Slam Poetry Quotes

The points are not the point; the point is poetry.

she slammed the door and was gone. I looked at the closed door and at the doorknob and strangely I didn't feel alone.

What you’re feeling now, and the person you may reach with your words five years from now-that's why you write poetry.

I held this girl in my arms She wrapped her tiny fingers around mine. It was then that I realized. She was the fusion. The glue. The cement that bound all my pieces together. The piece that seals my puzzle. The piece that completes my life. The element that makes me who I am. Who I was. Who I'll one day be. You, baby girl. You're my final piece.

So what if the heartaches you wrote last year isn't what you're feeling today. it may be exactly what the person in the front row is feeling. What you're feeling now, and the person you may reach with your words five years from now- that's why you write poetry.

Charles Simic, when asked what he thought of Slam Poetry events: "They are fun, but they have as much to do with poetry as Elvis Presley had to do with Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk".

If I were on fire who could I count on to water me down? If I were a pile of ashes who could I count on to gather me in a pretty urn? If I were nothing but dust would anyone chase the wind trying to piece me back together?

One million fifty-one thousand and two hundred minutes That's approximatley how many minutes I've loved you It's how many times i've thought about you How many minutes i've worried about you How many minutes i've thanked God for you How many minutes i've thanked every deity in the universe for you. One million Fifty-one Thousand And Two Hundred Minutes One million fifty-one thousand amd two hundred times. It's how many times you've made me smile. How many times you've made me dream, How many times you've made me believe, How many times you've made me discover, How many times you've made me adore, How many times you've made me cheris, My life. .... And exactlly one million fifty-one thousand and two hundred minutes from now, i am going to propose to you, and ask that you share all the rest of the minutes Of your life, with me.

A door jumps out from shadows, then jumps away. This is what I've come to find: the back door, unlatched. Tooled by insular wind, it slams and slams without meaning to and without meaning.

The points are not the point; the point is poetry.” —Allan Wolf

Words are powerful. Words make a difference. They can create and destroy. They can open doors and close doors. Words can create illusion or magic, love or destruction. … All those things.

Is he for real? A hot guy who makes me laugh and loves poetry? Someone pinch me.

This is the hardest part— That boy is not made of fists. That boy learned how to braid my hair. These things do not un-truth themselves when the first door slams. I did not stop loving him all the months I was holding my breath.

Points are not the point. The point is poetry.

Und du? Liegst du niemals im Bett und willst einfach nur weg und rechnest, wie lang du zum Ende der Welt, jetzt von hier aus, wohl brauchst, und willst nur aus dir raus?

The heart of a man is no heart at all If his heart is not loved by a women. The heart of a women is no heart at all If her heart isn't loving a man. But the heart of a man and women in love Can be worse than not having a heart at all Because at least if you have no heart at all It can't die when it breaks apart.

There are moments in every relationship that define when two people start to fall in love. A first glance A first smile A first kiss A first fall… (I remove the Darth Vader house shoes from my satchel and look down at them.) You were wearing these during one of those moments. One of the moments I first started to fall in love with you. The way you gave me butterflies that morning Had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else, and everything to do with you. I was falling in love with you that morning because of you. (I take the next item out of the satchel. When I pull it out and look up, she brings her hands to her mouth in shock.) This ugly little gnome With his smug little grin… He's the reason I had an excuse to invite you into my house. Into my life. You took a lot of aggression out on him over those next few months. I would watch from my window as you would kick him over every time you walked by him. Poor little guy. You were so tenacious. That feisty, aggressive, strong-willed side of you…. The side of you that refused to take crap from this concrete gnome? The side of you that refused to take crap from me? I fell in love with that side of you because of you. (I set the gnome down on the stage and grab the CD) This is your favorite CD ‘Layken’s shit.’ Although now I know you intended for shit to be possessive, rather than descriptive. The banjo started playing through the speakers of your car and I immediately recognized my favorite band. Then when I realized it was your favorite band, too? The fact that these same lyrics inspired both of us? I fell in love with that about you. That had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. I fell in love with that about you because of you. (I take a slip of paper out of the satchel and hold it up. When I look at her, I see Eddie slide her a napkin. I can’t tell from up here, but that can only mean she’s crying.) This is a receipt I kept. Only because the item I purchased that night was on the verge of ridiculous. Chocolate milk on the rocks? Who orders that? You were different, and you didn’t care. You were being you. A piece of me fell in love with you at that moment, because of you. This? (I hold up another sheet of paper.) This I didn’t really like so much. It’s the poem you wrote about me. The one you titled 'mean?' I don’t think I ever told you… but you made a zero. And then I kept it to remind myself of all the things I never want to be to you. (I pull her shirt from my bag. When I hold it into the light, I sigh into the microphone.) This is that ugly shirt you wear. It doesn’t really have anything to do with why I fell in love with you. I just saw it at your house and thought I’d steal it.

Someone asked them a question about their poetry, and whether it was hard having to relive their words each time they performed. Their reply was that although they had moved beyond that--from the person or event that inspired their words at that point in time--it doesn't mean someone listening to them wasn't in that. So? So what if heartache you wrote last year isn't what you're feeling today. It may be exactly what the person in the front row is feeling. What you're feeling now, and the person you may reach with your words five years from now--that's why you write poetry.

Try to be thoughtful, don't make the poor man say it; see how human he is, he has children of his own, it is your job to ask: Is she dead? And he will nod and say yes And now he can never not nod. And now he can never say no. And now he can never not say yes.

I can’t bear these accounts I read in the Times and elsewhere of these poetry slams, in which various young men and women in various late-spots are declaiming rant and nonsense at each other. The whole thing is judged by an applause meter which is actually not there, but might as well be. This isn’t even silly; it is the death of art.

