slam poetry feature

BooksOctober 17, 2018

Roses are red, violets are fucken blue: Poetry Slam is coming to a stage near you

slam poetry feature

Slam poetry! It’s raw, it’s rough, and it’s also a wildly popular live entertainment, writes Ben Fagan, who is masterminding slam events across the country this month.

One of my favourite poetry moments happened a few years ago. I was at a slam in Wellington. It was packed. Someone had just finished performing and there was a lull while scores were tallied. The host Travis was speaking to the audience when, near the front, a young woman’s hand shot up.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a poem.”

“Is it a short one?”

“Yup.”

Travis invited her to the stage. She announced, “This poem is for John.” And then she delivered the immortal lines:

 

Roses are red,

violets are blue.

You are a cunt

and I don’t fuck with you.

 

It was a masterclass of style over substance. Without a backwards look she bounced offstage and into the night. The audience took a collective breath and whispered to each other that they were glad they came. John had performed a love poem earlier in the evening; word went around at the halftime break that it wasn’t about his then-girlfriend, who had been sitting in the audience.

Wellington Slam. Image: Supplied.

Years before hearing “The Destruction of John”, I attended my first poetry slam by accident. A friend of mine from back in the day was competing and asked if I’d come along to support. I was surprised to be handed a set of Olympic style scorecards on arrival.

Poetry slam is a competitive event, I learned, where random audience judges assign points to performances. There are rounds and eliminations until a Slam Champion remains. The poetry I witnessed was smart and funny and moving. I found the crowd raucously supportive, so much so that in the following months I kept turning up. Wrote my first poem. Then another.

Handing out scorecards introduced a competitive element that interested the plus-ones and pint-drinkers as much as the poets. Since the first Chicago slams in the 1980s there are now national competitions in over 50 countries, with smaller events running in many more.

In America, slam is serious business. Winning the Women of the World Poetry Slam or the Individual World Poetry Slam might lead to a book deal, while Europe invites poets to Paris every year for the equally serious Coupe du Monde de Slam Poésie. As I became a regular slam-attender, I realised that the scoring was a clever trick to draw in normies. Every “I really think she should have won” and “That score was too low” revealed an engagement with the writing. As all good slam hosts say: the point is not the points, the point is the poetry.

I never liked poetry at high school, common story. Like many Kiwi kids we were required to read and dissect aging pieces, even the occasional Baxter photocopy was too far from my 16-year-old experience to relate. Despite a passing interest in writing, I would never have taken myself to a “reading”.

But Aotearoa is well suited to slam. Māori and Pasifika oral tradition is a natural friend to contemporary spoken word (and if I don’t mention Sam Hunt now, someone else will). The first slams happened in NZ around the new millennium. A coordinated effort in 2011 gathered competitors from across the country to find a New Zealand Slam Champion. Every year since, there have been national events.

Chap on stage is Toby Newberry at the National Youth Drama School Poetry Slam. Image: Supplied.

This year there are regional finals in Auckland, Hamilton, Hawke’s Bay, Wellington, Nelson, Christchurch, Dunedin and Queenstown, mostly over the next month. Slam in New Zealand is a widespread but still fragile pastime. Whole communities rise and fall on the enthusiasm or energy of a few. Sometimes it only takes one person moving out of town for a scene to disappear.

The winners of our national competition are a diverse bunch, with vastly different stories and voices. While there is influence here of the American spoken word style, Kiwi audiences often pull towards the more quirky or interesting; those obviously sharing their own experience. I hear Queenstown’s 2018 rep is a bush balladeer.

There is a trend of viral poetry videos filmed on phones, at slams and in classrooms. These share a voyeuristic quality, a sense you’re getting a glimpse into a private moment. Like how sharing a secret brings people closer together, good writing lets us see ourselves in someone else’s story.

That young woman’s angrily improvised poem for John had clear intent, but was a bit light on imagery. If the judges had a chance to score her, I imagine that would have been reflected in the points. She did bring us together though. We were united in the message of not fucking with John. Which is a good start.

Slam events are being held in Hastings on October 19, Auckland on October 24, and Wellington on October 27; for details, and events elsewhere, visit http://www.newzealandpoetryslam.com/

Keep going!
Ardern and winners

BooksOctober 16, 2018

Salmon on pikelets, and $60,000 in loot: the Prime Minister’s Literary Awards

Ardern and winners

Three writers pocketed $60,000 last night at the Prime Minister’s Awards for Literary Achievement. Spinoff Review of Books literary editor Steve Braunias was there, apparently.

O 60 large! O three prizes of 60 large, handed out last night to the three esteemed winners of the 2018 Prime Minister’s Awards for Literary Achievement, at the prime minister’s own home in Wellington, Premier House – guests were stopped at the front gates, two were frisked. Twilight fell like a plate from a shelf and smashed into little pieces.

