The term "slam poem" is really an umbrella category for all poems meant to be performed for a live audience in a competitive environment. "Spoken word" refers to all poetry meant to be performed aloud, including in noncompetitive environments like open mics. Therefore, all other kinds of poems, from haiku to sonnets to love poems, can be considered slam or spoken word poems. And slam and spoken word poems can be the exact same thing.For the purposes of this class, each student will write poem to perform onstage for the rest of the class at an in-class "slam" -- so we'll call the poem a slam poem.
The only rule, aside from the constant need to be school-appropriate (no profanity or gratuitous references to sex or drug or alcohol use), is that it be entertaining for the audience. How is that achieved? The same as with poems written for the page, yet different, too. As with poems written for the page, all the poetry elements are key: say something, be precise and clear and original, use imagery and metaphors and sound elements like rhythm and rhymes.
Two things might make a slam poem different from poems written for the page. The first is the performance component. It helps to consider a slam poem as not a poem read aloud, but a fusion of 50% poem, 50% dynamic stage performance. Therefore slam poems, always memorized, often use comical exaggerations, unconventional angles, surprise twists, and big emotions like love, heartbreak, or outrage. They also may have parts where there are voices to imitate or places to move around.
The second thing that makes a slam poem different from poems written for the page is what pleases audiences. Because traditional slam rules limit poems to three minutes, slam poems tend to hover around that length -- which for many students writing them feels pretty long the first few times. They often tend to, though certainly do not need to, borrow a lot from hip-hop styles, using plenty of internal rhymes, rhythmic flows without a rigid rhyme scheme, and slang. They also tend to fall into one of three camps: the funny, the emotionally powerful, and the funny-and-emotionally-powerful. The third camp has the most winners in it.
A word on emotional power: the most powerful poems contain self-revelations and personal secrets and fears, rather than just outrage turned outward at, say, political leaders. If you can let your secrets and weaknesses and fears out and alleviate the tension with humor and not come across as self-pitying but as honest and wise-in-retrospect, you're a real slam poet.
Here are a few examples:
I Wore a Coin in My Shoe When We Got Married
me and my man: we are a good kinda dirty room—
the kind where nothing’s in its place
but you know just where to find it
we are hit and run, hurricane done been through here
when no one was lookin’ maybe we been robbed!
kinda messy but, hell –
you could eat offa the floor if you could find it.
we’s jars of pennies on the bedside
we’s saved by pocket change in sofa cushions, and a
whole lotta makin’ do -- a whole lotta makin’ do –
makin’ breakfast outta cigarettes
makin’ dinner outta dancin’ and diet coke
leave the chicken in the freezer for a party--
PARTY! defrost the bird, make a party outta potluck,
so everyone eats well.
on our first anniversary we will eat wedding cake
we’re stickin’ dollars in please-forget-me places
and mama askin’ on the phone
--when you gonna do something with that degree?
reply: --we’re workin’!—
makin’ wings outta words and earthworms
makin’ wind outta newspaper and colored glass
& we make us get by
don’t ask me what we gonna do when winter comes
see -- snow is for sledding
and green is for gardens
grow hope grow strong
grow black-eyed susans & carrots & rosemary
grow fat yellow melons, and joy just seems to follow!
dance hip to hip in the flour for baking
and the rent just seems to happen!
we’s a beautiful round and sloppy kinda getting’ by
this ain’t no skinny love – it’s substantial and fat
(how fat is it? this love’s so fat that it’s qualified
to sing the solo in church on sunday!)
books and love letters shift beneath our feet
like autumn falls from trees
leaves us nekkid and nekkid’s easy –
you know just what to do with it,
like a song you wrote yourself!
(we make so much nookie, we gotta
save it in jars in the attic!)
mama PLEASE stop askin’ when we gonna
make somethin’ outta ourselves. See,
we already makin’ a whole lotta somethin’
outta practically nothin’!
The Wussy Boy Manifesto
My name is Eirik Ott
And I am a Wussy Boy.
It’s taken me a long time to admit it.
I remember shouting out in high school,
“ No, Dad, I’m not gay! I’m just… sensitive.
I tried to like jet planes and hot rods
and football and Budweiser poster girls
but I never got the hang of it!
