Poetry [poh-i-tree] noun: Literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm (Oxford Dictionary definition).
Slam Poetry: The only thing known to man that makes anyone under the age of 30 like poetry (Urban Dictionary definition).
Poetry Slam at Dust Temple, Currumbin: A rollicking good night where brave people of all ages, backgrounds and degrees of mental stability get up on stage and present their own beautifully evocative words with heart and soul in a poetry performance (Pip’s definition).
For those Blank readers who are touched by words pieced together emotively and evocatively, I have chosen some excerpts from those brave and creative entrants in the recent National Poetry Slam Gold Coast Heat at the Dusty:
“People just aren’t good to their own kind. The rich aren’t good to the rich, the poor aren’t good to the poor and the mind’s not good for the soul.” Rachel
“Rule 247: Don’t step on the ants. They may be your brothers.” C.J. Chris the Wizard
“There is no end in sight to these raining frogs. And as funny as the curse must be, I fear I have become one before you have time to love me”. Benjamin
“I can’t give him the understanding that nods solemnly. Is it betrayal?” Naomi
“The difference is cohered in the unity, that just…. is…… beauty. I just want that flow inside me, not this dissonant sea where now I’m seeking refuge.” Caresse (Co-winner)
“Was the Word truth, or was the Truth that the word was actually Word?” ‘Fats’
“Fuel your fire and melt all that is frozen.” Blake
“Drizzling with oil that made egg’s hard boil……………he realised he would never be makin’ bacon babies.” Ashley (Co-winner)
“An epidemic affecting us all that cannot be cured while drowning in a sea of majority.” Melanie
“If I’m not in my skin I will tether with you epherically.” Ben
“All the words you heard, it’s so absurd. Our stories told, magic they hold.” Louise
“My song unheard, my dreams inferred, my hurt incurred.” Jules
The gravelly voice of special guest, C.R. Avery, the brilliant beat boxing, harmonica, piano, guitar and banjo playing slam poet from Canada, delivered the driest line of the night: “A groupie quoting Nietzsche is still a groupie.”
Avery’s singing voice emanates from what sounds like the bastard son of Tom Waits, coincidentally a huge fan, and someone Avery has performed with. “We make love like explicit lyrics” is the sort of line that Waits would have sung on ‘Closing Time’ if he had had a sense of humor back in the 70s.
As a storyteller, Avery could be mistaken for a sort of hip-hop Charles Bukowski: “The river of lies is your precious fountain of youth.” Avery sensually oozes words that can transport an audience to a sleazy bar in downtown Los Angeles and turn them all into barflies. Red wine and beer in hands, the audience is soon singing along to “My life is based on a true story”……. with Texas accents.
C.R. Avery is testament to the fact that slam poetry is alive and kicking people’s imagination. Some unintended, gravelly voiced advise: “Keep hitting the typewriter with our spoken words.”
_ _ _ _
Poetry Night at Dust Temple, last Thursday of the month, 7 to 9pm, 54 Currumbin Creek Road, Currumbin
Bigger Than Poetry, once a month at the Miami Marketta. Next event is 14th October.
Speakeasy open mic at Zullaz Bar and Eating Place, Burleigh every Sunday from 5pm.
Open mic at Dune Cafe, Palm Beach every Sunday morning from 8am.