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.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

The Klute wins the first Sedona Poetry Slam of 2014



Round 1
Poet Score Time Penalty Net Score
Ryan Smalley 21.5 2:44 0.0 21.5
Evan Dissinger 24.5 2:48 0.0 24.5
Taylor Hayes 20.6 2:08 0.0 20.6
Tara Aitken 20.2 3:08 0.0 20.2
Claire Pearson 24.4 2:27 0.0 24.4
Josh Wiss 26.1 2:25 0.0 26.1
Spencer 24.2 2:22 0.0 24.2
Joy Young 27.8 2:21 0.0 27.8
Ella Featherstone 22.9 1:20 0.0 22.9
Anthony Johnson 29.4 2:15 0.0 29.4
Kimber 21.5 2:46 0.0 21.5
Klute 28.8 2:26 0.0 28.8
James 27.3 2:40 0.0 27.3
Mikel 23.6 2:46 0.0 23.6
Lauren Perry 25.4 2:23 0.0 25.4
Jackson 27.9 2:39 0.0 27.9
Lauren Remy 26.8 2:13 0.0 26.8
Valence 27.8 2:53 0.0 27.8
Round 2
Poet Score Time Penalty Net Score
Valence 26.8 3:07 0.0 26.8
Lauren Remy 28.2 2:14 0.0 28.2
Jackson 28.0 2:43 0.0 28.0
Lauren Perry 27.1 2:53 0.0 27.1
Mikel 24.8 3:30 -1.5 23.3
James 24.9 2:21 0.0 24.9
Klute 29.4 3:13 -0.5 28.9
Kimber 24.3 1:11 0.0 24.3
Anthony Johnson 27.5 2:24 0.0 27.5
Ella Featherstone 26.8 1:07 0.0 26.8
Joy Young 25.9 1:21 0.0 25.9
Spencer 24.2 3:24 -1.0 23.2
Josh Wiss 28.4 2:51 0.0 28.4
Claire Pearson 28.3 2:45 0.0 28.3
Tara Aitken 27.1 1:07 0.0 27.1
Taylor Hayes 27.2 2:41 0.0 27.2
Evan Dissinger 28.5 2:16 0.0 28.5
Ryan Smalley 28.5 2:20 0.0 28.5
Round 3
Poet Score Time Penalty Net Score
Klute 29.0 2:46 0.0 29.0
Anthony Johnson 28.7 1:42 0.0 28.7
Jackson 29.9 2:53 0.0 29.9
Lauren Remy 29.5 2:43 0.0 29.5
Valence 29.1 2:40 0.0 29.1
Final
Poet Score


Klute 86.7


Jackson 85.8


Anthony Johnson 85.6


Lauren Remy 84.5


Valence 83.7


Josh Wiss 54.5


Joy Young 53.7


Evan Dissinger 53.0


Claire Pearson 52.7


Lauren Perry 52.5


James 52.2


Ryan Smalley 50.0


Ella Featherstone 49.7


Taylor Hayes 47.8


Spencer 47.4


Tara Aitken 47.3


Mikel 46.9


Kimber 45.8


Tuesday, January 7, 2014

First Sedona Poetry Slam of 2014 is this Saturday, Jan. 11

The first Sedona Poetry Slam of 2014 kicks off at 7:30 p.m. On Saturday, Jan. 11, at the Mary D. Fisher Theatre, 2030 W. State Route 89A, Suite A-3.

All poets are welcome to compete for the $75 grand prize and $25 second-place prize. The prize is funded in part by a donation from Verde Valley poetry supporter Jeanne Freeland.

The slam is the first the 2014 season, which will culminate in selection of Sedona's third National Poetry Slam Team, the foursome and alternate who will represent the city at the National Poetry Slam in Oakland, Calif., in August.

Future slams take place:
  • Saturday, Feb. 1
  • Saturday, March 8
  • Saturday, March 29
  • Saturday, April 26
  • Saturday, May 17
  • The final Grand Poetry Slam takes place Saturday, June 7, to determine the team.

Slam poets will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted.

All types of poetry are welcome on the stage, from street-wise hip-hop and narrative performance poems, to political rants and introspective confessionals. Any poem is a "slam" poem if performed in a competition. All poets get three minutes per round to entertain their audience with their creativity.

The poets will be judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam.

Poets who want to compete should purchase a ticket in case the roster is filled before they arrive.

The local poets will share the stage with 300 of the top poets in the United States, Canada and Europe, pouring out their words in a weeklong explosion of expression. Sedona sent its five-poet first team to the 2012 National Poetry Slam in Charlotte, N.C., and its second to the 2013 NPS in Boston and Cambridge, Mass.

