February Soapboxing Poetry Slam

I have mentioned before that Monday nights are open mic nights at the Artist’s Quarter in downtown St. Paul. But the first Monday of every month is devoted to a more organized endeavor, the Soapboxing Poetry Slam.

The Poetry Slam in St. Paul, and the Poet’s Groove in Minneapolis, serve two different tribes. The Poetry Slam is an actual competition, with a winner at the end. The 3-minute upper bound is strictly enforced, with poets losing points for running over (more about that in a moment). No props, no costumes, no music, just you, the mic, and the audience. The audience is divided up into 5 judges, and everyone else. The judges score the poems from 0 to 10.0, and are explicitly instructed to pay no heed to the rest of the audience. The rest of the audience is explicitly instructed to do everything in their power to influence the judges. I was sitting quite close to one of the judges, and I thought that the judges were thinking about how a particular poem was playing in the room, as well as how it was playing with them personally. The top and bottom scores are eliminated, and the sum of the remaining three scores is the score for the performance. Therefore, 30 is the score to which every poet aspires, but very few attain.

I was nervous that there were just going to be a few people there, but there were about 40 people shoehorned into the Artist’s Quarter on Monday, February 1. The gentleman running the Slam is Matthew Rucker, who I know for his paintings. My children have seen his paintings at two different art shows. This picture is from the 2007 Fall Art Crawl…

The poets who wished to compete put there names in a hat. The custom is to start with twelve, cut down to six on the basis of score, then three, then one. I was not one of the twelve names drawn. I want to think that Matthew remembered the happy conversations he had with my children. He said “I’m going to add two more names to the list.” I was one of the extra two names drawn.

The spoken-word blog Minnesota Microphone has a very nice after-action report of the February Slam by Cole Sarar with pictures of the performers, and videos of the finalists. I took notes of the poems in the first round, and I think looking at my comments side-by-side with Cole’s might give a good picture of the proceedings.

Sam Cook was the emcee for the proceedings, having won the January slam. It is the custom for the winner of the last slam to be the host of the next slam. It’s part of the job of the host to make sure that the scores are recorded for the purpose of determining who advances to the next round.

Sam instructed the judges to refer to Homeless Ryan K as the “calibration poet.” They were to give him whatever score they thought best. If someone did better, they were to give her a higher score. If someone did worse, they were to give him a lower score. I didn’t mark down the scores, but I seem to recall Homeless Ryan K’s scores in the 7’s and 8’s.

Em was the first poet. All I wrote down for her in my notes was that she had a score of 23.3. It should also be noted that I was the third poet to speak, chosen by random selection. I also think I was just getting the idea that this is a great place to go for poetic inspiration, great lines to steal, etc. Em did not advance to the second round. One thing that Sam Cook did after every performance that I really appreciated, was to get people’s minds off the score by yelling “Come on people, **** the score, applaud the poet!”

Shane Hawley rocked the audience with the poem which should be titled “I wanna love you like that!” I’m standing on the ramp behind the stage, waiting to go on, and I’m laughing my head off at Shane’s poem, with it’s running tag line, “I wanna love you like that!” There was a little train of thought in my head saying “Oh, dear, he’s knockin’ em dead, and I have to go on after that! I have to poke through the charred remains of a burned down stage and explain to the Fire Marshal that it was all Shane’s fault! Great! Just great!” Shane not only advanced to the second round, but won the whole shabang, and is thus the host for the March slam on March 1. Later on I would say to Shane, “Is it all right if I blame my crummy score on you?”

I did “America Is Thinking To Itself Today.” My original plan was to recite Love-Dogs by Rumi, but the rules stated it had to be one’s own composition. I added a few lines both to make some implied references more explicit, and to fill up three minutes. I might have been a little fuzzy on the delivery because of that. The lowest score was 5.something, and the highest score was 7.6. The total score was 20.3. On the one hand, this turned out to be an inadequate score to advance to the second round. On the other hand, since 0 was the minimum and 30 was the maximum, being given a score of two-thirds of the maximum was a very nice score indeed for the first time of doing this sort of thing.

