NATIONAL POETRY SLAM
July 31-Aug. 5 Finals at the Paramount Theatre, 911 Pine, August 1; ongoing 24-hour open mike at the Hurricane Cafe, 2230 Seventh. For information call 760-1550 or visit www.nationalpoetryslam.com.
EVEN IF I HATED poetry, I’d go to slams just to watch someone get hurt. The concept isn’t just a little ruthless: People expose their passions to a large, bloodthirsty, paying crowd; those passions are judged; the crap is weeded out; and the winner gets money. The judges are picked from the audience (which is to say that they’re authorized to judge the poets simply because they showed up). Slams utilize the audience at an integral level; the chance to be part of the show is a big part of the allure. And the poets are happy to subject themselves to stranger’s opinions for money because many of them live on Top Ramen. This spectacle is held in the comfort of a pub and is available to you for about three bucks—a fraction of the cost of a club admission or a movie ticket.
The National Poetry Slam’s coming to Seattle this summer, after being held in practically every other major American city. You’d think that local poets would consider it a blessing: It puts us in touch with a national network of poets, it provides major exposure for local poets, and it’s a fantastic outlet to get our stuff heard and read. You’d think that most poets would support a venue that encourages people to read, write, and buy poetry. That’s why I was surprised, when I asked poets what they thought of the National Slam, to hear it generally dismissed as “elitist” and “a fashion show.”
“I’m not writing to overwhelm people with some humor or logic that will make them want to vote for me,” one poet told me. “I write from daily life. With money connected to my writing, it would just be in a completely different sphere.” Is it still good for poets to have an opportunity to sell themselves, then, if sacrificing sincerity for sensation is what makes the sale?
The Seattle Poetry Slam, although contentious in nature, is still a game—a parody of something serious. It’s held in a bar, the reward is modest, and the door prize is something from the dollar store. You’re supposed to have fun, despite it all. The National Poetry Slam started out in the same vein, but it’s very much a professional sport now: Poets are playing not just for recognition but also for recording deals, book contracts, and some serious cash. That’s why many slam poets read the same four pieces every time. They’re not about to risk reading something less polished—not when money is at stake.
I’m not saying that slams are completely artless. Sometimes the poets are good. Sometimes a poet will say something so succinctly and truthfully that it will change your life, and you’ll have to memorize his name and buy his chapbook. It’s profoundly fulfilling to see that poet rewarded, even if it’s with a meager wad of cash or simple applause. If you like poetry, that’s why you go to slams. But you’re also betting that there will be enough genius among the high-strung, pissed-off rants to be worth your money and time; sometimes there are. At this year’s National Poetry Slam, comprised of contestants who have moved beyond the open mike and reached a new level in this literary sport, you’re more likely than usual to come out ahead.