I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”
And then, I saw him,
there on the silver screen,
bigger than life and unafraid
of earrings and hair dye
and rejoicing in the music of The Cure,
Morrisey and Siouxsie and the Banshees,
walking loud and talking proud
my Wussy Boy icon:
Duckie in Pretty in Pink.
And I realized I wasn’t alone.
I looked around and saw other Wussy Boys
living large and proud of who they were:
Anthony Michael Hall, Wussy Boy;
Michael J. Fox, Wussy Boy; and
Lord God King of the Wussy Boy Movement,
Matthew Broderick,
unafraid to prove to the world
that sensitive guys kick ass!
(“Wussy Boy Manifesto” cont’d)
Now, I am no longer afraid
of my Wussiness, hell no,
I am empowered by it!
When I pull up to a stoplight
And some redneck testosterone
methamphetamine jock frat boy pulls up
beside me cranking his Trans Am’s stereo
with power chord anthems
to big tits and date rape,
I no longer avert my gaze, hell no,
I just crank all 12 watts of my car stereo
and I rock out right to his face:
“ I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does!”
I am Wussy Boy, hear me roar (meow).
Bar fight? Pshaww!
You think you can take me, huh,
just because I like poetry
better than Sports Illustrated?
Well, allow me to caution you
for I am not the average, every day,
run of the mill Wussy Boy you beat up
in high school, punk:
I am Wuss Core!
Don’t make me get Renaissance on your ass
because I WILL write a poem about you!
a poem that will tear your psyche limb from limb,
that will expose your selfish insecurities,
that will wound you deeper than knives
and gats and baseball bats could ever hope to.
You may see 65 inches of Wussy Boy
standing in front of you,
but my steel-toed soul
is ten feet tall and bulletproof!
Bring the pain, punk!
Beat the tar out of me!
Show everybody in this bar
what a real man can do,
but you’d better remember
that my bruises will fade,
my scars will shrink and disappear,
but my poem about the pitiful, small, helpless,
dumb-ass, no-neck oppressor you really are
will last forever.
The Edge is where I want to be
so you just want to take the edge off
one beer
one joint
one teeny weeny Prozac
get rid of the edge????
the edge is what Columbus sailed straight into
it's the launching pad for every space shuttle
the edge is Eve contemplating the apple
and what's life without an edge?
guess what, it's DULL
the edge is the cliff you've dangled from in a hundred nightmares
you never know what's over that edge
and there's only one way to find out
Brothers and sisters
where are we-
who are we-
if we take the edge off?
Lose the edge
and all you've got is middle
middle aged
middle class
middle of the road
middle management
you're dribbling along in the uncooked vanilla pudding of life
all fat
no lean, hard edge to drive you
sharpen your skills
your wit
your senses
the edge holds the answer to your questions
the question to your answers
it's the trailhead to the road not taken
the edge is everywhere
you've never dared to be
baby, if you're not on the edge
you're sleepwalking through been there done that
you're stuck watching reruns of somebody else's life
in the great mushy middle
where all the droning, moaning masses live
and eat and act and dress and think alike
and see the same movies
so they can have the same conversations and then
dream the same dreams
if they dream at all
on the edge you don't know
what anybody is going to do or say or think
the edge is not available on your cell phone, iPod, satellite dish
or anywhere in the googleable universe
and there are no disguises here
on the edge, everyone is naked
all bets are off
and the game's not rigged
the air is clear and brisk
your heart's pounding
you're shaking
you're lightheaded and queasy
you're scared
because everything is initiation
on that sharp unforgiving edge
damn right it's uncomfortable
the edge is change!
it's what you don't see coming
so get out of your comfort zone and
deal with it!
sure, the middle's safe
it's safe like hot cocoa, life jackets and training wheels
if that's how you want to live
if you don't ever want to break the rules
take risks
grow up
past your precious fears and life-strangling limitations
if you want to spend your life
drinking lite beer
smoking another joint
eating what's put in front of you
and home entertaining yourself
till you suffocate on the vacuous paucity of your miserably crippled existence
then go ahead-have a virtual life
but if you're tired and weary and battered
if you can't take one more asshole
riding herd on your wild and precious life
if you're mad or sad or bored enough
to wake up and do something
if you're ready to feel the pain of the great
gaping wound your life has become
then goddamnit, friend!
quit your job
quit smoking
quit whining
leave that jerk
write that poem
go dancing
get sober
take a road trip-a dare-a spin-a lover-a chance
honey, break down and cry if that's what it takes
then pick your ass up
and for all you're worth run
don't walk
to the edge
The only rule, aside from the constant need to be school-appropriate (no profanity or gratuitous references to sex or drug or alcohol use), is that it be entertaining for the audience. How is that achieved? The same as with poems written for the page, yet different, too. As with poems written for the page, all the poetry elements are key: say something, be precise and clear and original, use imagery and metaphors and sound elements like rhythm and rhymes.