Michael Lee had a poem with a running line I loved: “My gloves feel guilty at the sight of your naked hands.” For reasons I don’t really understand, running lines seem to work in slam poetry. The listeners’ minds take comfort in a certain amount of rhythm, of familiarity.

Nilsea had a poem with the opening line “I am the Bone Queen” I wrote “She scares me,” but at some other time I might enjoy that poem more. She was one of two poets who used a music stand for their poetry. Neither poet who used a music stand advanced to the second round. I consider it pointless to wonder whether one is going to advance or not. But on the other hand, if one is going to attend a slam, one should have three poems prepared, in the event that one advances to the second or third round.

Chadword had a poem about the last time he competed in a slam. I loved the line: “I’m a nervous guy, but being nervous reminds me I’m alive.” Chadword didn’t advance to the second round. He was encouraging to me after the first round.

“The Derbs” from Mankato was waxing lyrical about anesthetizing himself from the pain of a separated existence. I loved the final line “I’m a child of the 90’s. What do I care?” I’m certain some people in the room thought “What’s up with wearing shorts in February in Minnesota?!?” I believe he was the only poet to be penalized for going over the time limit. But even with the penalty, The Derbs advanced to the second round.

Neil Hilborn was thinking of the animals rising up and slaying their human oppressors. I recall a little vocoded bit from “Animals” by Pink Floyd as I recall his poem.

When cometh the day we lowly ones,
Through quiet reflection, and great dedication
Master the art of Judo,
Lo, we shall rise up,
And then we’ll make the bugger’s eyes water.

Bleating and babbling we fell on his neck with a scream.
Wave upon wave of demented avengers
March cheerfully out of obscurity into the dream.

The line from Neil that I remembered the most is “We’ll take Alabama, because no one will notice!” Neil did not advance to the second round. I don’t get it. The audience loved him more than the judges.

Cole: The tone took an abrupt turn when Jason Raymon struck up an erotic tone with his piece “Aftermath”, a quiet poem read with a soft a.m. radio voice that would undoubtedly fare better at an erotic slam.

Jason Raymon was the other poet who used a music stand. What he was providing just wasn’t what the room was here for. I wrote down “ZZZZZ” as he was performing, and I feel horribly guilty for doing so. Jason didn’t advance to the second round.

Dylan brought back a familiar poem from last season, garnering a communal groan of happiness from the audience at the suggestion of the “sound of a redwood slamming shut”. He has found a comfortability in the poem that emanates in his performance.

Dylan had a poem with an opening line I loved: “God, we don’t know how to comfort You.” Dylan advanced to the second round.

I grasped from Dave Beck’s performance that emotional breakthroughs are a no-no for slam. I grasp stand-up is a little bit more interactive than slam poetry. Dave gave a lot of appreciation for the poets, but he didn’t advance to the second round.

Xena had a poem about the strength and magnanimity of her mother, and the potential downsides. I told Xena after the first round that a martyrdom intervention was a tricky business. She might have thought I was being a smart-aleck. I hope not. Xena did not advance to the second round.

Alice had a poem about searching for a cure for death, among other things. As I heard Alice’s voice, sweetness and thoughts of ways to serve others came into my body. Thoughts that maybe I should try really hard to be less of a jerk. What was her poem about, again? She mentioned mayflies in her poem, and she appreciated it when I told her about Richard Wilbur’s poem about mayflies. Alice advanced to the second round.

The room found Rob Weekend’s poem about losing his virginity to be hilarious, as sex kept squirting out the logical categories Rob, and all the people in his world, kept trying to put it in. Rob advanced to the second round.

I probably should have paid more attention to Jenn Sparks’s poem about the life and times of a queen bee, but my mind was buzzing with lines and poems and poets and buzzes and flows. Jenn advanced to the second round.

I left after the first round because I didn’t make the cut, and I was also catching the 74 Bus from downtown St. Paul to my Highland Park neighborhood. But there was a short break in which I could chit-chat with the other poets, express appreciations for lines I was going to steal I liked, etc. Cole goes on to cover the second and third rounds in her post. The slam was videoed, and I believe the video will be shown on the St. Paul Neighborhood Network. I say that because the January slam was aired seven times during the month of February on Channel 15.

Technorati: Cole Sarar, Matthew Rucker, Poetry, Poetry Slam