This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.
Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts

Thursday, December 4, 2014

"Brown Boy. White House" by Amir Safi


Performed for the Austin National Poetry Slam Team during semifinals at the 2013 National Poetry Slam in Boston, Mass.

"Brown Boy. White House"
by Amir Safi

I once asked my father,
If it was okay not go to daycare anymore.
He smiled and asked, "Why?"
and I still have trouble giving him straight answers.
So he watched one day as a group of white children pulled his son from the monkey bars.
Screaming.

I still have calluses on my hands.
I still have a hard time letting things go.
The teachers explained to my father that this is how children play.
Twenty years later and this is still how we play.
So he pulled me from their care and put me in a church,
where I learned that Jesus still has calluses on his hands.
He still has a hard time letting some people go.
Growing up in Texas,
One learns to practice patience,
Practice repetition patience,
Patience makes perfect.

The best birthday present I get every year is a telephone call from my grandmother.
I remember walking with her through department stores as people would stare.
I remember getting very angry because I was taught it was impolite to stare.
I was taught that was not the purpose of a hijab.
I believe this is why people have stopped wearing their faith,
Unless it can be conveniently concealed under their shirt.
Maybe if people don't stare then God won't either.
Growing up in Texas,
One learns to practice patience,
Practice repetition patience,
Patience makes perfect.
I was made fun of for being Mexican, until 9/11. Then it was Arab or terrorist. I'm not Persian that country no longer exists. Iranian- American is an oxymoron Muslim-American a paradox.
A girl asks me, "Where are you from then, Amir?"
I answer, "Well, I was born in Iowa."
She then says, "Oh really, is that in the Middle East?"
A boy approaches me in a high school hallway and says,
"If you were from Afghanistan, I'd beat your ass."
The three words I should've said were "I love you."
Instead I said, "Wish you would!"
It was then I understood how your Patriots' Act. If the French gave us the Statue of Liberty in 2003, we would have given it back because they didn't go to war with us in Ee-rock/Eye-rack.
When the French did give us the Statue of Liberty,
we gave her back.
At first,
she was black.

Save diversity for a skittles package,
but even then we all pick our favorites.

We like our borders like our picket fences. WHITE WASHED.
A red boy is given a white name.
Black slaves paint a white house.
Public schools teach that it is important to assimilate,
so a yellow girl's parents do the same.
But, how will they ever learn how to pronounce our names if we keep changing them?
Do you think people naturally know how to pronounce Cry-stal or Chris-top-her?
English is neither phonetic nor forgiving,
That's why I find comfort when a boy named Cassius molds his last name into Ali in an attempt to salvage his identity. The ring is the only time he faced a fair fight.
If black is the culmination of all colors, then why do we keep trying to stir this melting pot white?
My name is Amir Safi. I still have calluses on my hands. I still have a hard time letting things go.



Amir Safi © 2013


Amir Safi’s poetry is the result of a collision between his Iranian culture and his Texan upbringing. He is a graduate of Texas A&M University where he received a degree in Biology.

“What better subject to study than the science of life?”

While in school, he co-founded 501(c)(3) poetry nonprofit Mic Check and the Texas Grand Slam Poetry Festival.

Upon moving to Houston, Amir founded Write About Now Poetry, a weekly poetry slam and open-mic that meets every Wednesday at 7:30 PM at Avantgarden. Amir is the 2013 Southern Fried Poetry Slam Champion, a 2013 National Poetry Slam semi-finalist, a featured artist on Upworthy, and he has performed at shows and concerts featuring performers ranging from Anis Mojgani to Stalley.

For more information, contact or booking, like Amir on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/amirsafipoetry

Saturday, January 22, 2011

"Where am I from?" by Stefan S. Sencerz


An earlier draft appeared in From Page to Stage and Back Again: The 2003 National Poetry Slam, ed. by Michael Salinger, Lucy Anderton and Regie Gibson (Wordsmith Press, 2004), pp. 20-21.

