Slam Poetry in lieu of other Friday night activity
We were seated on these tall, handmade wooden benches that looked like they were going to collapse under the weight of two small individuals. The two by fours that served as the legs were angled in a way that signified imminent collapse. This is not to mention the fact that the benches were significantly taller than the average chair which made them a highly awkward perch for a short person. We were both short. The benches were constructed in a way that made it impossible not to slouch.
The poetry reading was scheduled to begin at 8PM, and because it was a Friday night, the audience was rather sparse. I suppose there are better things to do on Friday nights, but I always seem to find myself at a reading. We arrived on time, found seats on one of the precarious benches, and began to chat. I imagined that what we were having could be called conversation, but I worry that it may have been mostly monologue waged by myself about nothing in particular. Well, the topic was ostensibly poetry which is a significant turn-off to most people. After talking for quite awhile, I realized that there were no signs of the reading beginning. I began to wonder if it was the correct event and if we had arrived a whole hour early. Too embarrassed to ask, I crept over to the table holding fliers for various events. I found the flier for the event in question sitting at one corner of the table, and confirmed that it was supposed to start at 8 and that it was the event we had intended to attend.
After a long conversation about English grammar and Japanese classes, a folk singer finally approached the microphone at the front of the small art space.
The second "reader" was creepy. His face was this mask of leathery skin with fine lines running over its surface. The fact that he was wearing eye liner was obvious in a relatively subtle way, and it didn't match the remainder of his persona: stone-washed jeans, white rumpled shirt, maybe a pair of old white tennis shoes or perhaps even cowboy boots. He looked like someone who would live on flat ground in a beige colored place that is probably rather dusty. He didn't look like the eyeliner type. The poem he recited was filled with rhymes, closing every line so very obviously.
Fortunately, soon afterwards, the slam poets took the stage. They had polished their lyrics as much as their voices and the words flowed from their throats like small magical incantations, pleas that the world may one day learn to appreciate difference, and the fierce pangs of ferocious love.
We were two shy girls watching these poets who used words like prophets, unabashedly wielding their voices like tools of peaceful revolution. I didn't know the person sitting next to me well enough to perceive how she found the performance, but after exiting onto the street where a city rat would scurry across our path as we walked I think we both found something to inspire the poetic tendencies crouched within our own minds.
The poetry reading was scheduled to begin at 8PM, and because it was a Friday night, the audience was rather sparse. I suppose there are better things to do on Friday nights, but I always seem to find myself at a reading. We arrived on time, found seats on one of the precarious benches, and began to chat. I imagined that what we were having could be called conversation, but I worry that it may have been mostly monologue waged by myself about nothing in particular. Well, the topic was ostensibly poetry which is a significant turn-off to most people. After talking for quite awhile, I realized that there were no signs of the reading beginning. I began to wonder if it was the correct event and if we had arrived a whole hour early. Too embarrassed to ask, I crept over to the table holding fliers for various events. I found the flier for the event in question sitting at one corner of the table, and confirmed that it was supposed to start at 8 and that it was the event we had intended to attend.
After a long conversation about English grammar and Japanese classes, a folk singer finally approached the microphone at the front of the small art space.
The second "reader" was creepy. His face was this mask of leathery skin with fine lines running over its surface. The fact that he was wearing eye liner was obvious in a relatively subtle way, and it didn't match the remainder of his persona: stone-washed jeans, white rumpled shirt, maybe a pair of old white tennis shoes or perhaps even cowboy boots. He looked like someone who would live on flat ground in a beige colored place that is probably rather dusty. He didn't look like the eyeliner type. The poem he recited was filled with rhymes, closing every line so very obviously.
Fortunately, soon afterwards, the slam poets took the stage. They had polished their lyrics as much as their voices and the words flowed from their throats like small magical incantations, pleas that the world may one day learn to appreciate difference, and the fierce pangs of ferocious love.
We were two shy girls watching these poets who used words like prophets, unabashedly wielding their voices like tools of peaceful revolution. I didn't know the person sitting next to me well enough to perceive how she found the performance, but after exiting onto the street where a city rat would scurry across our path as we walked I think we both found something to inspire the poetic tendencies crouched within our own minds.
posted by sf blog at 10:38 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home