This poem is very long So long, in fact, that your attention span May be stretched to its very limits But that’s okay It’s what’s so special about poetry See, poetry takes time We live in a time Call it our culture or society It doesn’t matter to me cause neither one rhymes A time where most people don’t want to listen Our throats wait like matchsticks waiting to catch fire Waiting until we can speak No patience to listen But this poem is long It’s so long, in fact, that during the time of this poem You could’ve done any number of other wonderful things You could’ve called your father Call your father You could be writing a postcard right now Write a postcard When was the last time you wrote a postcard? You could be outside You’re probably not too far away from a sunrise or a sunset Watch the sun rise Maybe you could’ve written your own poem A better poem You could have played a tune or sung a song You could have met your neighbor And memorized their name Memorize the name of your neighbor You could’ve drawn a picture (Or, at least, colored one in) You could’ve started a book Or finished a prayer You could’ve talked to God Pray When was the last time you prayed? Really prayed? This is a long poem So long, in fact, that you’ve already spent a minute with it When was the last time you hugged a friend for a minute? Or told them that you love them? Tell your friends you love them …no, I mean it, tell them Say, I love you Say, you make life worth living Because that, is what friends do Of all of the wonderful things that you could’ve done During this very, very long poem You could have connected Maybe you are connecting Maybe we’re connecting See, I believe that the only things that really matter In the grand scheme of life are God and people And if people are made in the image of God Then when you spend your time with people It’s never wasted And in this very long poem I’m trying to let a poem do what a poem does: Make things simpler We don’t need poems to make things more complicated We have each other for that We need poems to remind ourselves of the things that really matter To take time A long time To be alive for the sake of someone else for a single moment Or for many moments Cause we need each other To hold the hands of a broken person All you have to do is meet a person Shake their hand Look in their eyes They are you We are all broken together But these shattered pieces of our existence don’t have to be a mess We just have to care enough to hold our tongues sometimes To sit and listen to a very long poem A story of a life The joy of a friend and the grief of friend To hold and be held And be quiet So, pray Write a postcard Call your parents and forgive them and then thank them Turn off the TV Create art as best as you can Share as much as possible, especially money Tell someone about a very long poem you once heard And how afterward it brought you to them

I want to feel like honey and trombones. I want to feel like honey and trombones

He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross, Clearly used to silence and an armchair: Tonight the wife and children will be quiet At slammed door and smoker's cough in the hall.

Love is an afternoon of fishing when I'd sooner be at the ballet. Love is eating burnt toast and lumpy graving with a big smile. Love is hearing the words 'You're beautiful' as I fail to squeeze into my fat jeans. Love is refusing to bring up the past, even if doing so would be a slam dunk to prove your point. Love is your hand wiping away my tears, trying to erase streaks of mascara. Love is the warm hug that extinguishes an argument. Love is a humbly-uttered apology, even if not at fault. Love is easy to recognize but so hard to define; however, I think it boils down to this... Love is caring so much about the feelings of someone else, you sacrifice whatever it takes to help him or her feel better. In other words, love is my heart being sensitive to yours.

Knut, this is Jude. Remember I told you about him? He writes poetry.” Knut looked my half-Japanese self up and down. “Haiku?” he guessed. “Gesundheit,” I muttered sourly.

I frowned. “Are you sure about this? It’s a bit short.” “So? It’s poetry, not dick size.

We spend so much time listening to the things people are saying that we rarely pay attention to the things they don't," says slam poet and teacher Clint Smith. A short, powerful piece from the heart, about finding the courage to speak up against ignorance and injustice.

While they waited, Ronan decided to finally take up the task of teaching Adam how to drive a stick shift. For several minutes, it seemed to be going well, as the BMW had an easy clutch, Ronan was brief and to the point with his instruction, and Adam was a quick study with no ego to get in the way. From a safe vantage point beside the building, Gansey and Noah huddled and watched as Adam began to make ever quicker circles around the parking lot. Every so often their hoots were audible through the open windows of the BMW. Then—it had to happen eventually—Adam stalled the car. It was a pretty magnificent beast, as far as stalls went, with lots of noise and death spasms on the part of the car. From the passenger seat, Ronan began to swear at Adam. It was a long, involved swear, using every forbidden word possible, often in compound-word form. As Adam stared at his lap, penitent, he mused that there was something musical about Ronan when he swore, a careful and loving precision to the way he fit the words together, a black-painted poetry. It was far less hateful sounding than when he didn’t swear. Ronan finished with, “For the love of . . . Parrish, take some care, this is not your mother’s 1971 Honda Civic.” Adam lifted his head and said, “They didn’t start making the Civic until ’73.” There was a flash of fangs from the passenger seat, but before Ronan truly had time to strike, they both heard Gansey call warmly, “Jane! I thought you’d never show up. Ronan is tutoring Adam in the ways of manual transmissions.” Blue, her hair pulled every which way by the wind, stuck her head in the driver’s side window. The scent of wildflowers accompanied her presence. As Adam catalogued the scent in the mental file of things that made Blue attractive, she said brightly, “Looks like it’s going well. Is that what that smell is?” Without replying, Ronan climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Noah appeared beside Blue. He looked joyful and adoring, like a Labrador retriever. Noah had decided almost immediately that he would do anything for Blue, a fact that would’ve needled Adam if it had been anyone other than Noah. Blue permitted Noah to pet the crazy tufts of her hair, something Adam would have also liked to do, but felt would mean something far different coming from him.

(I pull the second to last item out of my bag. Her purple hair clip. She told me once how much it meant to her, and why she always keeps it.) This purple hair clip? It really is magic…just like your dad told you it was. It’s magic because, no matter how many times it lets you down…you keep having hope in it. You keep trusting it. No matter how many times it fails you, You never fail it. Just like you never fail me. I love that about you, because of you. (I set it back down and pull out a strip of paper and unfold it.) Your mother. (I sigh) Your mother was an amazing woman, Lake. I'm blessed that I got to know her, And that she was a part of my life, too. I came to love her as my own mom…just as she came to love Caulder and I as her own. I didn’t love her because of you, Lake. I loved her because of her. So, thank you for sharing her with us. She had more advice about Life and love and happiness and heartache than anyone I've ever known. But the best advice she ever gave me? The best advice she ever gave us? (I read the quote in my hands) "Sometimes two people have to fall apart, to realize how much they need to fall back together." (She’s definitely crying now. I place the slip back inside the satchel and take a step closer to the edge of the stage as I hold her gaze.) The last item I have wouldn’t fit, because you’re actually sitting in it. That booth. You’re sitting in the exact same spot you sat in when you watched your first performance on this stage. The way you watched this stage with passion in your eyes…I'll never forget that moment. It's the moment I knew it was too late. I was too far gone by then. I was in love with you. I was in love with you because of you. (I back up and sit down on the stool behind me, still holding her stare.) I could go on all night, Lake. I could go on and on and on about all the reasons I'm in love with you. And you know what? Some of them are the things that life has thrown our way. I do love you because you're the only other person I know that understands my situation. I do love you because both of us know what it's like to lose your mom and your dad. I do love you because you're raising your little brother, just like I am. I love you because of what you went through with your mother. I love you because of what we went through with your mother. I love the way you love Kel. I love the way you love Caulder. And I love the way I love Kel. So I'm not about to apologize for loving all these things about you, no matter the reasons or the circumstances behind them. And no, I don’t need days, or weeks, or months to think about why I love you. It’s an easy answer for me. I love you because of you. Because of every single thing about you.

