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.
The Women of the World Poetry Slam (WOWPS) is a yearly poetry slam tournament put on by Poetry Slam, Inc. that pits individual slam poets from around the world that "live their lives as women"[1] against one another.
In 2008, the Women of the World Poetry Slam (WOWPS) was introduced, in which only female and female-identified poets are allowed to compete.[2] WOWPS was the brainchild of Kimberly Simms (PSI EC 2005-2007) and Deborah Marsh. The first WOWPS was held in Detroit, Michigan and the first WOWPS champion was Andrea Gibson.
In late 2015, the languaging around inclusion was updated to read: "Competition at WOWps is limited to poets who live their lives as women. Qualified poets include female assigned or identified individuals who are PSi members and are 18+ years of age, including gender non-conforming individuals."[3]
The tournament has two days of preliminary rounds, in which poets compete in 1, 2, 3, and 4 minute bouts. Poets read a 4-minute (or less) poem in the 1st round. In the 2nd, they read a 1-minute (or less) poem. On the 2nd night of the competition, poets will read against a different slate of poets and most of them will be in a different venue. In the 1st round, they will read a 2 - minute (or less) poem. In the 2nd round, they will read a 3 minute (or less) poem. At the conclusion of each mini-bout, the poet will receive a ranking of 1-6 based on placement within competition groups. All poets within a mini bout (usually consisting of 6 poets) perform first round, then all poets in same group perform second round with calibration between rounds.
After the preliminary bouts are completed, the poets with the highest scores and ranks advance to the finals. The poet next in line for Finals is designated the calibration poet. All poems in the finals are 3 -minute (or less) poems, with a 20 second grace period. A single poem performed during preliminary bouts may be repeated on Finals. Finals for the Women of the World Poetry Slam will include the top 10-14 scoring and ranking poets based off of total number of participating poets.
There will be 2 sacrificial/calibration poets before finals begins, from the next two ranks of poets who didn’t make finals (for instance, if there are 14 finalists, poets ranked 15 and 16 will be invited to be the sacrificial poets at finals). All finalists will read in the 1st round; the 7 poets with the highest scores move on to the second round. These 7 poets read another poem and the top 4 go to the final round. These 4 poets will each read 1 more poem, and the high score of that round is the Women of the World Poetry Slam Champion. If there is a tie between the top 2 poets, they read 1 more poem in a sudden death match, or they agree to share the title. In a sudden death match, judges indicate which poet they prefer by choosing one poet or the other (no scores) and the champion is crowned.[4]
(2) iCon (3) RADI (4) Mia S. Willis (5) Melania Luisa (6) TIE - Glori B. & Ashley Lumpkin (8) Muna Abdulahi (9) Meccamorphosis (10) Angelica Maria (11) Imani Cezanne (12) TIE - Jazmyne Smith & Mercedez Holtry (14) Ariana Brown
(3) Ashley August (4) Jasmin Roberts (5) TIE - Shyla Hardwick & Ifrah Hussein (7) Roya Marsh (8) Barbara Fant (9) Alex Tha Great (10) GiGi Bella (11) TIE - Shae & Jane Belinda & Natasha Hooper & Eccentrich
(2) Dominique Ashaheed (3) Falu (4) Porsha Olayiwola (5) Denise Jolly (6) Theresa Davis (7) Eris Zion Venia (8) TIE - T. Miller & Sierra DeMulder & Suzi Q Smith (11) Meg Waldron (12) Laura Lamb Brown-Lavoie
(2) Gypsee Yo (3) Dee Mathews (4) Ocean (5) T. Miller (6) TIE - Bethsheba & Chauncey Beaty (8) The Original Woman (9) Theresa Davis (10) TIE - Faylita Hicks & Taaj Freeman (12) Red Summer
Christopher Fox Graham, managing editor of the Sedona Red Rock News, shared his passion for poetry and love of his job during the club's social get-together on March 16.