I first heard this moving poem at Southwest Shootout in Austin, Texas. To begin the poem, Stefan Sencerz instructed the crowd to phonetically pronounce the Polish tongue twister "Chrzaszcz brzmi w trzcinie w Strzebrzeszynie," and after we terribly repeated the finally assembled phrase, he said, "see how easy that was?" then proceeded to launch into the poem. It is best read while imagining it performed with an incredibly thick Polish accent.



"Where am I from?
By Stefan S. Sencerz

Over and over and over again
I great people with the usual "How are you?"
and hear "What's up? Where are you from?"

"Detroit," I say, for I spent four great years in Motown,
I left my heart in that town I found sunshine
on a cloudy day, I still root for the Pistons.

"I knew you were not from here,"
I heard in Texas where I live now
most of the time I meet with an incredulous stare
"Yeah! Right! Detroit?! Where are you really from??"

I ponder this question for the matter is serious,
feel like a beginner about to meet the Zen mind --

Where am I from, really, Who am I?
What was my face before my parents were born?
What is the sound of one hand?

I don't know. So I say, "I was born in Warsaw, Poland."
"Say something in Polish!" I hear and oblige
"Chrzaszcz brzmi w trzcinie w Strzebrzeszynie."

This sounds so weird that one can doubt it means anything, but it does:
Chrzaszcz is a scarab, a kind of beetle, "brzmi" means "resounds,"
"w" stands for "in" or "amongst," trzcina is a kind of reed,
and "Strzebrzeszyn" a name for a village.
A scarab resounds amongst reeds, in the village of Strzebrzeszyn.
Easy to say, if you are native,
some claim impossible, if Polish is your second language..

Whichg leads me to my father
it's Warsaw, 1943, the midst of the war
my father, an officer of Polish underground receives an order
to meet someone whom he had never seen before.
So they must identify each other, they exchange the password
greed each other with the usual

"Jak sie masz?"
"How are you?"
"Where are you from?"

"I am from Warsaw," my father says.
"Great," the guy continues, "I need to get some tobacco?"
"The best tobacconist is right here, right across the park,"
my father completes the password for now he knows
this is the right guy
the guy he was supposed to meet
and kill
a suspected Nazi spy.

They walk through the park.
My father pulls out a pistol, points at the guy
"You've been tried for treason , sentenced to death.
In the name of the Polskiej Rzezcpospolitej . . . "
And the guy says, "It's is some kind of mistake."
So my father says, it's no mistake, we have surveillance photos of you.
And the guy pulls out a photo of his young children
bursts into tears and swears upon their heads and the love of the virgin Mary
that he is innocent.
So, my father says, "Who are you, really? I need some proof!"
And the guy says, "Jestem Polakiem. I'm Polish."
"Chrzaszcz brzmi w trzcinie w Strzebrzeszynie,"
fluently without any mistakes.
And my father
had mercy for him, and let him go.

Sometimes I wonder how could he trust him
burdened by his orders
burdened by the trust of his friends
what would I've done had I been there?
I don't know.
I never had to kill someone who looked straight into my eyes and cried.
I still do not know where I am really from.



Stefan S. Sencerz is professor of philosophy at Texas A&M in Corpus Cristi. He earned his Ph.D. in philosophy at the University of Rochester in 1992. He teaches Introduction to Philosophy, Foundations of Professional Ethics, Issues in Philosophy of Religion, Environmental Ethics, Eastern Spirituality and Western Thought, War, Terrorism & Ethics, Zen: Culture and Art and Philosophy & Science Fiction.

His published papers cover ethics and moral philosophy.

He published his first poem, "Writing a Poem," in ByLine magazine, issue 224, July/August 1999, and has since been published in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Freedom to Speak: National Poetry Slam 2002, and From Page to Stage and Back Again: The 2003 National Poetry Slam, di-verse-city; Anthology of Austin International Poetry Festival, 2004 (ed. Vicki Goldsberry ); a runner-up in the competition for The Christina Sergeyevna Award.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Rules of Poetry Slam ... Animated

For the love of all things holy, someone, please animate me.