The slam will be hosted by Sedona poet Christopher Fox Graham, who represented Northern Arizona on seven FlagSlam National Poetry Slams in 2001, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2010, 2012 and 2013. Graham has hosted the Sedona Poetry Slam since 2009.

Tickets are $12.

Contact Graham at foxthepoet@yahoo.com to sign up to slam.

What is Poetry Slam?


Founded in Chicago in 1984 by construction worker Marc Smith, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport. Poetry slams are judged by five randomly chosen members of the audience who assign numerical value to individual poets' contents and performances. Poetry slam has become an international artistic sport, with more than 100 major poetry slams in the United States, Canada, Australia and Western Europe.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

“Midgley” by Christopher Fox Graham


we met on a bridge outside town
one-time nearly neighbors
his story ended 200 feet below

we were introduced by a sheriff's deputy
who stood between us
making sure no secrets could pass
between two men in the dark

beneath us both
this bridge of steel of iron
was riveted by men who now
all lay under the dirt
or in cemetery urns
this bridge holds 80 years of stories secret

each rivet and bolt
tells a separate story:
a birth in a foundry
a journey to this place
a final, spasmodic twist into steel
they are buried under fingerprints
of dead men
still hear the echoing voices
from the last time they were touched
their function is not move
if they surrender their purpose
give up on existence
yield their life to hold this bridge
this roadway will crumble into the canyon
but we don't learn from them
how to hold on

for us, this man
and me beside him
we have no bridge to weld ourselves into
the will to move will robs us of reasons to hold fast
we forget we have whole cities who will mourn our absence

I contemplate this for us
because he longer can:
he is silence and weight
waiting for men to carry him
in a zippered bag

a few hours ago
he stood a few feet from here
leaned forward
and let the laws of gravity
judge his weight too heavy to fly

did the rivets in this bridge hear him cry out
did he ever utter a sound
as he jumped from the edge
fell past the steel bolts and iron bars
diving like the birds
did they cry out,
wait! stop!
we have seen how this ends!

the rivets tried to unbolt themselves
creak and bend the iron to reach out and catch him
but decades ago men's tools drove them deep into steel
and they cannot move
they cannot let go
or this bridge will fall
and they will have no purpose
5 feet, 10 feet, 20 feet, 40 feet, 80 feet, 160 feet

some watched him strike the rocks below
but most tried to avert their gaze
twist toward the sky and hope at the last moment
the earth would fall away
and catch him soft

but hours later, they watched in the same silence
as more men carried him a basket to where he last stood
where I had arrived to meet him

to me the journalist
to these men, rescuers turned pallbearers
he is a late-night call
a recovery, a press release, an obituary

but the rivets
the steel beneath us
can't forget him
they have nowhere to go
no new places or stories to replace these nights
he is with them
deeper than fingerprints
and with every passing car
this bridge shudders
wondering
who may be next



For the family of the man whose body was recovered Oct. 9, 2013.

Friday, October 11, 2013

The "Pale Blue Dot," by Carl Sagan




"From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it's different.

The "Pale Blue Dot," taken Feb. 14, 1990
"Consider again that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

Astronomer Carl Sagan
"The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner. How frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity – in all this vastness – there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

"The Earth is the only world known, so far, to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment, the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known."

Carl Sagan
"Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space"
1997 reprint, pp. xv–xvi

Friday, August 30, 2013

Nobel Prize-winning Irish poet Seamus Heaney has died


Digging
By Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb   
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   
Bends low, comes up twenty years away   
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

From the Poetry Foundation:
Seamus Heaney (April 13, 1939-Aug. 30, 2013) is widely recognized as one of the major poets of the 20th century. A native of Northern Ireland, Heaney was raised in County Derry, and later lived for many years in Dublin. He was the author of over 20 volumes of poetry and criticism, and edited several widely used anthologies. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1995 "for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past." Heaney taught at Harvard University (1985-2006) and served as the Oxford Professor of Poetry (1989-1994)

Heaney has attracted a readership on several continents and has won prestigious literary awards and honors, including the Nobel Prize. As Blake Morrison noted in his work Seamus Heaney, the author is "that rare thing, a poet rated highly by critics and academics yet popular with 'the common reader.'" Part of Heaney's popularity stems from his subject matter—modern Northern Ireland, its farms and cities beset with civil strife, its natural culture and language overrun by English rule. The New York Review of Books essayist Richard Murphy described Heaney as "the poet who has shown the finest art in presenting a coherent vision of Ireland, past and present." Heaney's poetry is known for its aural beauty and finely-wrought textures. Often described as a regional poet, he is also a traditionalist who deliberately gestures back towards the “pre-modern” worlds of William Wordsworth and John Clare.

