Having just been privy to an extraordinary Poetry Slam event, part of the Going West festival on Saturday night, I wonder where the upsurge in this comparatively recent form of live entertainment (in NZ anyway) is taking us. Doris Mousdale commented in her NZ Book Month blog that she ‘sold more poetry on a wet Wednesday afternoon in Liverpool than in a year in a Queen St book store’. Could it be that Joe-Bloggs–NZ is at last turning around its legendary lack of general interest in poetry and that the vehicle doing the turning is not to be Bill Manhire’s luminous prose but the Poetry Slam? Well- hopefully it's a bit of both.

A capacity crowd (that’s around 300 I think) packed the Titirangi War Memorial Hall to listen to a broad range of people declaim, stammer and just plain read their own poetry. The only criterion was that it had to be under three minutes. We laughed, we cried, we heckled, we became utterly, hopelessly hysterical, we were stunned and amazed – and there were moments of sublime magic, (Renee Liang springs to mind, whispering, oh so slowly, sibilantly, sexily ‘S... T… O... P...’ into the microphone) when you could have heard a pin drop, and you knew that the hair of every single person in the room was standing on end.

It’s the Country Calendar of poetry. Heartland. There’s the crazy-looking dude, 6’6” in a green velvet cloak who turns out to be surprisingly good and sane, the cosy suburban mum who’s raunchy as hell, the fierce, upright old geezer who’s all about God, and the dear old thing who goes on and on about her dad’s dog, who goes out the door and the cat follows, then the cat comes back in and so does the hound, ad infinitum until the hall is rocking with hysteria and she’s beaming around in bemused pride. But by then, lubricated with wine and hilarity, we own her, she’s ours, we clasp her to our collective bosom and love her for her dotty crapness. Then comes the American import who’s just a bit too clever, the ubiquitous cardiganed uncle who trots out a satirical sonnet about George Dubya, the love-struck Scottish Romeo, and the shy, voluptuous twentysomething whose beautiful words fizz and snap and melt the crowd and pulls a collective gasp with a whip-crack ending.

Here are a few of the crowd pleasers on the night – not Montana material, yet – but at the Slam, it’s all in the delivery. Please bear in mind – there are rude words in here, LeafSalon hopes our broad-minded readers will not be offended…

First up is Tim Heath, a khaki’d and silver-goateed father of teenagers, whose poem struck a chord with many parents in the audience. Tim said that poetry has ‘been in my head for years, but my attempts to do something tangible on paper that can be shared with others is trembling and tentative recent development’. He’s been to a couple of courses, but reckons he’s still got a lot to learn even though he’s now ‘seeing small signs of getting closer to what I want to be able to say’.

Keeping the Home Fires Burning
by Tim Heath

Only a glass -
only a glass half full of Coco Cola, with a pink straw –
only a glass half full of Coco Cola, with a pink straw
sitting on top of the computer in his bedroom,
hours after he’s gone to school.

There, in the middle of the floor,
looking like the droppings
of an indifferent elephant, I see
his jeans
his rugby socks
his beanie
and his fucking wet towel!

Then there’s this delectable offering from shy young Bridie May, who had us all doing the ‘pin drop’ thing and then stamping and cheering for some time…

Everything Ornamental Starting with your Wedding Ring

You’re no abstract thing squatting outside the world,
Jane,
but you do dish yourself out in portions
to husband and three birthday cakes.
I’m not just a housewife
you say, quite rightly, being also the owner
of a kava bowl full of crystal emu eggs,
a Ralph Hotere, a row machine and a set
of Dickens style fire pokers that dangle
beside the plastic coals and blue flame
of your gas heater, Oh Jane, and the gulls
in your view, their element is the wind
so the gust just off your balcony
is yours too.

Sure,
you’ve heard of that old revolution
that comes by way of paved street
calling into living rooms that finding satisfaction
in the reflection of a casserole dish is the sigh
of an oppressed creature, but she’s got nothing to lose,
and Jane,
neither do you.

And just to give you an inkling of the ribaldry (and remember, it’s all in the delivery, so picture this), Neil Stuart had a cautionary tale about the sex drug du jour. Neil has obviously been sharing a parallel universe with John Cooper Clark, whose rude rock’n’roll style he embraces – but without the hair. He entered the Slam last year just for a laugh but really enjoyed the performance side of it. He says, ‘I’ve never had any formal poetry training and just write stuff that I find funny in everyday life. My daughter says its words you might find on the inside of a toilet. Could that be the genre?’

Three Little Syllables

Three little syllables
Viagra
There are no problems with his sexuality
All man is he
Last week he went to see the Doc
He had a dilemma with his tackle
He said men may be from Mars
And women may be from Venus
But I have a flaccid penis
The doc said the early signs, the premature warning
Is lack of erection in the morning
He said is there no cure
Doc said 3 little syllables, Viagra
The doctor’s like his dealer and gives him the first one free
They’ll cost him more subsequently
But he doesn’t care, he doesn’t give a sod
For tonight he shall be the human tripod
He leaves the surgery all elated
He can’t wait his breath is baited
Tonight the tension is rising
But that’s not the only thing
Hard as a stick
A super prick
Fantastic
He hears her close the door
Softly walk across the floor
She gets into bed and then a voice from above
Says “Not tonight, I’ve got a headache love.”

And finally, from Poetry Slam Veteran Ila Selwyn, a tall, blonde 60-something, who we realise has been quite a wild child indeed, in fact some people will never be the same after her performance last year (you know who you are) which she could easily be describing in this year’s poem:

my daughter cringes
(after a Montana Poetry Day performance at Lopdell House)

I step out in my second-hand red mini
black mesh-net tights balance on Louie’s silver
platforms – his gorgeous transvestite
heels make my legs long & lean a wild
black wig with a red hibiscus stuck on top
tops me off my daughter cringes I mince
my way through the crowd chain slung
over shoulder whip in hand grab the mike
the three improv guys play it up follow
words movements we laugh the audience
(well most of them) laughs cheers my
daughter cringes so do her aunt & uncle in
the late 60’s & 70’s I teach school in mesh-net
stockings a crocheted blue-barely-bum
cover sometimes vinyl purple home-made
hot pants braces bow tie silver boots braless
& bare feet I laugh skip & dance all the way
down Queen Street in a long slinky singlet
with my daughter’s best friend my daughter
cringes – not at the attire just the behaviour
(or could it be a bit of both?) well what the hell
now I’m in my 60’s approaching 70 at a far
too rapid rate with a wig & a role or without
(if slam rules against both) I do as I please
pretend I’m the queen of fuck & suck or not
but know my daughter cringes because
I’m her mad mum & the crazy creature
her two little boys love to fight over

So there you go. Taking it from the streets. Make sure you get to your next Poetry Slam, and don’t for gawd’s sake forget the Going West Books and Writers Weekend coming up this Friday, Saturday and Sunday. $150 will get you the full weekend, including Friday night opening and dinner, all day both days, plus lunches and afternoon teas. And the food’s always pretty damn good. Or you can turn up on the door for single sessions at $15 a pop, or do either of the full days for $85. There’s a superb programme – I won’t go on, just check it out here. See you there.