Inside, there were chandeliers but also cheap Lighting Direct halogen lights in the high ceilings. There were lush carpets. There were drapes as heavy as a sack of potatoes. The place was packed. The wine was flowing. It didn’t go off: no one was stoned, no one was pinging, the average age was 83 and in any case the only wine that flowed was sauvignon blanc and chardonnay. Not a drop of red! What year was it? 1987? Still, needs must, and a number of guests knocked back two or three glasses of white on an empty stomach. The food was slow in coming out. When it did, guests swooped and cawed like vultures.

“Oh look,” cawed a novelist, who last had a book published 30 years ago. “Little pikelets with salmon. The usual.” But that didn’t stop her from swooping.

A very fat retired civil servant who is always at these things filled his boots with scallops in bacon. He asked, “Is there more?”

“Not of those,” said a waitperson, “but would you like to try these?”

He carried a plate of chicken on bamboo. Another waitperson sailed past with a plate of round indefinable crumbed balls. No one wanted a bar of that, but the pig belly was thoroughly and greedily troughed.

Fiction winner Renée and “Jacinda Arhern”. Image: Creative NZ.

Everyone wore black. There was a pink couch behind the stage. A folded napkin had been placed beneath a chair leg to balance it. From down the hall, a man was shouting; if you strained, you could pick out the words “nappy” and “Jesus Christ”.

Fergus Barrowman was there, Dame Fiona Kidman was there, Linda Burgess was there. Tayi Tibble was there, and wore houndstooth; arts administrator Kathryn Carmody was there, and wore tartan. Ultimate arts luvvie Peter Biggs was there, flashing his cufflinks – they have JFK’s face on them. God almighty! Wellington mayor Justin Lester was there and he had his little girl with him. Adorable! Renée, one of the winners, came with her grand-daughter, Naomi Taylor. “Fox!,” said a graduate from the International Institute of Modern Letters, licking her lips.

An orderly queue formed of guests waiting to apologise to Louise O’Brien, co-editor of New Zealand Books, for being late with their promised reviews. “You’d be surprised at how often that happens!”, said Louise, but no one was surprised in the least.

And then, a commotion: the elderly struggled to their feet: eyes that were dimmed with years of solitude and disappointment began to brighten: a whisper flew around the room like a fast, colourful bird: “Jacinda!” The Prime Minister had arrived. Her face shone like a lantern, and her teeth were white as snow – but her body was surrounded by a baggy black blazer.

“Not as well turned out as she often is,” said a senior official from Creative New Zealand. “No feather cloak.”

“It’s not really the occasion, though,” said his companion, a librarian. “And that’s actually a designer baggy black blazer.”

“Are we here to talk about how she’s dressed, or are we here to honour what is essentially a lifetime award for three of our most distinguished authors,” said a bore from the culture and heritage ministry. He didn’t wait for an answer; he went looking for the scallops in bacon.

MC Kathryn Ryan from Radio New Zealand called for silence. She wore dark blue. She introduced Arts Council oompah-loompah Michael Moynahan. He wore dark blue. He thanked someone called “Jacinda Ahern”. Good old Jacinda Ahern! Nice of her to make it. The PM took the stage and made a speech. She said, reading from her notes: “If music is the soundtrack of our lives, then literature is our collective biography.” The guests nodded, sighed with pleasure. And then she strayed from her notes, and inprovised: “It acknowledges our failings. It beautifully acknowledges our failings.”

Bloody old Jacinda Ahern! Banging on about failure at a time like this – who wanted to hear that kind of talk? Everyone was in the room to celebrate success. Finally, the PM shut it, and Kathryn Ryan invited the three winners onto the stage.

Poetry winner Michael Harlow and “Jacinda Arhern”.

First, art writer Wystan Curnow, who ummed and ahhed for 15 minutes. Then playwright Renée, who spoke wonderfully well for eight minutes; she thanked many people, including the women “who got us all here in this Suffrage anniversary year – the women who cleaned Kate Sheppard’s house and did her ironing.” And then poet Michael Harlow spoke for five minutes, including the reading of one of his poems; afterwards, many guests declared that they were so very, very pleased Harlow would be featured in the year’s most eagerly anticipated poetry book, The Friday Poem: An anthology of 100 New Zealand poems, due soon from Luncheon Sausage Books.

The last person to leave was the bore from the culture and heritage ministry who had gone looking for more trays of scallops in bacon. He was frisked at the door. “Put them back,” said the man from the diplomatic protection squad.

The Spinoff Review of Books is proudly brought to you by Unity Books.