Gentle Poet Eyes
By Aaron Johnson
it's been a year since I looked you in the eyes
and like a hair club client,
I was dissatisfied.
I once considered you an artist and friend
but your ego is the new travel-size toothpaste,
keeping you from boarding the plane and flying.
you write well, for an ex-girlfriend highlight film.
the fox smells his own hole first
and you know that
talking to me was a step
to get you back to this drug cabinet we call spoken word
but I implore you to be encouraging and sincere
when you come back
think less of yourself and more for the new generation of poets
that have been listening to your ego on dvd and internet downloads
for the last five fucking years
pouring tears and words for papa's mountains,
for the dust in the corners of the room that have been inhaled like spores,
even your breakfast cereal poetry is not as soggy
as your contemporaries predicted it would
after the time test
you still have your best poetry inside those eyes
but you spent so much time with lies and "fucking with people";
masturbating -er- manipulating
but where was the poetry, the writing?
did it die in your guns, your newspaper, your red rock, your old friend on West Sedona Lane?
you may not care about my poetry, fine.
but I did care about yours:
reading your blogs, your mind;
lately, I've been bored.
they write now
because you ignited a fire in the Sedona under groundhog
and you may never grow into your adult hoodie
until you let go
of your ego
you have my attention
now what will you do with it?
your actions are louder than your words
and your eyes
Slam Fencing 101
By Christopher Fox Graham
PARRY
watch thy forked tongue, poet
it's easy to be righteous from the stage
if you never put yourself on the edge of it
and risked being kicked off
by those who said they'd stand behind you
I'll still pulling out the knives
et tu, Lefty?
when I was banished,
virtuous poet,
I did not hear you advocate for my return
although your words seemly sweetly honeyed now
nor did I hear condolences
but at least you can apologize to robot porn on MySpace
did you lose my number?
not pay the internet bill?
forget my address?
at least you could remember what city I lived in
if you could get 20 inches and a photo in my newspaper
were you happy to sweep the stage clean,
honorable poet,
because with me on it
you heard shouts of "10" more often from behind the curtain
than behind the mic?
you live well, for an opportunist
don't claim I'm the only one
nor that you don't rub it in
we've all seen your cover on Flagstaff Live
and how you pointed out Nix was there too
venerable poet,
if you'd ever gotten to know me
instead of using you verse
to score cheaper dime-bags
or drawing in glassy-eyed teens awed
by the newfound allure of bald cartoon characters
you'd see what we do:
a pawn in the shadows of the rest of the board —
first the egoist before he hunted Montezuma
then the liar with his peach-flavored pride
now the esurient entrepreneur
yes, you're a chameleon, but always a sidekick
with all the Greats covering your head,
you've never felt the reign
your aims on our stages
have volunteered their simplicity
and the rest of us see right through it
present thy purpose, poet: poon, pot, or points pushes your newest stanzas
to reach the pedestals beneath our feet
since I first looked you in the eyes,
I have been dissatisfied
RIPOSTE
did I get your attention, poet?
blood a little warmer, poet?
thinking about what lines to sample in your reply?
keep reading, pondering poet
Asgard has its Loki
the Hopis have their kokopelli
NORAZ has its Reynard
the poems you see on stage,
the poems I post
are for the crowd,
the roaring throng
the points and the prize
unblemished poet, your sketch of me has always been sketchy
you're snuggled in against my chest
holding tight to an abusive father you can't seem to let go
because hating the man and the act
is easier than knowing what lurks beneath these GPEs
you'd know the ego
is, has, and will be an act
it's part of the costume
like the sport coat bedecked in buttons,
the unkempt hair,
the doublefisted whiskey,
the stories of threesomes and orgies
what makes the mess funny
is that the CFG mythology was written
by other poets, by the crowd, by the foes
rumors become facts
(I would elucidate, but I've already written
"Welcome to Show")
this is my character
my anti-hero suit
the poems stand alone
but the attitude drives poets who compete
to strive harder to win
more challenge, more effort
better poems, better poets
everyone needs a villain
if it weren't for judas, dear poet,
we'd be genuflecting to Apollo
the reports of my boundless pride are greatly exaggerated
you'd rather follow that Gospel
than get to know the man who wrote them
the proof is in my peach
peel back its layers to see that peaches … don't have any
perfectly poised posture,
vigorous ventriloquism of absurdity
and nonsense with flair scored me three 10s
while better poems of grandfather's hands, WTC jumpers, and fear of dying young
never does better than "8.9, 9.2, 9.4"
peach proves this:
1) slam is a joke
2) don't let one poem be what the world remembers of you
3) write better than this
august poet,
the poems that are "me" get scribbled on postcards,
e-mailed to distant friends,
read quietly over the phone or over coffee
folded up and hand-delivered the way true poetry should be
ways to communicate between two strangers
desperately struggling fingertips to fingertips
not a cockfight on a stage beneath three-minute lights
"where was the poetry, the writing?"