POCKET-SIZED FEMINISM The only other girl at the party is ranting about feminism. The audience: a sea of rape jokes and snapbacks and styrofoam cups and me. They gawk at her mouth like it is a drain clogged with too many opinions. I shoot her an empathetic glance and say nothing. This house is for wallpaper women. What good is wallpaper that speaks? I want to stand up, but if I do, whose coffee table silence will these boys rest their feet on? I want to stand up, but if I do, what if someone takes my spot? I want to stand up, but if I do, what if everyone notices I’ve been sitting this whole time? I am guilty of keeping my feminism in my pocket until it is convenient not to, like at poetry slams or my women’s studies class. There are days I want people to like me more than I want to change the world. There are days I forget we had to invent nail polish to change color in drugged drinks and apps to virtually walk us home at night and mace disguised as lipstick. Once, I told a boy I was powerful and he told me to mind my own business. Once, a boy accused me of practicing misandry. You think you can take over the world? And I said No, I just want to see it. I just need to know it is there for someone. Once, my dad informed me sexism is dead and reminded me to always carry pepper spray in the same breath. We accept this state of constant fear as just another part of being a girl. We text each other when we get home safe and it does not occur to us that our guy friends do not have to do the same. You could saw a woman in half and it would be called a magic trick. That’s why you invited us here, isn’t it? Because there is no show without a beautiful assistant? We are surrounded by boys who hang up our naked posters and fantasize about choking us and watch movies we get murdered in. We are the daughters of men who warned us about the news and the missing girls on the milk carton and the sharp edge of the world. They begged us to be careful. To be safe. Then told our brothers to go out and play.

...always- the sharp, plaintive edge on the rim of the spoon of my giving. (lines 8-13 of the poem 'Confessions')

Ich weine, weil ich weiß, dass ich alleine kam und auch alleine gehen muss, weil alles das, was vor mir liegt, vergehen wird, vergehen muss.

And when I stand in the receiving line like Jackie Kennedy without the pillbox hat, if Jackie were fat and had taken enough Klonopin to still an ox, and you whisper I think of you every day, don't finish with because I've been going to Weight Watchers on Tuesdays and wonder if you want to go too.

Is her name nightmare, some mothball ambition slammed into hard shoes suspended from cain't nobody do me like shame having sex with terror.

Liegst du niemals nachts wach, vom Angstschweiß ganz nass, und fragst dich, was du da eigentlich machst? Und wofür überhaupt? Warum gibst du nicht auf?

When it comes to matters of the heart and soul, I'm not a falling kind of girl. I'm more of a slamming, crashing, erupting...

And you, my friends who have been called away, I have been spared to mourn for you and weep, not as a frozen willow over your memory, but to cry to the world the names of those who sleep. What names are those! I slam shut the calendar, down on your knees, all! Blood of my heart, the people of Leningrad march out in even rows, the living, the dead: fame can't tell them apart.

Write poorly. Suck Write awful Terribly Frightfully Don't care Turn off the inner editor Let yourself write Let it flow Let yourself fail Do something crazy Write fifty thousand words in the month of November. I did it. It was fun , it was insane , it was one thousand six hundred and sixty-seven words a day. It was possible. But you have to turn off your inner critic. Off completely. Just write. Quickly. In bursts. With joy. If you can't write, run away for a few. Come back. Write again. Writing is like anything else. You won't get good at it immediately. It's a craft, you have to keep getting better. You don't get to Juilliard unless you practice. If you want to get to Carnegie Hall, practice, practice, practice. ...Or give them a lot of money. Like anything else, it takes ten thousand hours to master. Just like Malcolm Gladwell says. So write. Fail. Get your thoughts down. Let it rest. Let it marinate. Then edit. But don't edit as you type, that just slows the brain down. Find a daily practice, for me it's blogging every day. And it's fun. The more you write, the easier it gets. The more it is a flow, the less a worry. It's not for school, it's not for a grade, it's just to get your thoughts out there. You know they want to come out. So keep at it. Make it a practice. And write poorly, write awfully, write with abandon and it may end up being really really good.

Over the past few years I have become a formidable presence on the live slam-poetry scene. For those of you who are unfamiliar with slam, it’s like regular poetry but with extra pauses. And there’s usually a lactose-free buffet at the end.

What rhymes with insensitive?” I tap my pen on the kitchen table, beyond frustrated with my current task. Who knew rhyming was so fucking difficult? Garrett, who’s dicing onions at the counter, glances over. “Sensitive,” he says helpfully. “Yes, G, I’ll be sure to rhyme insensitive with sensitive. Gold star for you.” On the other side of the kitchen, Tucker finishes loading the dishwasher and turns to frown at me. “What the hell are you doing over there, anyway? You’ve been scribbling on that notepad for the past hour.” “I’m writing a love poem,” I answer without thinking. Then I slam my lips together, realizing what I’ve done. Dead silence crashes over the kitchen. Garrett and Tucker exchange a look. An extremely long look. Then, perfectly synchronized, their heads shift in my direction, and they stare at me as if I’ve just escaped from a mental institution. I may as well have. There’s no other reason for why I’m voluntarily writing poetry right now. And that’s not even the craziest item on Grace’s list. That’s right. I said it. List. The little brat texted me not one, not two, but six tasks to complete before she agrees to a date. Or maybe gestures is a better way to phrase it... “I just have one question,” Garrett starts. “Really?” Tuck says. “Because I have many.” Sighing, I put my pen down. “Go ahead. Get it out of your systems.” Garrett crosses his arms. “This is for a chick, right? Because if you’re doing it for funsies, then that’s just plain weird.” “It’s for Grace,” I reply through clenched teeth. My best friend nods solemnly. Then he keels over. Asshole. I scowl as he clutches his side, his broad back shuddering with each bellowing laugh. And even while racked with laughter, he manages to pull his phone from his pocket and start typing. “What are you doing?” I demand. “Texting Wellsy. She needs to know this.” “I hate you.” I’m so busy glaring at Garrett that I don’t notice what Tucker’s up to until it’s too late. He snatches the notepad from the table, studies it, and hoots loudly. “Holy shit. G, he rhymed jackass with Cutlass.” “Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?” “The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.” Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to cherries, dumbass.” He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it. “Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing Grace”? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.” “Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.” I ponder the next line. “How sweet…” “Your ass,” Tucker supplies. Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work. Terrific Grace, how sweet your ass.” He types on his phone again. “Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.” “Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.” Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?” “Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.” That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks, “What are the other ones?” “None of your fucking business.” “Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!” I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.” Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes.

You were an unexpected surprise. The defining moment. The collision of stars that slammed into me hard and sent my neat little world plummeting into the ocean. I never expected it to be you, you know? But it is you. It’s all you. And now there’s no looking back.

give me my mother’s bone structure / & her gap tooth slaughter / give me her spine—Redbone got a spine for the world.

Über dir hängt Schwermut an der Wand wie eine sehr alte Girlande, mit einem Meer aus Elefanten und Betonluftballons dran, die geformt sind wie Monster.