Christopher, an ASU alum, has been a performance poet since 2001, participating in poetry slams in Phoenix, Flagstaff, and in Sedona at Mary Fischer Theatre.
Familiar with the local art scene, he was hired by Larson Newspapers as a copy editor in 2004, became assistant manager editor in October 2009 and managing editor in August 2013.
"This is the best job I've ever had."
He says he enjoys documenting what's going on around him--following local kids and their achievements and realizing who we've lost.
During the pandemic, Christopher's mission with the paper has been "how do we help as many people as we can."
The paper promoted open businesses, had live videos on its website, ran articles on stimulus funds, and updates on cases, counts, and links to the Yavapai and Coconino counties health departments.
Poem recited at Joseph R. Biden's Inauguration, Jan. 20, 2021
When day comes, we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade?
We've braved the belly of the beast
We've learned that quiet isn't always peace
And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn’t always just-ice
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we've weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn’t broken
but simply unfinished
We the successors of a country and a time
Where a skinny Black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming president
only to find herself reciting for one
And yes we are far from polished
far from pristine
but that doesn’t mean we are
striving to form a union that is perfect
We are striving to forge a union with purpose
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and
conditions of man
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us
but what stands before us
We close the divide because we know, to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside
We lay down our arms
so we can reach out our arms
to one another
We seek harm to none and harmony for all
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew
That even as we hurt, we hoped
That even as we tired, we tried
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious
Not because we will never again know defeat
but because we will never again sow division
Scripture tells us to envision
that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree
And no one shall make them afraid
If we’re to live up to our own time
Then victory won’t lie in the blade
But in all the bridges we’ve made
That is the promise to glade
The hill we climb
If only we dare it
Because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
it’s the past we step into
and how we repair it
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation
rather than share it
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy
And this effort very nearly succeeded
But while democracy can be periodically delayed
it can never be permanently defeated
In this truth
in this faith we trust
For while we have our eyes on the future
history has its eyes on us
This is the era of just redemption
We feared at its inception
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs
of such a terrifying hour
but within it we found the power
to author a new chapter
To offer hope and laughter to ourselves
So while once we asked,
how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?
Now we assert
How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was
but move to what shall be
A country that is bruised but whole,
benevolent but bold,
fierce and free
We will not be turned around
or interrupted by intimidation
because we know our inaction and inertia
will be the inheritance of the next generation
Our blunders become their burdens
But one thing is certain:
If we merge mercy with might,
and might with right,
then love becomes our legacy
and change our children’s birthright
So let us leave behind a country
better than the one we were left with
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest,
we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one
We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the West,
We will rise from the windswept Northeast
where our forefathers first realized revolution
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the Midwestern states,
we will rise from the sunbaked South
We will rebuild, reconcile and recover
and every known nook of our nation and
every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful will emerge,
battered and beautiful
When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid
The new dawn blooms as we free it
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it
If only we’re brave enough to be it
Amanda Gorman is a 22-year-old American poet and activist from Los Angeles. Gorman's work focuses on issues of oppression, feminism, race, and marginalization, as well as the African diaspora. Gorman is the first person to be named National Youth Poet Laureate. She published the poetry book "The One for Whom Food Is Not Enough" in 2015.
This is good wordplay:
"And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn’t always just-ice"
Gorman used the finger quotes and slowed down at "just is" so the non-poets listening could see what she was doing with "just is"/"justice". (0:32)
It's a serious and sincere take on the word that reminds me of the far less serious, satirical wordplay of Taylot Mali's "How to Write a Political Poem": "Injustice isn't injustice it's just in us as we are just in ice."
I'm glad Gorman wasn't subtle; politicians aren't poets and need the help.
This is also a great section:
We the successors of a country and a time
Where a skinny Black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming president
only to find herself reciting for one
It acknowledges the historical significance of the moment, but has a subtle dig that a Black girl, which could arguably be read as Harris or simply herself is not president.