Heaney was born and raised in Castledawson, County Derry, Northern Ireland. The impact of his surroundings and the details of his upbringing on his work are immense. As a Catholic in Protestant Northern Ireland, Heaney once described himself in the New York Times Book Review as someone who "emerged from a hidden, a buried life and entered the realm of education." Eventually studying English at Queen’s University, Heaney was especially moved by artists who created poetry out of their local and native backgrounds—authors such as Ted Hughes, Patrick Kavanagh, and Robert Frost. Recalling his time in Belfast, Heaney once noted: "I learned that my local County Derry [childhood] experience, which I had considered archaic and irrelevant to 'the modern world' was to be trusted. They taught me that trust and helped me to articulate it." Heaney’s work has always been most concerned with the past, even his earliest poems of the 1960s. According to Morrison, a "general spirit of reverence toward the past helped Heaney resolve some of his awkwardness about being a writer: he could serve his own community by preserving in literature its customs and crafts, yet simultaneously gain access to a larger community of letters." Indeed, Heaney's earliest poetry collections— Death of a Naturalist (1966) and Door into the Dark (1969)—evoke "a hard, mainly rural life with rare exactness," according to critic and Parnassus contributor Michael Wood. Using descriptions of rural laborers and their tasks and contemplations of natural phenomena—filtered through childhood and adulthood—Heaney "makes you see, hear, smell, taste this life, which in his words is not provincial, but parochial; provincialism hints at the minor or the mediocre, but all parishes, rural or urban, are equal as communities of the human spirit," noted Newsweek correspondent Jack Kroll.

As a poet from Northern Ireland, Heaney used his work to reflect upon the "Troubles," the often-violent political struggles that plagued the country during Heaney’s young adulthood. The poet sought to weave the ongoing Irish troubles into a broader historical frame embracing the general human situation in the books Wintering Out (1973) and North (1975). While some reviewers criticized Heaney for being an apologist and mythologizer, Morrison suggested that Heaney would never reduce political situations to false simple clarity, and never thought his role should be as a political spokesman. The author "has written poems directly about the Troubles as well as elegies for friends and acquaintances who have died in them; he has tried to discover a historical framework in which to interpret the current unrest; and he has taken on the mantle of public spokesman, someone looked to for comment and guidance," noted Morrison. "Yet he has also shown signs of deeply resenting this role, defending the right of poets to be private and apolitical, and questioning the extent to which poetry, however 'committed,' can influence the course of history." In the New Boston Review, Shaun O'Connell contended that even Heaney's most overtly political poems contain depths that subtly alter their meanings. "Those who see Seamus Heaney as a symbol of hope in a troubled land are not, of course, wrong to do so," O'Connell stated, "though they may be missing much of the undercutting complexities of his poetry, the backwash of ironies which make him as bleak as he is bright."

Heaney’s first foray into the world of translation began with the Irish lyric poem Buile Suibhne. The work concerns an ancient king who, cursed by the church, is transformed into a mad bird-man and forced to wander in the harsh and inhospitable countryside. Heaney's translation of the epic was published as Sweeney Astray: A Version from the Irish (1984). New York Times Book Review contributor Brendan Kennelly deemed the poem "a balanced statement about a tragically unbalanced mind. One feels that this balance, urbanely sustained, is the product of a long, imaginative bond between Mr. Heaney and Sweeney." This bond is extended into Heaney's 1984 volume Station Island, where a series of poems titled "Sweeney Redivivus" take up Sweeney's voice once more. The poems reflect one of the book’s larger themes, the connections between personal choices, dramas and losses and larger, more universal forces such as history and language. In The Haw Lantern (1987)Heaney extends many of these preoccupations. W.S. DiPiero described Heaney's focus: "Whatever the occasion—childhood, farm life, politics and culture in Northern Ireland, other poets past and present—Heaney strikes time and again at the taproot of language, examining its genetic structures, trying to discover how it has served, in all its changes, as a culture bearer, a world to contain imaginations, at once a rhetorical weapon and nutriment of spirit. He writes of these matters with rare discrimination and resourcefulness, and a winning impatience with received wisdom."

With the publication of Selected Poems, 1966-1987 (1990) Heaney marked the beginning of a new direction in his career. Poetry contributor William Logan commented of this new direction, "The younger Heaney wrote like a man possessed by demons, even when those demons were very literary demons; the older Heaney seems to wonder, bemusedly, what sort of demon he has become himself." In Seeing Things (1991) Heaney demonstrates even more clearly this shift in perspective. Jefferson Hunter, reviewing the book for the Virginia Quarterly Review, maintained that collection takes a more spiritual, less concrete approach. "Words like 'spirit' and 'pure'… have never figured largely in Heaney's poetry," Hunter explained. However, in Seeing Things Heaney uses such words to "create a new distanced perspective and indeed a new mood" in which "'things beyond measure' or 'things in the offing' or 'the longed-for' can sometimes be sensed, if never directly seen." The Spirit Level (1996) continues to explore humanism, politics and nature.