They say >>Dress for the job you want.<< So why don't we >>live for the world we want<<?

Ich hab Beine, ich kann rausgehen, ohne Grund mach ich das nie. Ich hab mich, und ich kann leben, ich weiß nur nicht richtig, wie.

Do not think about failure. Remember that even stars fall sometimes, and when they do people wish on them.

It takes a lot for me to close a door, but when I do, I slam it.

the world is being built up by greedy people wanting higher towers and then there’s a war or a hurricane or a tsunami or a virus or a financial collapse happening to put things in balance. this has happened all through history and the humankind survives and moves on. this is not an exception: this is a rule. and you are not granted to stay here, that is not your right. you were handed a gift of walking here for a little while, breathing the air, feeling things, but did you say thank you? ever? or just took for granted, carried life like a burden and now you’re being angry because suddenly things outside of your control are threatening your peace? why do you let your peace depend on things outside of your control in the first place?

Welcome to America, a Wall Street Corporation Where the stockholders are rich and own this nation Where cubicle preparation masquerades as education And people of color are guilty by association.

Winter's last rain and a light I don't recognize through the trees and I come back in my mind to the man who made me suck his cock when I was seven, in sunlight, between boxcars. I thought I could leave him standing there in the years, half smile on his lips, small hands curled into small fists, but after he finished, he held my hand in his as if astonished, until the houses were visible just beyond the railyard. He held my hand but before that he slapped me hard on the face when I would not open my mouth for him. I do not want to say his whole hips slammed into me, but they did, and a black wave washed over my brain, changing me so I could not move among my people in the old way. On my way home I stopped in the churchyard to try to find a way to stay alive. In the branches a red-wing flitted, warning me. In the rectory, Father prepared the body and the blood for mass but God could not save me from a mouthful of cum. That afternoon some lives turned away from the light. He taught me how to move my tongue around. In his hands he held my head like a lover. Say it clearly and you make it beautiful, no matter what.

December 6th, 2018: 1: 03am: The sound of a door SLAMMING from within the darkened, glass-fronted depository 1: 04am: The sound of a child laughing, female It being 24 degrees fahrenheit has nothing on the chills shuddering from my skin 1: 13am: I decide to ride home; my shadow, cast from streetlamps, passes me on the road Escaping this haunting is futile The entity’s Terror only increases with each second I get further from the library “Please don’t go there again”, it begs me without language Yet here I am, 10: 26pm, alone, pondering who may be watching from within

Wanting All Husband, it's fine the way your mind performs Like a circus, sharp As a sword somebody has To swallow, rough as a bear, Complicated as a family of jugglers, Brave as a sequined trapeze Artist, the only boy I ever met Who could beat me in argument Was why I married you, isn't it, And you have beaten me, I've beaten you, We are old polished hands. Or was it your body, I forget, maybe I foresaw the thousands on thousands Of times we have made love Together, mostly meat And potatoes love, but sometimes Higher than wine, Better than medicine. How lately you bite, you baby, How angels record and number Each gesture, and sketch Our spinal columns like professionals. Husband, it's fine how we cook Dinners together while drinking, How we get drunk, how We gossip, work at our desks, dig in the garden, Go to the movies, tell The children to clear the bloody table, How we fit like puzzle pieces. The mind and body satisfy Like windows and furniture in a house. The windows are large, the furniture solid. What more do I want then, why Do I prowl the basement, why Do I reach for your inside Self as you shut it Like a trunkful of treasures? Wait, I cry, as the lid slams on my fingers.

For me the poem and the poetry open mic isn’t about competition and it never will be. Honestly? It's wrong. The open mic is about 1 poet, one fellow human being up on a stage or behind a podium sharing their work regardless of what form or style they bring to it. In other words? The guy with the low slam score is more than likely a far better poet-writer than the guy who actually won. But who are you? I ? Or really anyone else to judge them? The Poetry Slam has become an overgrown, over used monopoly on American literature and poetry and is now over utilized by the academic & public school establishments. And over the years has sadly become the "McDonalds Of Poetry". We can only hope that the same old stale atmosphere of it all eventually becomes or evolves into something new that translates to and from the written page and that gives new poets with different styles & authentic voices a chance to share their work too.

Owl Hollow Road by Stewart Stafford On a bracing night walk, On leafy Owl Hollow Road, A raspy voice whispered to me, Like a deep-croaking old toad. I moved rapidly on my path, And then heard phantom feet, Looked around, empty space, Only silence replaced the beat. At my most pressing pace now, A shadow pointed past my shoulder, An SUV slammed into my side, And I broke my back on a boulder. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved

They’re close. Voices loud and fierce, Slapping faces with words. A scream … A cry … They’re getting closer. Did I lock the door? It’s too late to check. They’re coming. I barely move, barely breathe. Perhaps they’ll go away. But they’re getting closer. The door slams against the wall. My eyes squeeze shut. This curtain is not a shield. They’re here. They’ve come for me. I freeze. Metal rings clank together. My barrier is cast aside. Wearily, I look. Reddened eyes glower at one another … But not at me. I wonder. A moment of silence … Water streams down my face. Steam rolls around my flesh. I glare at the intruders And slide the curtain between us. I wait. He shrieks, “She took my glow stick!” She howls, “No, I didn’t!” I scowl. “Go tell your father about it.” They leave. I inhale the lavender mist. Slather bubbles over my skin. Five more minutes … And, next time, I shall lock the door.

But mostly, finally, ultimately, I'm here for the weather. As a result of the weather, ours is a landscape in a minor key, a sketchy panorama where objects, both organic and inorganic, lack well-defined edges and tent to melt together, creating a perpetual blurred effect, as if God, after creating Northwestern Washington, had second thoughts and tried unsuccessfully to erase it. Living here is not unlike living inside a classical Chinese painting before the intense wisps of mineral pigment had dried upon the silk - although, depending on the bite in the wind, they're times when it's more akin to being trapped in a bad Chinese restaurant; a dubious joint where gruff waiters slam chopsticks against the horizon, where service is haphazard, noodles soggy, wallpaper a tad too green, and considerable amounts of tea are spilt; but in each and every fortune cookie there's a line of poetry you can never forget. Invariably, the poems comment on the weather. In the deepest, darkest heart of winter, when the sky resembles bad banana baby food for months on end, and the witch measles that meteorologists call "drizzle" are a chronic gray rash on the skin of the land, folks all around me sink into a dismal funk. Many are depressed, a few actually suicidal. But I, I grow happier with each fresh storm, each thickening of the crinkly stratocumulus. "What's so hot about the sun?" I ask. Sunbeams are a lot like tourists: intruding where they don't belong, promoting noise and forced activity, faking a shallow cheerfulness, dumb little cameras slung around their necks. Raindrops, on the other hand, introverted, feral, buddhistically cool, behave as if they were locals. Which, of course, they are.