But it also plays off the end of the previous stanza
Somehow we've weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn’t broken
but simply unfinished
i.e., for a Black girl only reciting for a president and not being sworn in as president, the American dream of equality, personified as a Black woman becoming president, therefore remains "unfinished."
This "falling short" line, though, sets up the next portion:
And yes we are far from polished
far from pristine
but that doesn’t mean we are
striving to form a union that is perfect
All in all, great structure.
I liked Gorman more than both of Obama's poets (Richard Blanco and Elizabeth Alexander) and Clinton's second, Miller Williams. Maya Angelou in 1993 is still my favorite because it was a great performance and she was freakin' Maya Angelou.
I hope there were a lot of little girls who saw Gorman read and want to be up on that dais as either a poet or one of the two people getting sworn in.
Other Inauguration Poets:
"The Gift Outright"
by Robert Frost
Poem recited at John F. Kennedy's Inauguration, Jan. 20, 1961
(Frost had intended to read "Dedication: For John F. Kennedy's Inauguration," but couldn't read the paper due to the glare from the snow, so 2:40 into, gave up and switched to "The Gift Outright," which he had memorized. At age 86 in 1961, he was the oldest poet to read at in inauguration)
The land was ours before we were the land’s
She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England’s, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she will become.
"On the Pulse of Morning"
by Maya Angelou
Poem recited at Bill Clinton's Inauguration, Jan. 20, 1993
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today, you may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song. It says,
Come, rest here by my side.
Each of you, a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,
Clad in peace, and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the rock were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.
The River sang and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African, the Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheik,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.
They hear the first and last of every Tree
Speak to humankind today. Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you,
Pawnee, Apache, Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet,
Left me to the employment of
Other seekers—desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Arab, the Swede, the German, the Eskimo, the Scot,
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought,
Sold, stolen, arriving on the nightmare
Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours—your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon
This day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.
Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands,
Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For a new beginning.
Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out and upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here, on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister’s eyes, and into
Your brother’s face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope—
Good morning.
"Of History and Hope"
by Miller Williams
Poem recited at Bill Clinton’s Inauguration, Jan. 20, 1997
We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.
But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.
Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.
All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.
"Praise Song for the Day"
by Elizabeth Alexander
Poem recited at Barack Obama’s Inauguration, Jan. 20, 2009
Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.
I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.
"One Today"
by Richard Blanco
Poem recited at Barack Obama’s Inauguration, Jan. 20, 2013
[At age 44, he was the younger poet to read at inauguration until 22-year-old Amanda Gorman read in 2021]
One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.
My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,
on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives—
to teach geometry, or ring-up groceries as my mother did
for twenty years, so I could write this poem.
All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.
One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
from an adaptation of Sophocles’ 409 BCE play "Philoctetes"
Human beings suffer,
They torture one another,
They get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
Can fully right a wrong
Inflicted and endured
…
History says, don’t hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.
So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracle
And cures and healing wells.
Call miracle self-healing:
The utter, self-revealing
Double-take of feeling.
If there’s fire on the mountain
Or lightning and storm
And a god speaks from the sky
That means someone is hearing
The outcry and the birth-cry
of new life at its term.
It means once in a lifetime
that justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.
Seamus Heaney
The verse is from "The Cure at Troy," Seamus Heaney’s 1990 translation of Philoctetes, the play by Sophocles (497-407 BCE or 496-407 BCE) about the Greek hero Philoctetes who, during the Trojan war, suffers from a festering foot caused by a snakebite, abandoned on a desert island by his fellow soldiers and countryman, then asked to return to fight.
The play was first stated in 409 BCE.
Heaney’s verses were first performed in 1990 and published in 1991. The story of the master Greek archer Philoctetes resonated with Heaney.
Heaney said his interpretation of Sophocles's play was a reflection on the release of Nelson Mandela in November 1990 after 27 years in prison who then continued to fight against Apartheid, for racial reconciliation and was lated elected the first Black president of South Africa in 1994.