Mike Henry, the subject of this awesome little animation is the former president of Poetry Slam Inc., the organization governing the National Poetry Slam, the International World Poetry Slam (iWPS).

He's been a longtime member of the Austin, Texas, slam scene, specifically 1995 Team Member, 1996 Slam Team Coach, 1997 Team Coach, 1998 National Poetry Slam Organizer and 1999 Team Member.

He spent the next few years running the madness that is PSi.

Again, this video is awesome.

Slam Tutorial: Having Fun With Sex


Objectifying a body part of the opposite sex can sometimes be a difficult thing to do in poetry. Between lovers, behind closed doors, we all often spend hours discussing anatomy, what they like, what they don't how things feel or how things can feel with the right stimulation.
That aside, Rock Baby's sheer enthusiasm for breasts is what sells this poem. Imagine performing this poem in a cover reading at your local open mic or poetry slam and you can see the inherent difficulty unless you are so over-the-top with the humor to truly sell it.
And yes, in person, Rock Baby is hysterical. I met him at the National Poetry Slam in Chicago in 2003 and I distinctly remember one breakfast morning where he had three tables in stitches talking about the van trip from Texas.

Titty Man
By Roderick "Rock Baby" Goudy

Warning, warning
This poem is not suitable for those who take life too serious
And lack a sense of humor.

Titty man gone wild
Titties, titties, titties!
I love me some titties
Big titties, small titties, skinny titties
Tall titties, titties sagging down
Titties juicy and round.

I love me some titties
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle
I like those titties with a dark nipple in the middle
And ohhh! When they jiggle
Jiggle, jiggle, jiggle
Iggle, iggle, iggle, iggle
Iggle, iggle, iggle.

Breasts-ises
B-R-E-A-S-T-S--ISES
Just another name for those titties
You see they come in all shapes and sizes and forms
The average person don't know 'em like I know 'em
This goes for the ladies, too
Who've had titties
All their life.

I can tell the difference between a real titty, a fake titty
A too-young titty
And a titty that's ready and ripe
'Cause I'm a titty man
Hell, I could tell your future
If you just let me hold those titties in my hands.

You see, it does something to me when I see and hear a bra snap
When those titties stand out
It makes a brother like me
Moan and groan and slooooobber at the mouth
Especially when they're naked and pressed up against my chest
It makes it difficult to choose the type of titty that I love the best.

It could be old titties, swoll titties, titties hanging loose
Titties that look like fruits
Titties fully grown
Titties made of silicone
Tittes that make you always wanna hold her
Titties that you can throw over your shoulders.

Titties, difference colors, and I need them
Tittes on people who don't need them
Mean titties, sad titties
Titties that make you wish you had titties
Perfect titties squeezed together
And pushed to the front.

Now if I had a pair of titties
Those would be the type of titties that I'd want
Because I looooove me some titties.

I like 'em on the beach
In the sand
And when it's hot at home
I like to lick those titties in front of a fan
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh..

Whether in a regular, laced or fuzzy bra
I like those tittes that belongs to super stars
And for those ladies with those titties swoll like 2 balloons
I like to stick my face between 'em and go.

Bur-bur-bur-burrrrrrrrr!

Because I loooooove me some titties
LORD!


A native of Hattiesburg, Miss., Roderick Goudy, aka Rock Baby, is a seasoned performance poet, comic and writer. Widely considered a natural performer with an unique, eclectic and clever style, Goudy has delighted, educated and entertained people of various ages and ethnicities across America, quickly making him a crowd favorite within the "chitin circuit" of spoken word.
Appearing twice on HBO’s Russell Simmons’ Def Poetry Jam in 2003 and 2005, Rock Baby offered television explosive performances with his distinct style of comedic poetry.