منتظراً، مثلكِ، وعداً من خلف البحرِ ومنهمراً مثل الأمطارِ على بيروتَ، وأقنعُ نفسي ألا ضير بقفزٍ من سطح الغيم إلى بئر الحب.. وأكتبُ: في موت القطراتِ حياةْ كالموجِ أميلُ يساراً جهةَ القلبِ، أفكرُ أين سأصبح بعد كتابين من الآن، أصوّرُ نفسي حتى لا أتصوّرُ نفسي من غير يديك وأحلمُ بالآتْ... ضوءُ نهارٍ آخرَ فوق الشاطئ ماتْ تنكسرُ على قدم المقهى أحلامُ البحرِ وأمواجُ العاشرِ من آذار... كما تنكسر على شفتي الكلماتْ في آخرِ سطرٍ في دفتر هذي الليلةِ أكتبُ: كفّاكِ سفينةُ نوحٍ... صدركِ: ذهبُ الله الأبيضُ.. قلبكِ: كبريتٌ يشتعلُ جمالاً وطموحْ شفتاكِ: عناقيدٌ تحلمُ أن تُعتصرَ نبيذاَ أبدياً... وتُعتّق في خابيةِ الروحْ هل قلتُ يداكِ سفينةُ نوحٍ.. نسيتُ التوضيح: حياتي نوحْ...

Simonton finds that on average, creative geniuses weren’t qualitatively better in their fields than their peers. They simply produced a greater volume of work, which gave them more variation and a higher chance of originality. “The odds of producing an influential or successful idea,” Simonton notes, are “a positive function of the total number of ideas generated.” Consider Shakespeare: we’re most familiar with a small number of his classics, forgetting that in the span of two decades, he produced 37 plays and 154 sonnets. Simonton tracked the popularity of Shakespeare’s plays, measuring how often they’re performed and how widely they’re praised by experts and critics. In the same five-year window that Shakespeare produced three of his five most popular works—Macbeth, King Lear, and Othello—he also churned out the comparatively average Timon of Athens and All’s Well That Ends Well, both of which rank among the worst of his plays and have been consistently slammed for unpolished prose and incomplete plot and character development. In every field, even the most eminent creators typically produce a large quantity of work that’s technically sound but considered unremarkable by experts and audiences. When the London Philharmonic Orchestra chose the 50 greatest pieces of classical music, the list included six pieces by Mozart, five by Beethoven, and three by Bach. To generate a handful of masterworks, Mozart composed more than 600 pieces before his death at thirty-five, Beethoven produced 650 in his lifetime, and Bach wrote over a thousand. In a study of over 15,000 classical music compositions, the more pieces a composer produced in a given five-year window, the greater the spike in the odds of a hit. Picasso’s oeuvre includes more than 1,800 paintings, 1,200 sculptures, 2,800 ceramics, and 12,000 drawings, not to mention prints, rugs, and tapestries—only a fraction of which have garnered acclaim. In poetry, when we recite Maya Angelou’s classic poem “Still I Rise,” we tend to forget that she wrote 165 others; we remember her moving memoir I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and pay less attention to her other 6 autobiographies. In science, Einstein wrote papers on general and special relativity that transformed physics, but many of his 248 publications had minimal impact. If you want to be original, “the most important possible thing you could do,” says Ira Glass, the producer of This American Life and the podcast Serial, “is do a lot of work. Do a huge volume of work.” Across fields, Simonton reports that the most prolific people not only have the highest originality; they also generate their most original output during the periods in which they produce the largest volume.* Between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, Edison pioneered the lightbulb, the phonograph, and the carbon telephone. But during that period, he filed well over one hundred patents for other inventions as diverse as stencil pens, a fruit preservation technique, and a way of using magnets to mine iron ore—and designed a creepy talking doll. “Those periods in which the most minor products appear tend to be the same periods in which the most major works appear,” Simonton notes. Edison’s “1,093 patents notwithstanding, the number of truly superlative creative achievements can probably be counted on the fingers of one hand.

Dear Borrowed Time, Why do you tease me? It seems like you give me a teeny weenie bit of light for a moment, and then, within the blink of an eye, you blow the light out in less than a second. Then I am left in the dark without a trace of light. What have I done for you to hate me so much? After all, and truth be told, I didn’t ask to be here. You put me here. Do you enjoy my suffering? It seems like you do because every step I take is difficult. You never spare me grace or a grain of mercy. Why do I have to be the one who borrows time as opposed to having time given to me fairly? When I look around, I see people enjoying life and the time that is given to them. It doesn’t seem like they are on borrowed time, but I notice I am. One would say, no, you have the same amount of time, just like everyone else. No, that is not true. The time that is given to me ticks by quickly and runs out faster than it ticks. Borrowed time, have you noticed that I was treated like trash as I was dumped here and there, or wherever they could place me? Did you notice that I didn’t stay in a home long because I was on borrowed time? Time wasn’t given to me because I was never given the ‘time’ to get to know anyone. I guess not, because I was and still am on borrowed time. I am sitting in a tree looking at the clock. The long hand never lends its hand to spare me more time. Instead, it takes more time away than it gives. The short hand always short-changed me on time and my life as well. And the second hand, oh, it is the worst!. It is a make-it-or-break-it moment. As it quickly ticks ... ticks ... ticks ... it slams the door in my face faster than it opened. Borrowed time, I want to be treated as fairly as anyone else. I hope one day you will favor me. If not, I have to continue to live on borrowed time until my time runs out completely. Time is never on my side.

She dropped her hands, keeping her place in the book. ¶ 'Do you hear it?' she asked rhetorically. 'Do you hear it?' ¶ Victor made eye contact with Nathaniel. The professor raised the book once more, this time shouting like a finalist at a poetry slam.

A poet if anything must be a poet and far more than just a writer of words. The poet is the storyteller, the shaman, the jester and the rogue. The poet lives in the world of language and imagination, love, death & obsession and yet still sees the universe in the smallest of everyday things that we merely take for granted.

When am mad, I cry when am mad, I scream, When am mad, I want to be left alone when am mad, I sleep When am mad, I take a long walk When am mad, I write to express how I feel when am mad, i draw picture to describe my mood, when am mad, i slam doors

Campaign Against Akhmatova Begins (1922) She ran from lamppost to lamppost, the wind slammed. Trotsky reviewed her in Pravda: One reads with dismay... and an unofficial Communist Party resolution banned her poetry (1925). She didn't notice, didn't know what a Communist Party was in those days. Fog choked the city. Russia's great poets were all about 35 years ol Scraggly trees wandered by the canal in dim sun.