Two things might make a slam poem different from poems written for the page. The first is the performance component. It helps to consider a slam poem as not a poem read aloud, but a fusion of 50% poem, 50% dynamic stage performance. Therefore slam poems, always memorized, often use comical exaggerations, unconventional angles, surprise twists, and big emotions like love, heartbreak, or outrage. They also may have parts where there are voices to imitate or places to move around.
The second thing that makes a slam poem different from poems written for the page is what pleases audiences. Because traditional slam rules limit poems to three minutes, slam poems tend to hover around that length -- which for many students writing them feels pretty long the first few times. They often tend to, though certainly do not need to, borrow a lot from hip-hop styles, using plenty of internal rhymes, rhythmic flows without a rigid rhyme scheme, and slang. They also tend to fall into one of three camps: the funny, the emotionally powerful, and the funny-and-emotionally-powerful. The third camp has the most winners in it.
A word on emotional power: the most powerful poems contain self-revelations and personal secrets and fears, rather than just outrage turned outward at, say, political leaders. If you can let your secrets and weaknesses and fears out and alleviate the tension with humor and not come across as self-pitying but as honest and wise-in-retrospect, you're a real slam poet.
Here are a few examples:
Pucker My love is deep and penetrating. Subterranean. Large, thick, slow, deliberate, vulgar, low, archetypal, animalistic. Ripe for splitting open, to be savored, enjoyed. I am a pomegranate. And you. You are everything that ever was And everything that ever shall be. I could pray to you. And, so it begins. You take me in your arms and fold me like a fan. You lead me about the room. My body is pliant, supple. Your hands stretch wide across my belly, self-assured. Even your fingers are confident. We are groveling. Grinding. Sinking deeper into it. Slathering each other with it. And then, I feel it. It is traveling through my bowels Like a vengeful eggplant on fire, Violently pushing and gurgling its way through my lower intestine. Mocking my sensuality. For a moment I am shaken. How can this be? I was so careful at dinner. Oh God, the cauliflower. Why? On this day of all days. The day I wear the crown of woman. I travel through time. Suddenly I am 9 years old, in Sister Mercede’s 4th grade class. And Christi Romalo, with her ample bosom and hairy upper lip, Tells me I’m not cool enough to be in the 7-Up club. And all my mother can tell me is, “ Honey, sometimes life just isn’t fair.” For a moment I fantasize Just letting it rip. Will you liken me to some winsome peasant? Will you love the honesty of it? Maybe you’ll think I’m earthy. Next, I imagine standing up, Clutching the bedpost and proudly declaring, “ It is I, Flatula!” Would that frighten you, my love? My muscles tighten And I begin to pray, Sweet Baby Jesus Let your light shine through me and Neutralize this demon squash-like gas. I feel an enormous thrust. Is it over? You cover me with kisses and tenderly pat my thigh. I tense up and hope for a miracle. I whisper, “Sweet dreams, my love.” Barely able to contain the monster inside me. You begin to snore. I press myself against the wall, Adhering my buttocks firmly to it And say twenty-seven Hail Marys. I relax for one tiny moment and it moves, Explodes. And I am thrown from the bed. Dear God help me! A loose chunk of plaster breaks from the ceiling And flies through the air. I try to throw myself in front of it. I try to cheat fate. But it is too late. Too late my love. The plaster chunk delivers A cruel but swift death. I cradle your dented head in my arms and I weep. I weep for the cruelty of fate, The loss of true love, And my lack of muscle control. I blame myself. |
I Wore a Coin in My Shoe When We Got Married
me and my man: we are a good kinda dirty room—
the kind where nothing’s in its place
but you know just where to find it
we are hit and run, hurricane done been through here
when no one was lookin’ maybe we been robbed!
kinda messy but, hell –
you could eat offa the floor if you could find it.