Always respectfully received, Heaney’s later work, including his second collected poems, Opened Ground: Selected Poems, 1966-1996 (1998), has been lavishly praised. Reviewing Opened Ground for the New York Times Book Review, Edward Mendelson commented that the volume “eloquently confirms [Heaney’s] status as the most skillful and profound poet writing in English today." With Electric Light (2001), Heaney broadened his range of allusion and reference to Homer and Virgil, while continuing to make significant use of memory, elegy and the pastoral tradition. According to John Taylor in Poetry, Heaney "notably attempts, as an aging man, to re-experience childhood and early-adulthood perceptions in all their sensate fullness." Paul Mariani in America found Electric Light "a Janus-faced book, elegiac" and "heartbreaking even." Mariani noted in particular Heaney's frequent elegies to other poets and artists, and called Heaney "one of the handful writing today who has mastered that form as well."

Heaney’s next volume District and Circle (2006) won the T.S. Eliot Prize, the most prestigious poetry award in the UK. Commenting on the volume for the New York Times, critic Brad Leithauser found it remarkably consistent with the rest of Heaney’s oeuvre. But while Heaney’s career may demonstrate an “of-a-pieceness” not common in poetry, Leithauser found that Heaney’s voice still “carries the authenticity and believability of the plainspoken—even though (herein his magic) his words are anything but plainspoken. His stanzas are dense echo chambers of contending nuances and ricocheting sounds. And his is the gift of saying something extraordinary while, line by line, conveying a sense that this is something an ordinary person might actually say.”

Heaney’s prose constitutes an important part of his work. Heaney often used prose to address concerns taken up obliquely in his poetry. In The Redress of Poetry (1995), according to James Longenbach in the Nation, "Heaney wants to think of poetry not only as something that intervenes in the world, redressing or correcting imbalances, but also as something that must be redressed—re-established, celebrated as itself." The book contains a selection of lectures the poet delivered at Oxford University as Professor of Poetry. Heaney's Finders Keepers: Selected Prose, 1971-2001 (2002) earned the Truman Capote Award for Literary Criticism, the largest annual prize for literary criticism in the English language. John Carey in the London Sunday Times proposed that Heaney's "is not just another book of literary criticism…It is a record of Seamus Heaney's thirty-year struggle with the demon of doubt. The questions that afflict him are basic. What is the good of poetry? How can it contribute to society? Is it worth the dedication it demands?" Heaney himself described his essays as "testimonies to the fact that poets themselves are finders and keepers, that their vocation is to look after art and life by being discoverers and custodians of the unlooked for."

As a translator, Heaney’s most famous work is the translation of the epic Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf (2000). Considered groundbreaking because of the freedom he took in using modern language, the book is largely credited with revitalizing what had become something of a tired chestnut in the literary world. Malcolm Jones in Newsweek stated: "Heaney's own poetic vernacular—muscular language so rich with the tones and smell of earth that you almost expect to find a few crumbs of dirt clinging to his lines—is the perfect match for the Beowulf poet's Anglo-Saxon…As retooled by Heaney, Beowulf should easily be good for another millennium." Though he has also translated Sophocles, Heaney remains most adept with medieval works. He translated Robert Henryson’s Middle Scots classic and follow-up to Chaucer, The Testament of Cresseid and Seven Fables in 2009.

In 2009, Seamus Heaney turned 70. A true event in the poetry world, Ireland marked the occasion with a 12-hour broadcast of archived Heaney recordings. It was also announced that two-thirds of the poetry collections sold in the UK the previous year had been Heaney titles. Such popularity was almost unheard of in the world of contemporary poetry, and yet Heaney’s voice is unabashedly grounded in tradition. Heaney’s belief in the power of art and poetry, regardless of technological change or economic collapse, offers hope in the face of an increasingly uncertain future. Asked about the value of poetry in times of crisis, Heaney answered it is precisely at such moments that people realize they need more to live than economics: “If poetry and the arts do anything,” he said, “they can fortify your inner life, your inwardness."

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Haikus from last night's FlagSlam

Erotic Geography Haiku
Mediterranean wet;
I call your thighs "Ceuta"
and "Gibralter"

Final Kiss Haiku
Only one of us
knew it was our last kiss
I gave you no warning

Higgs Boson Haiku
A Higgs boson walks
into a church, says, "I'm here
now you can have Mass"

Frustrated Nerd Haiku
R2D2 and
Daleks are from different
universes! Fuck, Mom!

