
my shoelace fast.
Spread jelly smoothly
to the corners of the bread.
Build a tower, a
tall tower.
Spell
everybody’s name
top to bottom,
bottom to top
all four sides,
in and out.
I wanted so bad,
so bad
to be so many
things,
Without the
whole thing
falling in.
—Marc
Kelly Smith
Raymond Ngomane is more diligent
about preserving his work than many. I
found many examples from the South African
who identifies himself as an actor, comedian,
and street hip hop dancer in
addition to being a poet. He is an
example of how the Chicago bread form has become truly international.
Mr. Slam
I wish I wrote
that poem first
The one you
described how a voiceless woman spoke in body language
Walking in
verses and styles of her footsteps
Crossing trees
growing love offerings in heels passing high hills
The poem you
wrote about her politics and votes
With no ballot
papers on poles selling her goals
Real goals
I wish my
fingers cooked syllables before you burned my syllabus
With images of
the sun dancing to bass guitars so her dreams can peek on tomorrow's rest in
peace chorals
I wish your
famous Stars never described
The specs of her
smiles like falling stars
Catching your
wish-list attention
You beat my
thoughts before
I speak how she
designed her beauty
through bedroom
eyes
Eyes that saw
stars falling from poetry's gallery
You were too quick
for my thinking Mr. Slam
Horizons
defining how the sky cried in thunders after scandals
How the sky
donated time and space for your fast paced baby slams
Her wounds never
offered resistance though painted before eyes and ears
Round tongues
described the flat tones planning to hijack deep kisses of her lips
How I wish I
wrote that poem
Those pictures
of her voice you recycled in metaphors
Hiking her
away from
cemetery names that smells to live sadly ever after tales
Slam
Sorry Mr.
Let me be your
mic
Let me listen to
your creativity as you design your desires
I mean it Slam
Let me be your
microphone
I promise to
echo your words in tuberculosis infecting any living soul till my diamond
skeleton dies
Sickening all
wannabes
Infecting all
sick ideas you nursed before my brains/
Privately
lusting over her virginity for stage
That idea was
mine Slam
It hurts to
watch you bleed cravings
It hurts to
watch me watch you over the mirror battling to shape your poetry facial
expressions
We are stark
together please let me be your microphone
—Raymond
Ngomane
Drake J. Eszes is a California based poet and slam host who
also has an irregular program, Stand
as 1 w/Drake J. Eszes on Blog Talk Radio.
The
Rejected Thesaurus
Once again
“Man”
Fails
A faulty
miscarriage of stanzas and exhaled anomalies,
“Man” withers
Unto a
Shakespearean passing
“Man” testifies
Verbal
precedence above cedar scented opinions
While providing
expired empathy to their disfigured reflection
Oh, how their
insolent pride glimmers
Similar to Cubic
Zirconium weddings
Oh, how their
“manhood”
Falsely
supplicates
For even
“thicker” pride
Another daftly
implored lie
“Man” inhales
pompous remorse,
Gripping rusted
axe on toxicant bosom,
Declaring
knighthood upon ignorant crowd
Another verse of
celebrated memories,
Sabotaged
Because
“Man”
Remains glued to
authoritative eras of yesterday,
With forcefully
dimpled “smile”
Unable
To surgically
remove equilibrium's paralysis
…
But, humanity
shall resurrect
Against demoted
seer
To declare that
this tide of “man”
Does not
Belong here
—Drake
J. Eszes
The
world of slam and academic poetry do intersect, particularly as slams have
become popular in off campus dives. A few can move effortlessly between the
two. Adrian Blevins has not only won slams, she has harvested an armload
of prestigious awards including the Kate
Tufts Discovery Award, a Rona Jaffe
Writers’ Foundation Award for Poetry, the Lamar York Prize for Nonfiction, and a Bright Hill Press chapbook award.
In addition to her 2004 collection The Brass Girl Brouhaha she has
contributed to Poetry, The Utne Reader, The
Southern Review, The
Massachusetts Review, The Drunken Boat, Salon.com,
and many other magazines and journals.
She currently teaches at Colby
College in Maine.
Hey
You
Back when my
head like an egg in a nest
was vowel-keen
and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful
and put it in a
basket and laid it barefaced at the river
among the taxing
rocks. My beautiful was all hush
and glitter. It
was too moist to grasp. My beautiful
had no tongue
with which to lick—no discernable
wallowing gnaw.
It was really a breed of destruction
like a nick in a
knife. It was a notch in the works
or a wound like
a bell in a fat iron mess. My beautiful
was a drink too
sopping to haul up and swig!
Therefore with
the trees watching and the beavers abiding
I tossed my
beautiful down at the waterway against
the screwball
rocks. Even then there was no hum.
My beautiful was
never ill-bred enough, no matter what
you say. If you
want my blue yes everlasting, try my
she, instead. Try
the why not of my low down,
Sugar, my
windswept and wrecked.
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