we’s jars of pennies on the bedside
we’s saved by pocket change in sofa cushions, and a
whole lotta makin’ do -- a whole lotta makin’ do –
makin’ breakfast outta cigarettes
makin’ dinner outta dancin’ and diet coke
leave the chicken in the freezer for a party--
PARTY! defrost the bird, make a party outta potluck,
so everyone eats well.
on our first anniversary we will eat wedding cake
we’re stickin’ dollars in please-forget-me places
and mama askin’ on the phone
--when you gonna do something with that degree?
reply: --we’re workin’!—
makin’ wings outta words and earthworms
makin’ wind outta newspaper and colored glass
& we make us get by
don’t ask me what we gonna do when winter comes
see -- snow is for sledding
and green is for gardens
grow hope grow strong
grow black-eyed susans & carrots & rosemary
grow fat yellow melons, and joy just seems to follow!
dance hip to hip in the flour for baking
and the rent just seems to happen!
we’s a beautiful round and sloppy kinda getting’ by
this ain’t no skinny love – it’s substantial and fat
(how fat is it? this love’s so fat that it’s qualified
to sing the solo in church on sunday!)
books and love letters shift beneath our feet
like autumn falls from trees
leaves us nekkid and nekkid’s easy –
you know just what to do with it,
like a song you wrote yourself!
(we make so much nookie, we gotta
save it in jars in the attic!)
mama PLEASE stop askin’ when we gonna
make somethin’ outta ourselves. See,
we already makin’ a whole lotta somethin’
outta practically nothin’!
My name is Eirik Ott
And I am a Wussy Boy.
It’s taken me a long time to admit it.
I remember shouting out in high school,
“ No, Dad, I’m not gay! I’m just… sensitive.
I tried to like jet planes and hot rods
and football and Budweiser poster girls
but I never got the hang of it!
I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”
And then, I saw him,
there on the silver screen,
bigger than life and unafraid
of earrings and hair dye
and rejoicing in the music of The Cure,
Morrisey and Siouxsie and the Banshees,
walking loud and talking proud
my Wussy Boy icon:
Duckie in Pretty in Pink.
And I realized I wasn’t alone.
I looked around and saw other Wussy Boys
living large and proud of who they were:
Anthony Michael Hall, Wussy Boy;
Michael J. Fox, Wussy Boy; and
Lord God King of the Wussy Boy Movement,
Matthew Broderick,
unafraid to prove to the world
that sensitive guys kick ass!
(“Wussy Boy Manifesto” cont’d)
Now, I am no longer afraid
of my Wussiness, hell no,
I am empowered by it!
When I pull up to a stoplight
And some redneck testosterone
methamphetamine jock frat boy pulls up
beside me cranking his Trans Am’s stereo
with power chord anthems
to big tits and date rape,
I no longer avert my gaze, hell no,
I just crank all 12 watts of my car stereo
and I rock out right to his face:
“ I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does!”
I am Wussy Boy, hear me roar (meow).
Bar fight? Pshaww!
You think you can take me, huh,
just because I like poetry
better than Sports Illustrated?
Well, allow me to caution you
for I am not the average, every day,
run of the mill Wussy Boy you beat up
in high school, punk:
I am Wuss Core!
Don’t make me get Renaissance on your ass
because I WILL write a poem about you!
a poem that will tear your psyche limb from limb,
that will expose your selfish insecurities,
that will wound you deeper than knives
and gats and baseball bats could ever hope to.
You may see 65 inches of Wussy Boy
standing in front of you,
but my steel-toed soul
is ten feet tall and bulletproof!
Bring the pain, punk!
Beat the tar out of me!
Show everybody in this bar
what a real man can do,
but you’d better remember
that my bruises will fade,
my scars will shrink and disappear,
but my poem about the pitiful, small, helpless,
dumb-ass, no-neck oppressor you really are
will last forever.
