Once I
was a Purist
“For many people, the
contemporary history of the Chicago-style slam begins
around 1987, when the Green Mill began to come into
eminence as a regular poetry venue in Chicago. Others
clock their experience from the Poem for Osaka
Competition. The history of slam poetry (as a style) is
wound tightly with the history of the poetry slam (as a
social enterprise, a contest). The phenomena have
different connotations from one group of writers to the
next, and the origins of these connotations lay in the
history of slamming. The history comes from many voices,
across an ever growing number of years.” - Kurt Heintz (An
Incomplete History of Slam).
“Billy Lombardo is a
well-known poet among the earliest of slammers in Chicago.
Lombardo was the man who retired this writer in our
competition for the top prize in the Poem for Osaka
Competition years ago.” – Kurt Heintz (founder of e-poets
network).
I regularly attend the slam
poetry events at Mercury Café in Denver, Colorado (where I
now live). I love the energy and excitement of slam
poetry. I love the expression of emotion, experimentation
and the freedom of participation that this art form allows
both the performer and the audience (both of whom simply
do not exist without the other). I don’t use the term
‘art’ lightly; in fact, I believe it to be the original
art form (like ancient story telling). I didn’t always
feel that way.
My personal recognition of
the concept of slam poetry began with the Poem for Osaka
Competition (as mentioned in the quote above). The prize
at stake was a trip to Osaka with the opportunity to read
poetry to an International audience. We all wrote tree
poems for the contest. I was eliminated early (as I
expected) with an odd poem about a Baobab tree. I don’t
remember who retired me, but I stood mesmerized and
witnessed every other stage of the eliminations which were
held at various saloon venues throughout Chicago over a
period of weeks. It wasn’t long before the battle lines
were drawn and rival camps established (not unlike a
political campaign). In one camp there was Patricia Smith
and company, in the other Cindy Salach and friends. And so
ran the famous Chicago rivalry between two of our
strongest poets of the day.
As the competition heated
up and emotions flared, a huge point of contention was the
fact that Patricia was allowed to compete at all due to a
conflict of interests (she was a member of the board of
the organization that sponsored the contest). The decision
to allow Patricia to compete threw the unpredictable and
dangerous element of politics into the competitive fray. I
saw it as a chasm thrust between us collectively (as the
poets of Chicago), contrary to the whole spirit of the
purpose of the competition in the first place … to promote
sisterhood, brotherhood, peace between cities and nations.
It smacked heavily of favoritism. It became an ugly
affair, pitting poet against poet. I was solidly in
Cindy’s camp. I was so incensed (among the general
discontent of the poets) when Patricia eventually won that
I wrote a scathing letter of protest to The Editor of
The Chicago Tribune (who promptly published
it). Many of us felt that Cindy’s performances of her poem
warranted her winning the contest outright. It was
perceived that she had been cheated of her due victory.
The lesson learned wasn’t
lost on us, least of all on Marc Smith. But somehow these
things work themselves out. Although I often went to The
Green Mill until I left Chicago in 1994, I only read there
once after The Osaka Competition (again in protest).
Frankly, I found the early crowds dislike of poetry of
substance and their excessive passion for sex, sex and
more sex a bit discouraging. I was determined to prove
that a really sad and heavy poem could arouse the crowd,
as well as (if not better than), a poem about sex. I
proved my point, and then I never read at The Green Mill
again (not intentionally, it just played out that way).
But Marc guided the evolution of slam at Green Mill
admirably, against great odds and I hoped for better
things to come. And come they did, specifically … when the
Poem for Prague Competition rolled around (after Osaka)
and we had the distinct pleasure of watching Cindy Salach
smoke every one of us to win the prize. We were so proud.
I remember well that
feeling of pride; I experience it repeatedly at Mercury
Café. Every time (before every show) when Marc is given
tribute for “Giving poetry back to the people”, I
remember. Every time someone reads poetry by Cindy or
Patricia or Lisa Buscani, I remember. I remember when I
study the faces in the crowd at Mercury … searching (I
think) for some reassurance of my own satisfaction with
what slam has become. And every time I am reminded of
these things, I think of Cindy Salach (sitting on a plane
headed for Prague), vindicated.
Read
the Poetry of Jeff Spahr-Summers
Jeff Spahr-Summers,
US—Free
Verse: maxwell's silver hammer, i don't want goodbyes
anymore, next to me, you never give me your money, moon, my
bag, at this weekend's folk festival, mean mr. mustard,
staying awake, scatman, polythene pam, forgiveness, she came
in through the bathroom window, this cat
