If not the points, then...?

"The points are not the point. Poetry is the point."

It's a common saying in slam poetry circles. I've heard it over and over again at the beginning of slams, in articles attempting to explain slams, and in consolation conversations between poets. I've used it multiple times in my description of slams to people outside the poetry scene, but until recently I dont think I ever truly understood what it meant. In order for me to really explain what this all means, I need to rewind to the last week of December. I had just disembarked my train to Woodford, Queensland, and there was news of a cyclone headed our way...

I arrived through the front gates and felt immediately overwhelmed. Not bad, just overwhelmed. People of all shapes, colors and sizes paraded before me- some barefoot, others in costume, many with dreadlocks and feathers braided into their hair. It was a completely pacifying atmosphere... the kind of place I imagine many of my peers back at school predicted me to be. The bright colors of the tents and the people contrasted heavily with the thick grey ominous clouds that lay low above our heads. But hardly anyone took notice. In our minds, it was sunny and bright. The smells of vegetarian cuisine were in the air, that fresh vegetable smell, mixed with curry, saffron, sage and other spices. I followed my ears over a bridge and found myself in a large tent, surrounded by bohemians sipping chai and watching a young woman with a guitar sing love songs. People offered me a cushion and sitting space next to them. Gratefully I accepted, and just in time too because just then the sky opened up, and water cascaded down along the perimeter of the tent where I had been standing.

When the rain stopped, and the woman got off stage, I wandered to a larger tent, advertising spoken word acts. Ah, that was the place I would make my home base. Media pass in hand, I walked into the back of the tent, and watched one of the most theatrical performances of poetry I've seen since Mexico:


It was like spoken word meets hard rock meets rocky horror picture show. I don't even know if that accurately describes it. But it was fun, fresh and certainly different than most of the poetry shows I've seen in Australia, and for all their onstage antics, they did draw a massive crowd.

I've found that there are generally two types of spoken word poets. There's the standard spoken word poet: the guy/girl who can get up there without any props, without any flair and just move the audience with his words. S/he does slams, probably runs a series Then there's the performance poet: the guy/girl/group that gets up on stage and just puts it all out there. Anything goes. Music, theater, dance. You name it.

I've noticed too that there is a lot of tension between these two types of poets, a lot of criticism: one is two dry and "full of himself" and the other is too out there and "pop-culture". It's like a fight to see who can reach the most people the fastest. But really, it's a silly fight. Because underneath all the glitz of performance poetry, there is a standard spoken word artist, and I think deep inside a standard spoken word artist, there is a performer waiting to erupt.

I haven't quite figured out what type I am. Maybe it's silly to even attempt to catagorize "types". I think my style is pretty standard, very bare bones "aw shucks" girl nextdoor. But there's this side to me that is attracted to the performance aspect as well. I just don't quite know if I could pull it off.

Anyway, I decided to compete in the Woodford Slam heat. I did the famous "Nice guy" poem. And would've tied for third except for one small thing: Australia's got a 2 minute time limit, and I wrote the "nice guy" poem for the typical American 3 minute limit. When I timed myself previously, the poem is exactly 2 minutes. But that night, I stumbled, and ended up running over by 10 seconds. Not a big deal, that's how slams go.

Two days later, however, I recieved word that one of the finalists had backed out and that I, being the runner up, was to compete. I panicked. What poem did I have that was strong but would also last 2 minutes? I couldn't risk the "Nice guy" poem again. So I went with a love poem "On the Eve of Your engagement" (which I think I've posted on here in a past entry). I always hesitate before deciding to do this poem, because it carries so much weight both on a poetic level and on a personal level. It's one of the few poems I have that can be tied to real personal events in my life- though most of my poetry is inspired by real events, this poem in particular is simply a recreation of what happened. Hardly a poem at all, just a story told from my perspective. Having your personal story put on display and judged for an audience's entertainment is a toughie. But I decided to go with my gut. and my gut was saing go for it.

I don't know what was up with me that night, maybe the humidity in the tent, or the long list of excellent performers that went before me. Maybe it was because my friends were there in the audience this time (they had driven up from sydney to see me perform). Maybe it was because I had explained to a few people a few days earlier the true significance of that poem (a poem's inner message revealed! ah!) Whatever it was, I got up there and couldn't control my voice. Usually I can slip into performance mode and keep my voice low and level. But not that night. And by the end of the piece my voice shook and broke. There was a silent pause right before I walked off stage, and I think the audience thought I was going to burst into tears. I really don't know what happened that night, I had done that poem so many times before. As I walked off stage the MC told me that he got a little choked up at the last stanza.

Well, for as emotional as I made the audience, I didn't win the slam. I tied for second. Again, not really a big deal in my eyes, it was fun to perform. That's what I always thought the whole "point" mantra was about. But I was wrong. As the audience began to file out of the tent, a man approached me. I thought he was going to stop 3 feet infront of me, but he just walked right up to me and gave me a hug and said "I know exactly what you were talking about. I really felt that. Thank you." And I kind of blushed and laughed in my awkward post-performance manner, thanked him for his kind words and watched him leave. Another man came up to me and shook my hand. "Beautiful. Just Beautiful". Even the man who won the slam congratulated me on an excellent performance. Girls nodded to me knowingly, some patting me on the shoulder as they left.

As I walked back to my table I realized that there's something about that poem in particular that touches people. It's the same poem that gained the response from the little boy in canada, who stood up infront of his whole class after I finished reading and said "that was the truest poem I've ever heard" Maybe it is it's brutal honesty and openness about a personal event in my life, people just know I can't be making that up.

So that's the true point. It's making a connection on *that* level. I think brutal honesty and openness is something people crave. We get it so rarely in this world of x-box and virtual relationships, music videos and ipods. We've built a barrier around ourselves and other people. I think words can really bring us back to ourselves. I think they break through these walls that we set up to protect ourselves from eachother, and let us know that we aren't so different. That maybe that scrawny girl with the funny accent up on stage from all the way across the world has in fact experienced the same things you've experienced. And maybe she can put a voice to those events. Poetry can help us rebuild this lost connection, it can motivate us to be real, to walk up to a random stranger and just hug her because she finally expressed what you've been feeling. It can help us become human again. That's the point.