What the Heck is Poetry? (A Journey)
Wiping the snowflakes that had pierced my eyes as though they were little gelatinous pincushions away from my dazed pupils, the momentousness of entering a bakery and lounge alone in the evening hours propelled me to the back of the space, where I took hidden refuge in a weathered wooden booth. Between monotonous pages of a John Smith reading, I stole glances of my surroundings as my courage to emerge from my haven of anonymity and order some sustenance calibrated. A rainbow of variegated bottles, some dark and clouded with age, lined the wall across from me and reflected the glow of nostalgic bistro lights that conjured images of romances yet to be had. Deep reds and yellows as mature as the most sophisticated, fine brown mustard were coaxed from the mural looming behind with the help of additional twinkle lights. A whiff of drool-worthy cinnamon notes emanated from the delectable pumpkin waffles being crafted in the kitchen and warmed my empty stomach still trembling with cold and anxious loneliness. The steady whirrr of the life-giving bean juice machine, the only sound accompanying the scratch of my pencil, became my companion. A timid rumble of my frostbitten stomach grew into a confident growl, and I reluctantly stood up to approach the gloriously intimidating hipster style icons that waited earnestly behind the counter. Barely able to take in the extent of vegan delights that beckoned from behind the glass and make a decision in a timely manner, I hastily pointed at a pile of what was presumably spicy tofu and kale and threw in a no-bake treat for extra homework motivation. As it turned out, not even the flood of vegan nutrients into my bloodstream could budge the gears in my brain as I attempted to decipher 17th century English. Gripped with the boredom that leads one to either nap for centuries or stand up and scream (fortunately, I did neither), I watched the seconds on my watch tick closer to 7pm. Glancing up, I saw that someone had set up a lone microphone in the corner near the kitchen, and a person had sat down at the long wooden table and began what was presumably wordsmithing witch-craft in a tattered journal. Above them, a large window provided a peek of the silent snowflakes plummeting down and piercing the cool blue winter light that was so contrary to the golden glow inside the shop. Was this bittersweet image of a lone artist taking refuge in words and the unique warmth of a coffee lounge on a cold winter’s night the essence of a poet? What even is poetry? I would soon find out.
At least my boring homework made a cool picture
As the clock neared 7pm, a diverse crowd began to trickle in, livening up the bar area as they stamped the snow off their boots and greeted one another, smiling over their drinks. A mother and her precocious yet sassy high-school aged daughter sat down across from me, and I decided they were the least intimidating of the crowd and struck up a conversation. To my surprise, the mother told me she actually really enjoys poetry slams, especially the emotional works of her daughter’s peers. They had apparently just moved to Medical Lake. How beautiful it was, I marveled, that despite their challenges with the daughter’s injury, a big move, and a long distance to drive in the snow, that the two women had made space for art that night. The kind individual to my right chimed in, to my introverted delight (I love it when cool people I want to talk to approach me first so I don’t have to work up the courage and initial conversation). I now had two poets to discuss the musings and fears I had developed after my second-ever poetry class. Is Rupi Kaur a poet or Instagram phenomenon? Who are some good poets to start reading? Where do I find good poetry? How the heck do I even approach this crazy poem-writing exercise my prof assigned if the only lines of poetry I’ve written were haikus, limericks, cinquains, or acrostic poems (are those even poems?) during my seventh grade poetry unit?! I scribbled down their advice on a crinkled napkin. “Who wants to be a judge?” The person to my right raised my hand. “But...I don’t really know what poetry is..?” The poets surrounding me chorused, “Even better!” And that is how I got roped into judging at my first-ever poetry slam.
Soon, it was time for the ballot draw, which I learned is how the order of performers are determined. The poets formed a circle and drew numbers, then said their names (and pronouns--yay!) in number order. A hush fell about the room as the director, who turned out to be the lone wordsmithing poet that had arrived before everyone else, stepped up to the microphone. This individual explained that poetry slams were invented in the 1980s, and that there are typically five judges and a time limit. At this Bootslam, “world premiere poems” that the poet is sharing for the first time gain an extra point. Conversely, if the time limit is broken, not only is the offender met with the phrase “you rat bastard, you’re ruining it for EVERYONE” chanted almost religiously by the crowd (tradition dictates the proper response as “but maybe it was worth it!”) , they lose a point. Typically, four to six poets perform in the average Spokane Poetry Slam, eight on a good day. However, thirteen poets came to compete that night. Upon hearing that news, any doubts I had about spending a large chunk of a stormy weeknight at a poetry slam that I did not know how I was going to get home from were dismantled.