not held in the heartless digital vacuum online
if it weren't for MySpace, poet,
you wouldn't have any friends
where have I read that before?
you want my sincerity?
its always been here, in my skin, in my voice,
over a beer or coffee,
sans slam
you and I can play our roles on stage
bicker in the blogosphere
but be brothers in the real world
but you've got some steps to make
put down the keyboard and pick up the phone
hit the road to meet up
rather than hit "send"
and you've got to shed that shadow that stands over you
(remind Mr. Lane that a dick is still a dick
no matter how high it raises its head)
if you want me back
if you want me on that stage
if you want me to push the next generation of poets
to become the next generation of great poets
you've got to realize my purpose:
I must be all that they hate about poets
so they can become all they're meant to be
if they test themselves in the battle
outflank my checkmates
they'll learn the real lesson of my treatise:
if you're writing only for your three minutes in the limelight
you're wasting your life — get the fuck off the stage
learn that poetry is only the first step
in the long march of sharing ideas, stories, and lives
real poets live their poetry
slam is only a game
Showing posts with label poetry in politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry in politics. Show all posts
Monday, March 12, 2007
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The Obligation of Artists: Why Christopher Lane has betrayed NORAZ Poets and poetry
What is the obligation of artists?
First, to answer the voice within and interpret it into your expression, be it music, poetry, dance, pottery, drawing or photography.
Second, relate joy of the human experience to any and all who will listen or look. The goal is to instill in the audience of one or thousands the same feeling the artist had when they created the art.
Third, enrich one's tribe, community, nation and world though shared human expression.
When an artist loses sight of any one of these obligations, we, as artists, see a tragedy.
When an artist willingly denies these obligations in the name of self-interest or self-promotion, we, as artists, see arrogance.
When an artist, regardless of talent, would rather charge than create while still proclaiming allegiance to these obligations, we, as artists, see hypocrisy.
When an artist, especially one who leads other artists, would deny youth the talent imbued by the creator, or the muse, or simple genetics, we, as artists, see usurpation of that gift and should demand .
If a school contacts the leader of a supposed nonprofit arts community and asks for that artist and others to display that gift for youth, and is denied for insufficient funds, namely Southwestern Academy, NORAZ Poets and $800, then the leader of that organization betrays not himself, but also his talent and his personal obligation to represent those artists.
All artists are free to make money from their work, just as with any form of work. Art is labor-intensive, emotionally draining, and in some cases, even life-threatening. However, an artist's words are not all that threatened in the posh surroundings of the Verde Valley.
An it's not as though the aforementioned nonprofit has made a stand toward these three obligations, unless, of course, one were to read the organization's mission statement:
"The NORAZ Poets Southwest™ vision is to provide the community with clear and concise information about poetry events throughout the Southwest. We will empower others, by making poetry more accessible."
"We will help make our communities' quality of life better, by using poetry. We will help our communities to pursue their creative goals through program development, readings, and other performance mediums."
"But above all, we wish to give back to our communities what they have given us -- the inspiration and means to create the written and spoken word."
You betray poetry, Mr. Lane.
You betray your community, Mr. Lane.
You betray yourself.
First, to answer the voice within and interpret it into your expression, be it music, poetry, dance, pottery, drawing or photography.
Second, relate joy of the human experience to any and all who will listen or look. The goal is to instill in the audience of one or thousands the same feeling the artist had when they created the art.
Third, enrich one's tribe, community, nation and world though shared human expression.
When an artist loses sight of any one of these obligations, we, as artists, see a tragedy.
When an artist willingly denies these obligations in the name of self-interest or self-promotion, we, as artists, see arrogance.
When an artist, regardless of talent, would rather charge than create while still proclaiming allegiance to these obligations, we, as artists, see hypocrisy.
When an artist, especially one who leads other artists, would deny youth the talent imbued by the creator, or the muse, or simple genetics, we, as artists, see usurpation of that gift and should demand .
If a school contacts the leader of a supposed nonprofit arts community and asks for that artist and others to display that gift for youth, and is denied for insufficient funds, namely Southwestern Academy, NORAZ Poets and $800, then the leader of that organization betrays not himself, but also his talent and his personal obligation to represent those artists.