America (It’s Gotta be the Cheese) Everybody writes about America And everybody paints America Because from Jasper Johns to Allen Ginsberg They are all looking for the same thing Searching for the real America The one that lies under the costumes and the war paint That lies under the Seinfeld and Springer Under the bad porn and good basketball And I am no exception Except that one night, late last week I actually found it, this elusive America— In the dairy case at Andronico’s market Lurking beside the jacks and the cheddars, the goudas, swisses, stiltons, jarlsbergs, gorgonzolas, whole parmesan, ricottas, and myriad other imported and domestic cheeses There—it beckoned suddenly An immaculately wrapped unbelievably orange package of American Pasteurized Processs Cheese food glory God bless this country We pasteurized We processed We manipulated this cheese until it suited our purposes This was engineered cheese This was the scientific method at work— Jonas Salk Albert Einstein Copernicus This was smooth no lumps melted technology at work— The light bulb phonograph Model T radio television Internet Nike Air rolled into one And all for $1.99 I was so moved I broke into the Pledge of Allegiance Right there and then I bought Charlton Heston’s autobiography Became a Daughter of the American Revolution Oh God how I long to be wrapped in golden singles Of American cheese. Drizzled with its salty goodness. Oh God put me in a sauna so that the cheese will melt And when it does will melt evenly over every square Inch of my body. Rivulets of warm cheese will run Down my face like tropical rain, caress my body with The lasting wetness of a mouth. Oh God, take me, take me and dip me like fondue into your vat of silken American cheese food products. Scoop it onto me like a nacho and let it cool like a second skin Oh God cheese food I will use it for everything For breakfast melted on an English muffin For lunch a sandwich with processed lunch meat Processed salad spread on processed white bread for dinner obliterating my broccoli. At bed on my toothbrush so my breath will be cheesy American fresh. In the morning I will gargle with it and wash my face with a congealed vat of the stuff I keep on my sink and spread on my face like Noxema. I will cook my girlfriend romantic dinners in which every course will concisely and creatively utilize and emphasize our most holy of sacraments, and when the dinner is over and we hit the sack, I will have a new lubricant, a tube of Velveeta for when the going gets rough. Because it’s gotta be the cheese. America land of the free – it’s gotta be the cheese. |
so you just want to take the edge off
one beer
one joint
one teeny weeny Prozac
get rid of the edge????
the edge is what Columbus sailed straight into
it's the launching pad for every space shuttle
the edge is Eve contemplating the apple
and what's life without an edge?
guess what, it's DULL
the edge is the cliff you've dangled from in a hundred nightmares
you never know what's over that edge
and there's only one way to find out
Brothers and sisters
where are we-
who are we-
if we take the edge off?
Lose the edge
and all you've got is middle
middle aged
middle class
middle of the road
middle management
you're dribbling along in the uncooked vanilla pudding of life
all fat
no lean, hard edge to drive you
sharpen your skills
your wit
your senses
the edge holds the answer to your questions
the question to your answers
it's the trailhead to the road not taken
the edge is everywhere
you've never dared to be
baby, if you're not on the edge
you're sleepwalking through been there done that
you're stuck watching reruns of somebody else's life
in the great mushy middle
where all the droning, moaning masses live
and eat and act and dress and think alike
and see the same movies
so they can have the same conversations and then
dream the same dreams
if they dream at all
on the edge you don't know
what anybody is going to do or say or think
the edge is not available on your cell phone, iPod, satellite dish
or anywhere in the googleable universe
and there are no disguises here
on the edge, everyone is naked
all bets are off
and the game's not rigged
the air is clear and brisk
your heart's pounding
you're shaking
you're lightheaded and queasy
you're scared
because everything is initiation
on that sharp unforgiving edge
damn right it's uncomfortable
the edge is change!
it's what you don't see coming
so get out of your comfort zone and
deal with it!
sure, the middle's safe
it's safe like hot cocoa, life jackets and training wheels
if that's how you want to live
if you don't ever want to break the rules
take risks
grow up
past your precious fears and life-strangling limitations
if you want to spend your life
drinking lite beer
smoking another joint
eating what's put in front of you
and home entertaining yourself
till you suffocate on the vacuous paucity of your miserably crippled existence
then go ahead-have a virtual life
but if you're tired and weary and battered
if you can't take one more asshole
riding herd on your wild and precious life
if you're mad or sad or bored enough
to wake up and do something
if you're ready to feel the pain of the great
gaping wound your life has become
then goddamnit, friend!
quit your job
quit smoking
quit whining
leave that jerk
write that poem
go dancing
get sober
take a road trip-a dare-a spin-a lover-a chance
honey, break down and cry if that's what it takes
then pick your ass up
and for all you're worth run
don't walk
to the edge
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