Stormy Sunday by Stewart Stafford Coffee offsets the stormy Sunday, Thundery fingers scratch the drum, The coal-black sky stares unamused, A dim rainbow stripe upon its back. The understudy sun punches through, Slamming into a house's white gable, Blinding against the dark backdrop, The shushing showers rage angrier. Liquid beading on the window pane, Translucent insects marching slipshod, Weather duellists go back and forth, A primal rolling flux rumbling on. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Men, who are more likely to punish you for an abortion than they are for sexual assault But if they see the procedure To be the murderer of a baby inside of a woman Then tell me. When a girl gets raped, is the child inside her not dying too? -Barbie, poem by

Poetry is much much more than all of the definitions, theories or explanations that you read or hear about everyday. Poetry is not just a form, a quote or one or two popular poets or pop stars in the media. Poetry is not hip hop or gangsta rap, slam or new formalism, gay or straight, white or black, dead or alive. Poetry does not belong either to the streets or the academics. Poetry is not always a love song. Poetry is not always about the rain or nature, mountains or castles. Poetry is neither happy nor depressed, a villain or a hero, a lover or a friend. Poetry is merely poetry for poetry’s sake. But the words are sacred, something sacred which we share. Poetry is a state of consciousness and the mind. Poetry is all of history and is the history of being. Poetry is all of us Poetry is you.

KAKO JE ISUS POSTAO AUTOSTOPER za dve, tri decenije, ili par godina ranije biće nebitno – da li je crveno na semaforu crveno na kalendaru ili prestupna godina za dve tri decenije, ili par sati nakon toga biće nebitno – da li je Isus u crkvi, ili u menjačnici Grad će ustati kao šuma koja probija plafone tržnog centra Grad će se prohodati kao korenje koje razdvaja zebre i trotoare koje diže asfalt, penje se na semafore spušta se niz ivičnjake i grize izolaciju atomskih skloništa Grad će mirisati kao second hand u zoološkom vrtu Grad će udahnuti kremirano porodilište i ostaće samo mast na dnu glasačke kutije i kosti sa biračkih spiskova da pošalju razglednice za preostale predsednike i njihove ozračene unuke dok kupuju svemirske deonice i radioaktivne sanduke jednog ponedeljka, ili utorka ujutru Grad će poslati preostalu novorođenčad da raste i ljulja se ispod naftnih platformi na mesecu ostaće samo žiro-računi na dnu mora, i potomci berze da kupuju bazene, tobogane i armaturu za javne kuće na Merkuru i preživeće samo barut i poternice najgladnije bespilotne letilice hiljade spomenika obezglavljenih idola milijarde lajkova i bubašvaba u zajedničkoj grobnici bar-kodova i sigurnosnih kamera preživeće samo divlje cveće koje raste na deponiji androida jednog četvrtka posle ručka na portirnici gradske opštine, parking mestu za invalide ispod oglasa za slobodna radna mesta na terasi skupštine, hodnicima gradske kuće u kupatilu gradonačelnika spavaćemo mirno i udojeno – kao demografska bomba iza blindiranog stakla menjačnice, u pisoarima noćnih klubova na pokretnim trakama fabrike kablova na pragu milicije, kancelarijama komunalnog preduzeća u slivnicima javnog toaleta, u redovima supermarketa na poslužavnicima ekspres-restorana u kolicima saniteta, na crvenom tepihu Univerziteta na recepciji toponice, renoviranim šalterima pošte i distribucije pekarskim pećima i policama, u bolničkim krevetima iza vatrogasnih kamiona i garaža otvorenih kredita i trezora iza vrata automata za kafu spavaće najlepši insekti nezaposleni glodari zaljubljene škorpije krvoločne ovce pitomi vukovi i armije ptica grabljivica mirno i udojeno a ti draga ti ćeš biti poslednji obrok dugačke crne kose u ljubičastom somotu šetaćeš svoju kilometarsku haljinu u talasima zemljom koja guta bilborde kroz zelenilo koje grize asfalt i narasta semafore šetaćeš kroz šiblje i rastinje koje obara svetleće reklame farmacije i žvaće prazne bensedine u prevrnutom kombiju hitne pomoći sakrićeš ključeve svojih velikih kapija Mašinske industrije urasle u koru drveća ključeve, koje će dobiti oni koji stoje na litici hotela ’Ambasador’ mirni, kao lavovi od kamena hrabri, kao veliko i ranjeno srce Isusove poternice...

BELA NOĆ! Ako nedeljom uveče umesto reprize Srećnih ljudi stružem po plafonu opljačkane ludnice ako za večeru progutam senku sijalice ili namažem na hleb ono što je ostalo između nožnih prstiju čekajući gromove na Sinđelićevom trgu da skinu me do pojasa da promaše i udare u petočlanu porodicu bez plafona ////////////////// tako je uvek i bilo na omiljenoj slomljenoj klupi probudim se u ponoć dvoumim se sat vremena pokupim te u pola dva ujutru usput nekoliko praznih ambalaža i betonskih jastuka sa Filmskih susreta ruku pod ruku stisnem te istresem te kao poslednji gutljaj ispred zatvorene trafike i 7 dana u sobi bez vazduha, jeftina isparenja bez komšiluka, bez drugog dnevnika, kurve iz hodnika bez dinara, praznika, kontrole, konduktera 7 dana bez signala i propuštenih poziva samo fijuk ventilatora morska so u bojleru i upaljena ringla u mraku ////////////// 7 dana dok nas ne probudi sirena za prestanak opasnosti repriza Boljeg života i krkljanje Srećnih ljudi /////////////////////// okolo proleću bestseleri sigurnosni pojasevi, ležeći policajci okolo vetar gura kamion za pranje ulice liže poklopce nagradne igre koju šaht neće da proguta i samo se grafiti guraju u liftu dok poplava diže katance iz podruma na osmi sprat, slušajući kako udaraju nezatvoreni prozori kako padaju mesečne kartice cegeri, štipaljke i kineske lutke pod muzikom crnih ptica proleću sniženja iz mesare SNS članske karte nasmejani posteri, prekrštene ruke kuponi narodne kuhinje pod muzikom crnih ptica na omiljenoj slomljenoj klupi gledam kako seva iza brda bela noć čupa granje RTS-a prašina i lišće u hodnicima ugašenog televizora (počinje prava vremenska prognoza) //////////////// oohh, kako volim ponoć u sobi bez vazduha apokaliptične uspavanke oohhhhh dolaze, kao krv crveni brutalni anđeli, paganski anđeli jeftino pivo, žestina, jeftina isparenja nebeskih kontejnera... u sobi bez vazduha draga

Rhyming vs. Non-Rhyming Poetry There are only four proper places for rhyming poetry in the 21st Century ~ humorous verse, poetry slams and Hallmark... I'm still trying to figure out the fourth.