Trespassers on the 7th Hole Haiku
Cop says, "This golf course
is not a park." No one thought
to tell the children

God's Hug Haiku
If there's a god,
his hug must be soft and squishy
John Q, are you ... god?

Statistical Probability Haiku
By December
three of you will have slept with John Q.
Who will it be?

Oblivious to Irony Haiku
Christian says
"That guy's trapped in a cult;"
I say, "you're trapped in irony"

Austin Reeves Needs a Steak Haiku
Sex with Austin
is like fucking tortilla chips:
salty, sharp, angles

Sunday, August 25, 2013

I am the new managing editor of the Sedona Red Rock News, The Camp Verde Journal, and the Cottonwood Journal Extra

Larson Newspapers announces the promotion of News Editor Christopher Fox Graham to managing editor.

Photo by Saar Ingelbert
Graham first worked for Larson Newspapers as a copy editor from 2004 to 2008 and was named Editorial Person of the Year in 2004. During his tenure, he wrote more than 100 Sedona Underground columns featuring profiles of artists and performers around Sedona.

Graham returned as assistant news editor in October 2009. He was promoted to assistant managing editor in April 2010 and again promoted to news editor in April 2013 ....  Click here for the full story.

He can be contacted at editor@larsonnewspapers.com.

Monday, August 12, 2013

Sedona Slam and FlagSlam at the National Poetry Slam: Bouts


Day 1, Tues. Aug. 13 Bout 11, 9 p.m. Cambridge College
Flagstaff, AZ Flagslam Christopher Fox Graham Jackson Morris Vincent Vega Austin Reeves Gabbi Jue
Lowell, MA (Mill City Slam) Mill City Slam Princess Chan Nathan Comstock Bobby Crawford Meagan Ford Adam Stone
New York, NY Nuyorican Nuyorican (NYC) Tre G (champ) Tonya Simone Ingram Mikumari Caiyhe
Toronto, Canada (Cytopoetics) Toronto Poetry Slam Optimus Rhyme Philosofly IF Kliggy David Delisca
Day 2, Wed. Aug. 14 Bout 15, 7 p.m. Cantab Upstairs
Sedona, AZ Sedona Poetry Slam Ryan Brown (champ) Verbal Kensington Frank O'Brien Josh Wiss Valence
Colombus, OH, (Writers Block) Writer's Block Gina Blaurock (champ) Vernell Bristow Louise Robertson Alexis Rueal Mitchell
Chicago, IL, (Lethal Poetry) Lethal Poetry (Words That Kill) Gregory GrumpyCat Pickett (champ) Adrienne Sunshine Nadeau Mojdeh Stoakley Amelia García Kamaya Thompson
Chicago, IL (Mental Graffiti) Mental Graffiti Eric Sirota (champ) Amy David Stephanie Lane Sutton, Billy Tuggle Fatimah Asghar
Day 3, Thurs. Aug. 15 Bout 28, 7 p.m. Johnny D's
Flagstaff, AZ Flagslam Christopher Fox Graham Jackson Morris Vincent Vega Austin Reeves Gabbi Jue
Spokane, WA (The A Club) Spokane Slam - Broken Mic Lauren Gilmore Kurt Olson Chris Cook Mark Anderson Jazlyn Jacobs
Suffern, NY Suffern Slam Society *NEW (Taiji Kung Fu) Rachel Therres Holden Contreras Kayla Volpe Bryan Roessel Greg Bassell
Riverton, UT Coffee Shop Poetry Slam (Wasatch Wordsmiths) Gray Brian Thomas (champ) JoKyR Adam Love Tami Porter-Jones DeAnn Emett
Day 3, Thurs. Aug. 15 Bout 36, 9 p.m. Davis Square
Sedona, AZ Sedona Poetry Slam Ryan Brown (champ) Verbal Kensington Frank O'Brien Josh Wiss Valence
Cleveland, OH Lake Effect Poetry (Frmly: Dragons Inc) AKeemjamal Rollins (champ) Arianna Cheree Caira Lee Christine Howey
Phoenix, AZ Lawn Gnome Poetry Slam (Golden Gnome) Joy Young Rowie Shebala Lauren Perry The Klute
Salt Lake City, UT Salt City Slam Jesse Parent (champ) Willy Palomo Benjamin Barker RJ Walker David Alberti