All artists are free to make money from their work, just as with any form of work. Art is labor-intensive, emotionally draining, and in some cases, even life-threatening. However, an artist's words are not all that threatened in the posh surroundings of the Verde Valley.
An it's not as though the aforementioned nonprofit has made a stand toward these three obligations, unless, of course, one were to read the organization's mission statement:
"The NORAZ Poets Southwest™ vision is to provide the community with clear and concise information about poetry events throughout the Southwest. We will empower others, by making poetry more accessible."
"We will help make our communities' quality of life better, by using poetry. We will help our communities to pursue their creative goals through program development, readings, and other performance mediums."
"But above all, we wish to give back to our communities what they have given us -- the inspiration and means to create the written and spoken word."
You betray poetry, Mr. Lane.
You betray your community, Mr. Lane.
You betray yourself.
Monday, December 25, 2006
The thirteenth step is to learn not to be an ass
This follows some recent conversation with poets in Phoenix and their views on divorce between me and NORAZ Poets via its executive director.
Following recovery, 12-steppers need to learn some love.
The addiction doesn't go away, it just changes form. For many, that underlying problem, not covered rather than dealt with, just makes them judgemental pricks. I'm all for the benefits, but I suppose that if you join a group wherein the first rule is to announce that you have no power to control yourself, you have a tendency to blindly ignore that capacity in others. That, and being "saved" from addiction bleeds over into other meanings of "saved," and thus, the gentle stumble forward into arrogant self-righteousness.
To elucidate:
It seems the shift from addiction
(I must have this drug or I can't function; no middle ground)
shifts to the 12 Steps
(I need help or I will die; no middle ground)
then to personal interaction afterward
(this person is my friend or my enemy; no middle ground)
I suppose that if these people learned moderation in the beginning with drug use, they could learn that people are not a drug - there's a whole lot of gray in human relationships.
But, I guess, just like hitting rock bottom with drugs, they have to hit rock bottom with friendships before they realize they need to attend the 12-Step Program of Not Being a Prick.
How long, Mr. Lane?
Following recovery, 12-steppers need to learn some love.
The addiction doesn't go away, it just changes form. For many, that underlying problem, not covered rather than dealt with, just makes them judgemental pricks. I'm all for the benefits, but I suppose that if you join a group wherein the first rule is to announce that you have no power to control yourself, you have a tendency to blindly ignore that capacity in others. That, and being "saved" from addiction bleeds over into other meanings of "saved," and thus, the gentle stumble forward into arrogant self-righteousness.
To elucidate:
It seems the shift from addiction
(I must have this drug or I can't function; no middle ground)
shifts to the 12 Steps
(I need help or I will die; no middle ground)
then to personal interaction afterward
(this person is my friend or my enemy; no middle ground)
I suppose that if these people learned moderation in the beginning with drug use, they could learn that people are not a drug - there's a whole lot of gray in human relationships.
But, I guess, just like hitting rock bottom with drugs, they have to hit rock bottom with friendships before they realize they need to attend the 12-Step Program of Not Being a Prick.
How long, Mr. Lane?
Monday, February 14, 2005
Cool Down
some say "cool down"
I say "stay warm"
some say "cool down"
I say "I'm hot, hot hot"
some say "cool down"
I say "you're being a douche-bag, mr. JB jr."
some say "cool down"
I say "you only wish you were hot"
some say "cool down"
I say "melt down"
some say "cool down"
I say "God Save the Queen"
some say "cool down"
I say "you're just scared"
some say "cool down"
I say "I'm brighter than the sun, baby"
I say "stay warm"
some say "cool down"
I say "I'm hot, hot hot"
some say "cool down"
I say "you're being a douche-bag, mr. JB jr."
some say "cool down"
I say "you only wish you were hot"
some say "cool down"
I say "melt down"
some say "cool down"
I say "God Save the Queen"
some say "cool down"
I say "you're just scared"
some say "cool down"
I say "I'm brighter than the sun, baby"
Thursday, January 2, 2003
My Five of Five
Five things that 2002 taught me:
1. I can survive for 4 months on $300. Pretty well in fact.
2. My poetry doesn't suck. I am actually good at what I love to do.
3. By selling it all, choosing homelessness, and going on tour, I've done more at my young age to follow my heart than most people will do in their entire life. I'm braver than I thought I was.
4. I have to make my own destiny. Fate doesn't exist.
5. Life sucks without a car.
Five personally significant events of 2002:
1. Disowning my father. This was his second chance to be my dad in any way and it went worse than the first. Now I know how not to treat my children.