When walking in this mode we discover the immense vigour of starry night skies, elemental energies, and our appetites follow: they are enormous, and our bodies are satisfied. When you have slammed the world’s door, there is nothing left to hold you: pavements no longer guide your steps (the path, a hundred thousand times repeated, of the return to the fold). Crossroads shimmer like hesitant stars, you rediscover the tremulous fear of choosing, a vertiginous freedom.

I became part of his ocean, an ocean of poetry that swayed and moved anybody near, that plunged up against every chair and table and tugged and tried our souls. His poem left me dry-mouthed and hungry, diminished only slightly from the bitterness of the beer I continually forgot was in my hand.

Oh, for God’s sake,” she spat out. “Just say it. You’re involved with someone and it doesn’t work into your plans to spend time in Virgin River!” “That’s not it,” he said nervously. “You know everything about me! Yet you couldn’t even casually mention you were seeing someone at home?” “It’s not like that. Listen, I just need some time on this. Some patience. Because I really intend to do better by you than I have. I know I haven’t been here for you like I meant to be and—” “Stop!” she said. “I haven’t asked you for anything except to stay in touch! Stop whimpering!” He scowled. His neck got red. “I’m not whimpering!” “Well, you sure as hell aren’t talking! Man up!” “I’m trying! But you’re doing all the talking for me!” She had a few more hot retorts, but bit her tongue against them. She pursed her lips. He had been in Virgin River for months, but he went back to Grants Pass almost every week for a day or two. He had said it was to check on the construction company he’d left in the hands of his father and brothers. And to check on her? It must’ve been pretty hard on her to be asked to understand he had to be away so much, tending to his best friend’s widow. Imagine now, being told he’d have to make frequent trips to Virgin River to make sure the widow and baby were doing all right. Talk about complicated. Well, she wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship. “I think you’re trying to tell me there’s a woman back in Grants Pass who’s counting on you. You have obligations there.” “Yeah,” he said weakly. “But, Vanni, I have obligations here, as well. You and Mattie, you’re awful important to me…” Being referred to as an obligation should have made her want to cry, but instead it made her furious. “Well, don’t worry your little head. We’re getting along just fine—better every day. You have a life in Grants Pass. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that.” “You’re not listening,” he said, his voice raising to match hers. “I want to be here with you, as often as possible,” he said. “I’m doing my damn best!” “It sounds like you have other things, other people you’d better pay attention to.” “Listen, things can happen that you don’t plan, don’t expect!” “Oh really?” she asked sarcastically. “Tell me about it,” she said. She hadn’t expected her husband to die, or to fall in love with Paul. If there was one thing she knew about the men in her life—her father, her late husband, Paul and all the guys who seemed to gather around him—they didn’t make commitments lightly, and once a promise was made, they never broke an oath. “I’m sure you’ll get everything straightened out,” she said. She tried to keep the angry edge out of her voice, but she was thoroughly unsuccessful. “Please, you have no obligations here. We’ll be fine. I don’t know why you didn’t just tell me—a long time ago! Did you think I wouldn’t understand you had to get home because there was someone there? Someone who was counting on you?” “It isn’t like that!” “You could have just told me!” “Vanessa! For God’s sake—” Paul attempted. Walt walked into the room. He looked stricken, startled. “Are you having an argument about something?” “No!” they both said. “Oh,” Walt said. “Poetry, I guess. Some new kind of poetry?” Vanessa hissed and Paul just shook his head. “I hear the baby,” she said, whirling out of the room. “I hear something, too,” Paul said, leaving in the opposite direction, charging out the front door and letting it slam behind him. Walt was left alone in the great room in front of a blazing hearth. “Well,” he said to himself. “Glad to know that wasn’t an argument.” *

Are you sure about this? It’s a bit short.” “So? It’s poetry, not dick size.

Es ist ein Missverständnis. Ich hab jahrelang gedacht, in mir sei nur ein Zimmer, und dann wurde es ein Land. Es wurde ein Universum, und mit Liebe und Verstand habe ich mein Zuhause in mir selber gerade erkannt.

Besides, it’s not a favor,” Simon added, “it’s a poetry slam around the block from your house. It’s not like I’m inviting you to some orgy in Hoboken. Your mom can come along if she wants.” “ORGY IN HOBOKEN!” Clary heard someone, probably Eric, yell. Another cymbal crashed. She imagined her mother listening to Eric read his poetry, and she shuddered inwardly.

08. It is against the law to ski down a mounting while reciting poetry. 09. At one time it was against the law to slam car doors in Switzerland. 10. It is required that every car with snow tires has to have a sticker on its dashboard which tells that the driver should not drive faster than 160 km/h with these tires. 11. People must pass verbal and written tests before they are allowed to own a dog.

Is he for real? A hot guy who makes me laugh and loves poetry? Someone pinch me. Or not—I’d rather not wake up.

Did you know? When the bullet exploded the stars in the cosmos of your body, did you know that others would read manifestos by your light? Did you know, after the white ambulance left, before the coloured ambulance arrived, if you would live at all, that you would banish the apartheid of the ambulance with Mandela and a million demonstrators dancing at every funeral? Did you know, slamming the hammer into the rock’s stoic face, that a police state is nothing but a boulder waiting for the alchemy of dust? Did you know that, forty years later, college presidents and professors of English would raise their wine to your name and wonder what poetry they could write with a bullet in the back?

My canvas pale against her burnt ochre paint.

الأدراج: قصائد المدن نحو معانيها العالية… على أيّ درب أواعدُ عينيكِ... والأمنيات ثكالى وكلّ الدروبِ بلا آخرِ... تعبنا نفتّش عن حلمٍ واحدٍ للبقاء.. فلمْ تلتفت نجمةٌ في الحنين إلى غربةِ العابرِ نُسينا وحيدين حتى تقاسَمنا الوجدُ والطارئون فما همَّ من باع عهد الضياع ومن يشتري وصافحني سيف هذا الرحيل.. وقد كنت غمداً أصيلاً فلم أخسر العنفوانَ ولم تخسري

ما من مكان سكنته إلا وسكنني.. ‏ أشعر أني مدينة ...

في حضنها كن ندى.. كن غيمةً... مطرا‬ واغمض يديك على نيرانها لترى لن تفهم الحب، حاول إن وقعت به أن تفهم الفأس لا أن تفهم الشجرا... ولا تفكّر كثيراً، دع غداً لغدٍ كن عاشقاً، أجمل الأغصان ما انكسرا خف من بقائكما لا من رحيلكما لن تحبس الريح مهما تحبس الوترا لا ورد يملك عطراً، وهو يسكنه والليل مهما سرى لن يملك القمرا دعها تحبك... دعها أن تحب... غداً يبقى من العمر... حبّ كان... وانتثرا...