Saturday, July 20, 2013

"She Holds a Dragon in Her Spine," by Christopher Fox Graham


she holds a dragon in her spine
made of steel and mint juleps
curled up kundalini in her hips
she rocks to the beat
in a to and fro touch and go
shaking the room to its foundation

she breaks beats like bread
"take, eat of this my body," she says
her blood is busy though
snap kicking extremities to their exasperated edges
like the last great explorer discovering a New World over the horizon
where limbs meet limits
and bones bend time and space
she's a gravity well
drawing the eyes of everyone into her orbit
like falling satellites
burning brilliance in her exosphere
yet unable to touch her surface
without being crushed by the pressure
but if she holds you close like a love letter
just about be cast in the fireplace
presses her fingerprints into paper skin like an undiscovered crime scene
your lips ache to be solved by her detective tongue
until your law and order lifestyle
begs for her anarchy to throw a brick through
your thousand blind windows

she fucks your shit up
like a pirate ship sailing into port
on Take Your Daughter To Work Day

when she grabs you and says “kiss me”
hold onto her like you’re bull riding
on a tight rope
on fire
you’re going to experience some turbulence
and if oxygen drops in the overhead compartments
don't bother gasping for air
grab a sharpie and start writing your name on your body parts
so rescuers can reassemble you after impact
don't expect an open-casket funeral when she’s done with you
she’ll leave you splattered on the sidewalk
from a car bomb MacGyvered from the teeth of broken lovers
and the bones of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
that she uses like toothpicks
because when the end of the world came
she said, “Is that all you got?”
The world's been ending since it started
every time some new gods come along to rename it
and give it their own spin
she just laughs and says
“Fenrir fetches my newspapers”
“the Seven-Headed Beast is my alarm clock”
“who wakes me at 6:66 a.m.”

she's the philosopher of the dance floor
but you can't stop her beat
her hips will just keep dancing
come your Big Crunch flashfire or your intergalactic entropy big freeze

the Big Bang began the beat
and now it's so deep in her bones
her DNA splices in rhythm
A-T-C-C-
G-A-T-T-
T-C-G-G-
C-G-A-A-
stretching into infinity
or until you're so old,
your bones refuse to move
disassembling into their composite atoms she swallows like an anteater to fuel her fire
and thump the universe into hip-hop heartbeat
ba dum dum bang
ba dum dum bang

can you feel it?
it sounds like god tapping her temple
or the rain
or the rapping talons of the dragon in her spine, asking to come inside
and snuggle alongside you
now, open the damn door

"Marine Fossils on Mount Everest," by Christopher Fox Graham

the phone rings
it's her
lying in bed
unable to move
it's either call me
or cut herself again

I am naked words
over a phone line
trying to hold her
but this tunnel
doesn't have light at the end
exit, oncoming train or otherwise

so I talk about Mount Everest

she says she doesn't want to about
mountaineers conquering their fears
besides, the only way off
is to fall or freeze
and she's fallen so far
that the world is cold to the touch already

I say I want to talk about Everest
now, hidden on its slopes …

she says she doesn't want to hear about Shangri-La
a place where dreams come true
if we just let go
of what ties us to the material world
there's no secret entrance to open
with prayer and password

I want to talk about Everest

she says she doesn't want to hear about yeti
how we adapt to our environment
become creatures who can survive anywhere
given circumstance and intention

I say "stop"
I want to talk about Everest
up there, there's no room for metaphor
now, hidden on its slopes
beneath the snow and limestone
under the feet of mountaineers
the tracks of yeti
and the temples of Shangri-La
sandwiched between the stones
are the tiny tombs
of billions of marines animals
despite the claims of creationists
that the gods did it in Noah's drunken haze
or atheists planted them
as if that's all they needed to clinch the contest

there are billions of marine fossils
creatures who fell so deep
swallowed in the muck and mud unmourned
but they were patient
and in millions of years
waited for colliding continents
to shove themselves
colliding like struggling elk
shoving each one higher
until those fossils reached air
higher and higher
until those fossils felt snow
higher and higher
until those fossils scraped the sky
and could gaze across the curve of the Earth
and see it was just a marble floating
like they once did in the sea of space

it takes patience to see the beauty of the world
the wait's not always easy
rainstorms and tectonic shifts
can waylay the best laid plans of mice and men
you don't want to fade away
you ask what the point of life is:
to leave an imprint
a legacy
make a dent in the world
so all your years are worth the time you put in
hold fast,
don't be in a hurry to leave
it takes time to find the right place
the perfect soil to last forever
live like you're already priceless