Joe Biden has used this poem in speeches for years, and used it again in a campaign ads, like this one.
Ulysses and Neoptolemus take Heracles’ bow and arrows from Philoctetes, François-Xavier Fabre, 1799-1800
Philoctetes was the son of King Poeas who first appeared in the story of Heracles' death. Heracles had worn the tainted Shirt of Nessus which gave him insufferable pain. He then proceeded to build his own funeral pyre, but no one would light it up. In the end, Philoctetes stepped up and lit the fire, thus gaining the deified hero's favor. Before his death, Heracles offered him his fabled bow and poisoned arrows as a gift.
Philoctetes was one of the suitors of Helen, the princess of Sparta. Having sworn the Oath of Tyndareus, by which he was bound to protect her and her future husband, whoever that would be, he was asked to participate in the Trojan War.
On the way to Troy, though, the fleet stopped at the island of Lemnos and left Philoctetes stranded there. There are different accounts on why this happened; some say that Hera had sent a venomous snake to punish Philoctetes for helping Heracles. The snake bit him on the foot and the wound festered and smelled bad, thus compelling his companions to leave him ashore.
Another account says that Philoctetes would not verbally reveal the location of Heracles' ashes as was asked by his fellow Greeks. Instead, he took them to the spot and placed his foot on top. Immediately, he was wounded on the foot as soon as he touched the ground. There are other versions about this, but in any case, Philoctetes was really angry that his comrades decided to strand him, a proposal that had been made by Odysseus. He stayed in Lemnos for 10 years.
When the Greeks captured Helenus, the Trojan seer, he was forced to tell them that in order to capture Troy, one of the requirements was to retrieve the bow and arrows of Heracles, which were in Philoctetes' possession. Odysseus and a few men returned to Lemnos, thinking the man would have died by now. However they found him alive, and Odysseus devised a plan to trick him out of his bow and arrows.
Nevertheless, Diomedes, one of the companions, refused to take the weapon by trickery and leave Philoctetes stranded. Heracles, who was already a god by now, descended from Olympus and told Philoctetes to join the Greek army, adding that he would be healed permanently by one of Asclepius' sons.
When the party reached Troy, either Machaon or Podalirius, both physicians and sons of the god Asclepius, treated Philoctetes' festered wound, and healed him. In one of the accounts, he was the one who killed Paris, by throwing four arrows against him. He was then chosen as one of the soldiers to go into the Trojan horse and participated in the sack of Troy.
Jack Egan read poetry at the Sedona Poetry Slam a few times; I was able to capture him on video at the Sedona slam on Dec. 3, 2011. His "Up" poem became legendary.
He wrote me a few letters to the editor and press releases, all about his work with charities and the St. Vincent de Paul Society. When he popped in to drop these off, I always encouraged him to come and slam.
Twice, when interstate lotteries reached record high levels, he came to the Sedona newsroom and told me he bought a ticket, gave me a copy and said he agreed to split it with me should we win the jackpot.
He will be missed.
Jack Egan performs in the first round of the Sedona Poetry Slam on Dec. 3, 2011
Jack Egan performs in the second round of the Sedona Poetry Slam on Dec. 3, 2011
Jack Egan performs "Up" in the third round of the Sedona Poetry Slam, 12-3-2011. Great poem, and with audience participation, too.
Jack Egan
March 1, 1934 - October 11, 2020
John Egan, 86, of Sedona, Arizona, passed away Sunday, October 11. "Jack" to his many friends was born in the Rogers Park neighborhood of Chicago on March 1, 1934.
As a teenager, he worked as a busboy to earn money to pay his tuition to Loyola Academy High School. A bright student and talented runner, he was awarded a scholarship to Loyola University of Chicago where he earned a degree in English while running sprints and relays on the track team. Such was his success as a runner that he was inducted into the Loyola University of Chicago Hall of Fame in 1980.