كلّ سهمٍ في أضلعي وفؤادي جاء ممّن أحبّهم يا بلادي..

سيستغرق الجرح وقتاً ليكتشف الليل حزن القمرْ… هنا الأرض أضيق من رغبتي بالبكاء، وهذي السماء،على الرغم من كل بهجتها في المساء… ورغم اتساع المدى واخضرار الشجرْ… عروقيَ خيطان طائرةً في بلادي، وقلبي حجرْ… دعيني أصدّق عينيك يا حلوتي، كلّ من كان خان، دعيني أصدق أنّ يديك اهتدائي الأخير إلى لغتي الواعدةْ… دعيني أفسر جوع العصافير وهي تحوم على سورة المائدةْ! دعيني أفكر بي، وبنا، وبمن قال إن الهويات نصلٌ بأحلامنا الهامدةْ… لماذا تظل البلاد التي عذبتنا طويلاً ندوباً بأرواحنا الباردةْ؟ وهل نحن نرحل ما دام تبقى البيوت ثقوباً بأجسادنا الشاردةْ! لقد قطّعتنا البلاد إلى حطب من رحيلٍ، وقد أحرقتنا اشتياقاً، لماذا تحنّ الغصون إلى الريح والشجرة الجاحدة؟ ولماذا على غرقٍ أبيض حين أكتب أسكب كل القصائد في دمعة واحدةْ؟

Maelstrom Rock by Stewart Stafford O, obsidian jagged island, This playground of the gods, Distant white novice waves, In warhorse slam into rock. Be this witchcraft or wit's raft? Conducting the vast elements, With lava-hot passion mustered, Spinning whirlpool shipwreck tales. A walker between the winds comes, Both Nature and shaman within it, Of coral and shell and weed growth, Compassion at flaying whip's end. Bid goodbye to the demi-paradise! On the gloomy prow, watch it flee, An aria's dreams of magic ebbing, Freed thralls clasp earthly chains. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

The ongoing problem with most American poetry & poets today is their lack of belief in themselves & that they don't expand upon their ideals or experiment enough with their craft. That's why we are all stuck in the same old literary grind & groove still pushing out old ideas, listening to ridiculous banter of egotistical critics & still worshipping the old schools & movements of long past yesterdays from decades ago. Dead icons, dead ideas, dead slams and an established academic system that's biased and too busy promoting all the cliche events that they believe are all about community but mainly promoting their own of which are not open to all poets without degrees but mostly only to students & the inner sanctum. Poetry is for everyone and it needs a new vision of our times. The 21st century. The majority of poets who are producing new & original works are being ignored. Poetry should be independent and free of bias and uncategorized. Workshops or classes are not the solution.

कविता से पहले एक कोशिश तो कीजिए TRY ONCE BEFORE YOU WRITE POETRY

When you understand how these theories function, when they become your North Star, you understand why progress is so hard and why survival is a constant struggle. Theories are more than just academic words that folx with degrees throw around at coffee shops and poetry slams; they work to explain to us how the world works, who the world denies, and how structures uphold oppression.

Teagan and I dropped into chairs beside him. My stutter, which always acted up when my emotions were running high, gave away how excited I was to be here. My first real poetry slam. A few minutes later,

Someone slammed me of my biblical post: “Of all the idiots, you are the most!” He then dared me with a pithy question to prove I was wrong in my position. Must I stoop to such a boorish manner? The question’s good but not the questioner. My retort?—“Your question is full of wit. Why choose an idiot to answer it?

Theories are more than just academic words that folx with degrees throw around at coffee shops and poetry slams; they work to explain to us how the world works, who the world denies, and how structures uphold oppression.

Prompts (for High School Teachers Who Write Poetry)" Dante Di Stefano Write about walking into the building as a new teacher. Write yourself hopeful. Write a row of empty desks. Write the face of a student you’ve almost forgotten; he’s worn a Derek Jeter jersey all year. Do not conjecture about the adults he goes home to, or the place he calls home. Write about how he came to you for help each October morning his sophomore year. Write about teaching Othello to him; write Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven. Write about reading his obituary five years after he graduated. Write a poem containing the words “common” “core,” “differentiate,” and “overdose.” Write the names of the ones you will never forget: “Jenna,” “Tiberious,” “Heaven,” “Megan,” “Tanya,” “Kingsley” “Ashley,” “David.” Write Mari with “Nobody’s Baby” tattooed in cursive on her neck, spitting sixteen bars in the backrow, as little white Mike beatboxed “Candy Shop” and the whole class exploded. Write about Zuly and Nely, sisters from Guatemala, upon whom a thousand strange new English words rained down on like hail each period, and who wrote the story of their long journey on la bestia through Mexico, for you, in handwriting made heavy by the aquís and ayers ached in their knuckles, hidden by their smiles. Write an ode to loose-leaf. Write elegies on the nub nose of a pink eraser. Carve your devotion from a no. 2 pencil. Write the uncounted hours you spent fretting about the ones who cursed you out for keeping order, who slammed classroom doors, who screamed “you are not my father,” whose pain unraveled and broke you, whose pain you knew. Write how all this added up to a life. -- Dante Di Stefano. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 4, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

How was I supposed to know that slamming doors was saying goodbye you did it all the time and he still let you home how was I to know that your love was not a map to follow

To my babies, Merry Christmas. I’m sorry if these letters have caught you both by surprise. There is just so much more I have to say. I know you thought I was done giving advice, but I couldn’t leave without reiterating a few things in writing. You may not relate to these things now, but someday you will. I wasn’t able to be around forever, but I hope that my words can be. —Don’t stop making basagna. Basagna is good. Wait until a day when there is no bad news, and bake a damn basagna. —Find a balance between head and heart. Hopefully you’ve found that, Lake, and you can help Kel sort it out when he gets to that point. —Push your boundaries, that’s what they’re there for. —I’m stealing this snippet from your favorite band, Lake. “Always remember there is nothing worth sharing like the love that let us share our name.” —Don’t take life too seriously. Punch it in the face when it needs a good hit. Laugh at it. —And laugh a lot. Never go a day without laughing at least once. —Never judge others. You both know good and well how unexpected events can change who a person is. Always keep that in mind. You never know what someone else is experiencing within their own life. —Question everything. Your love, your religion, your passions. If you don’t have questions, you’ll never find answers. —Be accepting. Of everything. People’s differences, their similarities, their choices, their personalities. Sometimes it takes a variety to make a good collection. The same goes for people. —Choose your battles, but don’t choose very many. —Keep an open mind; it’s the only way new things can get in. —And last but not least, not the tiniest bit least. Never regret. Thank you both for giving me the best years of my life. Especially the last one. Love, Mom acknowledgments To Abigail Ehn with Poetry Slam, Inc. for answering all of my questions with lightning speed.

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