Friday, July 19, 2013

"Kal-El's Lament" by Christopher Fox Graham

Written while listening to Nick Giello perform a set at Reds


I didn't ask to come here
it was this or death
my parents – my real parents
sent me when everything they knew
was doomed to collapse on itself

this country is unfamiliar
though I've seen so much of it
all I have of home are the recordings of my father
stoic and overbearing
telling from his tomb how to behave
"you must be a beacon
a ray of hope
a savior,
a super man
to these new people"

my mother is a memory
an image and a glimmer
her voice I've recreated
a hundred thousand times
with different timbre and tone
but it never sounds right
never sincere
and always in English
a language I knew she never spoke
I want to hear my native tongue
echoing off the crystal walls
or in the busy streets of cities
I want to see the skies again
feel the sun rising red on the horizon
be a boy
an ordinary boy
who climbs trees and falls from them
with bruises and cuts to prove it
who learns to fear the sight of his own blood
or broken bones

it's hard to be a man
when you've never learned to survive the pain
of growing up

The secret of silence is
if you say nothing
people assume the worst

only in solitude
can I scream out
"fuck this place
and these people"

but I've got nowhere to go
no home, no country
and no one understands
not my boss
not the people I help

my girlfriend thinks I'm someone else
she sees another face
calls me by another name
I can't tell her I only feel warm
standing in snow with no one
around for hundreds of miles
only there can I cry
be the boy I never was
instead of this man they think I am

she has her career
the news stories she chases
she's in love with another man
but never says so
she wants a man who isn't real
who lies to the world about who he is
when she could have me, right here
"we're not that different," I tell her
just cosmetic
different clothes, hair and glasses
but she doesn't see it
he's heroic and I'm just a small town boy

These people want so much from me
these weak, small creatures
who don't stand up for themselves
now that they have me
"why can't you fix this"
"prevent that?"
"why did he live
and my mother die?"
I'm just one man
I can't be everywhere
I have a life, too
I'm not here out of choice
I'm no civil servant – this is my free time
and it's not easy
I rescue you helpless children
you blind kittens
you insects
not because you deserve it
but because I'm not cruel
but I bite my tongue
swallow my pride

they call out for who they want
not who I am
"save us, save us, Superman," they shout
but my name is Kal-El
and this place,
this Earth
is not my home

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

NORAZ Poets on Wikipedia

 NORAZ Poets is a nonprofit poetry  organization based in Northern Arizona now aimed at youth and senior citizens suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.

It was founded in Sedona, Arizona in 2003 by the late poet Christopher Lane, who served as the organization’s executive director until his death in August 2012. The group is run by a seven-member advisory board.

The group ran weekly poetry open mics, biweekly and monthly poetry slams, poetry workshops, featured poetry readings, poet in residence programs in Northern Arizona high schools, maintained a Web site with a calendar of events and several book partnerships, which sold local poets’ work in Northern Arizona bookstores. The group networked two poetry slams: FlagSlam in Flagstaff and VerdeSlam Sedona, Arizona and has a reputation in the national slam poetry scene for treating touring poets with great respect, with booking events, transportation to and from performances and venues, and lodging at the homes of members of the local poetry community.

Poetry organizers in Northern Arizona had sent slams teams to the National Poetry Slam since 2001, officially representing Flagstaff, although the team’s members were from various parts of the region. Between early 2004 and mid-2007, the team competed in local, regional and national poetry slams under the banner “Team NORAZ”.

NORAZ Poets is one of the only rural and regional poetry organizations in the United States.

The organization earned 501(c)(3) nonprofit tax status in February 2005.

In March 2005, NORAZ Poets created the Alzheimer’s Poetry Project Arizona Assignment (a branch of the national Alzheimer’s Poetry Project).

Some of the poets affiliated with the group include Robin John Anderson, Jordan Sebastian Bonner, Mary Carvell Bragg, the late Rochelle Brener, Portlin Cochise, Rebekah Crisp, Patrick David DuHaime, Gary Every, Jen Valencia, Josh Fleming, Dom Flemons

, Nick Fox, Karyl Goldsmith, Jesse Dyllan Grace, Christopher Fox Graham, Andy “War” Hall, Dee Hamilton, Brent Heffron, Mary Heyborne, Cass J. Hodges, Aaron Johnson, Jarrod Masseud Karimi, Erik John Karpf, Suzy La Follette, John Raymond Kofonow, the late Christopher Lane, Eric Larson, David “Doc” Luben, William Mawhinney, Douglas McDaniel, Karen Guevara, Logan Phillips, Kaia Placa, John Reid, Betteanne Rutten, David Ward and Mikel Weisser.

In mid-2007, NORAZ Poets effectively ceased its poetry slam activities. Flagstaff area poetry slam events were then taken up by FlagSlam, led by Ryan Brown, John Cartier, Frank O’Brien, Jessica Guadarrama, Dana Sakowicz, Kamryn Henderson, among others. Sedona and Verde Valley area poetry slam events were then taken up by Gary Every and Christopher Fox Graham.

NORAZ Poets uses its 501(c)(3) status as a nonprofit umbrella for the Young Voices Be Heard and Alzheimer’s

 Poetry Project Arizona Assignment Projects.