More importantly, at Loyola he met the love of his life, Mary Kay.
After graduating college, Jack served in the U.S. Navy for four years as a bombardier/navigator spending time on the USS Ranger (CV-61) aircraft carrier and was married. After his service, Jack returned to teach English at Loyola Academy. After a year of teaching, he took a sales job to support his growing family.
Jack was transferred from Chicago to Southern California while working for Avery Label Corporation. He had a very successful career in sales working for several companies. He lived in Whittier, Calif., and then Newport Beach. Along the way, he and Mary Kay had four children.
In 2010, Jack moved to Sedona to enjoy the beautiful Red Rocks and to be close to family. After a long illness, Jack passed away peacefully at home surrounded by his loved ones.
He is survived by his wife of 61 years. He was predeceased by his son Kevin, survived by his daughter Jennifer, his sons Dan and Martin and his three grandchildren.
A celebration of life will be planned for a later date. Consider making a donation to St. Vincent de Paul conference in his honor.
A pre-pandemic poetry open mic at the Cantab Lounge. PHOTO BY RICH BEAUBIEN, COURTESY OF DAWN GABRIEL
Hello, Cantabbers: this is your slam curator speaking. It has been a spring and summer of many griefs, and to this I am sad to officially add the loss of our historical home, the stage that has housed the Boston Poetry Slam since October 16, 1992. Word went out today, Sunday, July 19, that our home venue, the beloved and oft-fondly-maligned Cantab Lounge, will not reopen. The business is expected to be announced for sale.
The global pandemic, the fluctuation of official response to the health crisis, and the impossibility of guessing the shape of live art to come mean this: even before the shuttering of our home venue, I could not predict what the future of the Boston Poetry Slam might be. I want to extend gratitude to everyone who has offered us support and joy and attended our Extremely Online readings, curated spontaneously and lovingly by Lip Manegio and Myles Taylor. With respect to all of our staff’s need to refresh and regroup, the EO readings and BPS operations will be on hiatus until further notice, irrespective of any further developments at the Cantab Lounge itself. If you aren’t already connected to other opportunities for online poetry community, please email me for suggestions.
For those here for further details, or with heartache to process over missing the space, you already know: the Boston Poetry Slam is not a place. It’s not a loss of a person, or the way a poet you just met thinks about language: we’ll only be missing a half-dozen sticky barstools, a cold cement floor where pub glasses go to die, a certain slant of light that confounds would-be videographers and shakes that fourth stanza you thought you memorized right out of your pockets. Our bar is closed, and closing, but our community remains whole.
So, of course, the Boston Poetry Slam is not the Cantab Lounge: and yet, you know it also always will be. The bar hosted the weekly show longer than most of our current regulars have walked this earth, and the name is nationally synonymous with the scene, community, and sound that have come from the stage over the years. If you ever mentioned you were from Boston at a slam event, you were likely to hear (among other things): “Are you Cantab?” I hear from poets all the time (secretly, generously) who promise me there is no place in the world like the place. Regulars from five, ten, twenty years ago return on a whim, on a Wednesday, to re-introduce themselves to poetry in the same basement, under the same pounding blues and leaking pipes. And poets leave knowing that when they need to come back, Cantab will be waiting.
If Cantab has ever been home for you: I’m sorry that it won’t wait for us still. I’ve spent tonight reaching out to our founders, our hosting and support staff, our bartenders, our old guard slam and modern era teams, our champs and national reps, and anyone I could think of who felt ownership of this not-big-enough-for-its-hearts space. I missed some of you; the people I can’t connect to directly are countless and impossible, and so I hope this message reaches you. If you ever thought: I’ll go down there and read someday. Or: I’ll get back there and read someday. Or: I’ll take someone else who needs it there someday. I hope and wait for that wish to come true, wherever the next there happens to be.
Thank you for all the years so far. Don’t forget that you’re Cantab, wherever you are.