2. Finally telling Daniela to put up or shut up. She's been a cock-tease and a love-vampire for the last three years and I let her use me because I'm a coward. But I've finally stood up. I'm almost certain I've lost her but I'm free.
3. Getting arrested. It was stupid, I was guilty beyond doubt, and I don't want to commit the same crime ever again.
4. The Save the Male Poetry Tour. 39 shows, 26 states, four men, three months, two countries, and one van. Wow, what a ride.
5. Leaving Flagstaff. It's a good place if you can stand small towns and intrusive personalities, but I'm a city boy and need the diversity of 4 million people. I'd rather be a little fish in a big pond than a big fish in a soup.
Five things I want to do in 2003:
1. Make a National Slam Team and do the thing in Chicago.
2. Be satisfied with my poetry. The kind of poetry that isn't just selfless mental masturbation.
3. Have a meaningful relationship with someone who isn't 18, or in high school, or recently divorced, or my boss. A punk rock art chick who'll break me.
4. Make enough money to buy a car, get a computer, and start publishing the chapbooks of poets across the country.
5. Plan my next national poetry tour.
Five things I don't want to do in 2003:
1. Procrastinate.
2. Let fear or fear of loneliness paralyze my better judgment.
3. Settle.
4. Write crap poetry and try to pass it off as art.
5. Blame writer's block.
Five (groups of) people who I'd like to know better in 2003:
1. My three step sisters, Jessica 19, Danielle 17, and Kristina 11. Jessica got engaged over the weekend, Danielle has a secret artistic side I think I could coax out of her shell, and Kristina is more like me now than anyone else I know.
2. Corbet Dean. He's been the most supportive of all the poets I know, but I don't really know him like I should. He could also help me improve my performance.
3. Klute. He and I could have one of the great friendships that art scholars will debate for decades.
4. Trish JusTrish. I like her and her art more and more I hear it.
5. Scott Creney and Mathew Moon, the two Guerrilla poets from Boston moving to Prescott this month.
1. I can survive for 4 months on $300. Pretty well in fact.
2. My poetry doesn't suck. I am actually good at what I love to do.
3. By selling it all, choosing homelessness, and going on tour, I've done more at my young age to follow my heart than most people will do in their entire life. I'm braver than I thought I was.
4. I have to make my own destiny. Fate doesn't exist.
5. Life sucks without a car.
Five personally significant events of 2002:
1. Disowning my father. This was his second chance to be my dad in any way and it went worse than the first. Now I know how not to treat my children.
2. Finally telling Daniela to put up or shut up. She's been a cock-tease and a love-vampire for the last three years and I let her use me because I'm a coward. But I've finally stood up. I'm almost certain I've lost her but I'm free.
3. Getting arrested. It was stupid, I was guilty beyond doubt, and I don't want to commit the same crime ever again.
4. The Save the Male Poetry Tour. 39 shows, 26 states, four men, three months, two countries, and one van. Wow, what a ride.
5. Leaving Flagstaff. It's a good place if you can stand small towns and intrusive personalities, but I'm a city boy and need the diversity of 4 million people. I'd rather be a little fish in a big pond than a big fish in a soup.
Five things I want to do in 2003:
1. Make a National Slam Team and do the thing in Chicago.
2. Be satisfied with my poetry. The kind of poetry that isn't just selfless mental masturbation.
3. Have a meaningful relationship with someone who isn't 18, or in high school, or recently divorced, or my boss. A punk rock art chick who'll break me.
4. Make enough money to buy a car, get a computer, and start publishing the chapbooks of poets across the country.
5. Plan my next national poetry tour.
Five things I don't want to do in 2003:
1. Procrastinate.
2. Let fear or fear of loneliness paralyze my better judgment.
3. Settle.
4. Write crap poetry and try to pass it off as art.
5. Blame writer's block.
Five (groups of) people who I'd like to know better in 2003:
1. My three step sisters, Jessica 19, Danielle 17, and Kristina 11. Jessica got engaged over the weekend, Danielle has a secret artistic side I think I could coax out of her shell, and Kristina is more like me now than anyone else I know.
2. Corbet Dean. He's been the most supportive of all the poets I know, but I don't really know him like I should. He could also help me improve my performance.
3. Klute. He and I could have one of the great friendships that art scholars will debate for decades.
4. Trish JusTrish. I like her and her art more and more I hear it.
5. Scott Creney and Mathew Moon, the two Guerrilla poets from Boston moving to Prescott this month.
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