Flagstaff National Poetry Slam Teams

In 2001, as Team Flagstaff

 at the 11th National Poetry Slam in Seattle, Washington:
  • Grand Slam Champion: Josh Fleming
  • Nick Fox
  • Christopher Lane
  • Christopher Fox Graham
  • Alternate: A-rek Matthew Dye
  • Coach: Andy “War” Wall

In 2002, as Team Flagstaff

 at the 12th National Poetry Slam in Minneapolis, Minnesota:
  • Grand Slam Champion: Suzy La Follette
  • Logan Phillips
  • Andy “War” Hall
  • Dom Flemons
  • Alternate: Jarrod Masseud Karimi (but left the team before the National Poetry Slam)
  • Coach and alternate: John Raymond Kofonow
  • In 2003, as Team Flagstaff

     at the 13th National Poetry Slam in Chicago, Illinois:
    • Grand Slam Champion: Suzy La Follette
    • Logan Phillips
    • Cass Hodges
    • Dom Flemons
  • Alternate: Julie Hudgens (but left the team before the National Poetry Slam)
  • Coach and alternate: John Raymond Kofonow
  • National Poetry Slam Teams represented by NORAZ Poets

    In 2004: as Team NORAZ at the 14th National Poetry Slam in St. Louis, Missouri

    .
    • Grand Slam Champion: Christopher Fox Graham
    • Eric Larson
    • Logan Phillips
    • Brent Heffron
    • Coaches: Mary Guaraldi, Christopher Lane and John Raymond Kofonow

    In 2005: as Team NORAZ at the 15th National Poetry Slam in Albuquerque, New Mexico

    .
    • Grand Slam Champion: Christopher Lane
    • Logan Phillips
    • Christopher Fox Graham
    • Meghan Jones
    • Aaron Johnson
    • Coaches: Mary Guaraldi and John Raymond Kofonow

    In 2006: as Team NORAZ at the 16th National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas

    .
    • Aaron Johnson
    • Christopher Fox Graham
    • Meghan Jones
    • Al Moyer
    • Justin “Biskit” Powell
    • Coaches: Greg Nix and John Raymond Kofonow

    Sunday, July 14, 2013

    "I Wish My Pride Was More Malleable," by Christopher Fox Graham


    I wish my pride was more malleable
    so I could remember the taste of you
    but "forgive" is a seven-letter word
    neither of us can say
    without swallowing back into our chest
    to burn deep into our spleens

    to sleep
    I have replaced your two arms
    with two glasses of whiskey
    so I don't spend the hours between midnight and daybreak
    calculating how my 72¾-inch doorframe
    can so perfectly divide us
    Korean Peninsula-style
    into two halves
    sharing the same language and history
    but without armistice or peace treaty
    to settle the civil war
    we both claim the other started
    we are starfish:
    all fingers and mouths but no ears

    I kissed her because she was young and curious
    and most importantly, wasn't you
    but as her cheeks melted into my hands
    she became comparison, afterimage, contrast
    the joy of first kiss became science experiment
    an astronaut's expedition to a new Earth
    "can we survive here, like home?
    will the atmosphere adapt to us
    or we to it?
    will our grandchildren bury us here
    or will we bury each other?"

    you were the home left behind
    the hometown of my eventual obituary
    linked to my biography the way
    Lee, Marc Antony and Rommel are inseparable
    from Appomattox, Actium and El Alamein

    You earthquake-forest fire-kaleidoscope wrecking ball:
    I understand why warzone survivors stand
    in the wreckage of their homes
    photographed stone-faced:
    there's nothing left to mourn
    when one's home isn't still here
    just cremated into rubble and ash
    it looks fixable,
    but it's not
    the way the dead, without gunshot wounds,
    should spring back to life
    after rebooting the hardware because we will it

    but anatomy and history and car accidents
    are one-way streets
    sins we cannot unsay
    we've collided at full speed
    wreckage strewn across this bedroom
    photographs and knickknacks
    tagged and noted by the forensic investigators
    to chart them back to the moment of impact
    not a last kiss,
    but the words, "I think you should leave"
    spilling from these lips
    without the addendum:
    "but return tomorrow"
    or "when time and reason softens your illogic
    and you can remember you are meant
    to be the better one of us"

    but my unbending pride
    will doom me to death by train impact
    rather than move out of the way
    and my last words
    instead of the profundity of poets
    with pithy statements
    of time's brevity
    or the beauty of life strung through mediocre moments
    into something grand and glorious
    or dying haiku masters in the bamboo forests
    waiting for the end to suck the life from their lungs
    grown ancient in the pursuit of shorter phrasing
    will be something asinine
    a gurgle of gibberish
    a profane declaration