The start of the slam was signaled by another chant that began faintly and grew louder until the entire establishment seemed to rumble. “Who can? Spo-CAN! Who can? Spo-CAN!” I felt as though I was at a showing of Rocky Horror in which devoted fans shout all the inside jokes and lines in a jarring fashion, or at an improv show in which similar chants and responses are weaved into beloved tradition. To my relief, my fellow victims plucked from the audience were given the chance to flex our judging muscles and score a non-competing poem, which we would display on our whiteboards and use as a fair basis of our scoring for the rest of the night. I then watched pure art spill from the lips of each brave poet that confronted the microphone with truth-filled metaphors and the most intense emotion, the finest demonstration of a statement I heard somewhere in the pre-slam chatter: “poets are prophets.” Some poems resembled works of fiction, such as one in which the author has what turns out to be an extremely poignant philosophical conversation with Batman. Others were personal stories on mental illness and death, after all of which I breathed a thankful sigh and whispered, “someone said it out loud.” I now saw the slam as a beautiful and accepting group therapy session of sorts, rather than a competition. After uttering words of heavy weight, it appeared everyone felt lighter. At times, it was difficult to judge a poem filled with so much of the author’s most heart-wrenching experiences, but I was relieved to see my scores were on-par with everyone else’s and raised my whiteboard higher as my confidence increased with each poem. Some people delivered their poems in the loud, angsty manner that I usually associate with slam poetry. Others’ delivery resembled a dramatic monologue, while still others had a pedestrian, conversational, and at times, comical approach. What is poetry? I had asked at the start. These poems seemed to answer, “anything.”
The lone microphone
Another thing that struck me about this particular community was their genuine love for language. Following the recitation and scoring of each poem, the emcee/director would step up to the microphone and say, “super [insert “S” word suggested by an audience member here] scorekeeper, what is the final total?” The playful way in which audience members or people who came for drinks but stayed for the verse threw out outrageous suggestions was a reminder that language could be fun (a reminder I desperately needed after my earlier attempt at absorbing Puritan literature). Yet perhaps the highlight of the night was hearing from the guest poet, a faculty member from Whitworth/world traveler/mother of a four year old extraordinaire. Her poems meditated on themes of place and liminal space. Of the former, the guest artist said that she enjoys revisiting her most favorite places in dreams, which inspires her poetry. As someone still hung up on the UK a year after studying abroad, the prospect of being able to visit my most loved parts of the world in this manner was comforting and provided a new source of creative inspiration. Of the latter, the artist said that it takes courage to address the space that’s in between because it’s not easily labeled. This space can be the space between physical places, memories, etc. Midway through one of her poems, I noticed the bartender had inadvertently began shaking his drink mixer in the rhythm of her voice as smooth as a ribbon of chocolate milk being poured in slow motion in a commercial. On the other side of the mural covered wall I had started to lean against as the lull of rhythmic meter hypnotized me, I could hear faint guitar and singing. I thought about how each art form, poetry and music, coexisted well with one another. Like the choreography of Merce Cunningham and the music of John Cage, the poetry and music did not necessarily relate, but occupied the same space and did not overtake each other. Surrounded by art coming from all directions, an open community, warmth, and good food, I smiled contentedly and let my eyes close.
All too soon, the slam was over. The kind person to my right assured me that should I ever need a poem on a certain theme for class, any of the poets present would gladly send me their work. They then advised that I attend an open mic at Neato Burrito for a lower stakes first experience sharing my own poetry before bidding me goodbye. The sassy seventeen year old competitor who sat across from me said, “I better see you up there next time!” and exited with a flourish. I sat dazed with the extent of newness and wisdom I had experienced in just one night in the backseat of a too-expensive uber that carried me home, knowing full well where I would be on the third Thursday of next month.
Dazed by the art on both sides of this mural-painted wall
