GNO: "Say 'WORD'" National Poetry Slam 2000

Patricia Smith introduces GNO at the National Poetry Slam in Providence, RI in August of 2000 where he performs, "Say, 'WORD'."

Videographer: Gabrielle Bouliane

Taylor Mali: "What Teachers Make", National Poetry Slam 2009

At NPS 2009 in West Palm Beach, FL, Taylor Mali of New York, NY offers "What Teachers Make" at the PG Slam in a public library. This poem can be found elsewhere on this site in context as Slam Safe II    • Slam Safe II: A Whole PG rated Slam  

"Your Poems Are Not Good Because ... [a response]" or "The Rise, Fall and Renaissance of Poetry Slam"

(Written in response to numerous Facebook posts that began "Your poems are not good because ..." and "in the old days of poetry slam ...")

"Your Poems Are Not Good Because ... [a response]" 

or 

"The Rise, Fall and Renaissance of Poetry Slam"

I

Our poems were never that good

no one's were 

or the world we talked about

the revolution we prophesied 

would have arrived by now

but it didn't 

and it isn’t

and it won’t

because poetry can’t change a world

drunk on its own power

deaf to so many voices

poetry is only the captured sincerity of a moment

we were the moment

So we kept writing 

and slamming poems 

and sparring on stages

spitting word graffiti against the walls we faced

or the walls we broke down 

The good ol' days of poetry slam

weren't always as good as we remember

Though some days were better than we thought at the time,

remembering now and waxing nostalgic

The bastard son of jazz and Beats

born at Get Me High 

and the Green Mill

where Capone could cover the exits

we spit to barflies and java junkies

book buyers and gallery goers

we had our holy places

Nuyorican, Cantab, Starry Plough

Red Sea, MAD Linguist, the Merc

Bowery and Lizard Lounge

Blind Lemon in Deep Ellum 

in the heart of Texas

and Da Poetry Lounge

the hook there in the name

and a thousand temples 

with a hot mic

a willing owner

and a free night

We crowd-walked like Jesus

called out and heard responses

used microphones and mic stands

as the props we were forbidden to bear

climbed on bars to be better heard

wrote poems for duos, trios, foursomes

to amplify our solo limitations

turned one-person plays into touchstones

persuasive essays into epics

street protests into soliloquies

cyphered in circles

telling tales about our adventures

Our grandfathers and grandmothers

did the same

when the cosmos was our companion

the stars our only stage lights

And civilization was just a campfire

Our skin or status

age, accent or origin 

was wiped clean

we had three minutes and a ticking clock

to change the world

and ten seconds of grace

because we lost track of time

channeling the universe

We had arch rivals and forever allies

to push us forward

Titans and Olympians 

who we worshiped 

for crushing stages 

like city walls 

or opening hearts and minds

to other ways of thinking 

or living

or loving 

We had kings and goddesses

who blessed the microphones

in whispers and decrees

telling us to love ourselves 

in spite of ourselves 

“you are good enough”

“you are good enough”

“you, right now, 

hearing this, reading this

YOU, 

you are good enough

you are perfect”

We had heels and cads we loved to hate

hanging on every verse

waiting for a stolen stanza

a lifted lyric 

a reference to clothing they wore 

a cheater who judged them too knowingly 

an untruth wrapped in beautiful fiction

we could later disprove

and turn into sin

Audiences didn’t care to know our strife

in the old days of poetry slam

they hung on the shimmering words

played out stanzas in their minds

heard old poems new to them

uttered at their first hearing

they left changed, bettered and brighter

the points were never the point

they were the gimmick

to get them in the door

We asked them to judge us

sans background, affiliation or inclination

no doctorate or bibliography required 

their scores, our epitaphs

8.2, even on page

6.9 because it was a sex poem

9.7 worth the bus ride home

5.8, a punch to the gut

7.1 after we dropped a line

9.3 when we picked it up

a perfect 10 with tear-filled eyes

or guts sore with laughter

or hearing their story told through our lips

They judged our game

our struts and frets

in three minutes upon the stage

they were part of the show

they, the reason we spit:

Vox populi, 

vox deus, 

judicat poeta

We had demigods and divas

devils and demons

and sometimes, 

perhaps too often, 

we were they

We were “Beauty Ba Bo” perfectly translated

We had wingless seraphim

their halos lost in stage lights

Fallen angels seeking absolution

Mortals mid-apotheosis

We knew our saints by heart

could speak their names in mononyms

Shibboleths sans surname:

Marc, 

Patricia, 

Saul, 

Beau, Reggie, Taylor, Buddy, Gary, Roger, Bob, Wammo, Marty, Shappy, Klute, 

Sekou, Shihan, Ed, Derrick, Talib, Shane, Barbara, Miguel, Mahogany, Rachel, Sarah, Phil, Pat, MuMs, Jared, Henry, Mike, Scott, Suzi, Christopher, Hanif, Dayvid, Andy, Jack, Staceyann, Ken, Alvin, Corinna, Jaylee, Baz, Blair, Bao, Betsy, Sonya, Rives, Anis, Lauren, Bill, Patrick, Holly, Theresa, Billy, Jugga, Ragan, Steve, Sean, Suheir, Sou, Simone, Sully, Celena, Zork, Omar, Olivia, Oz, Iyeoka, Isaac, Corbet, Ebony, Eboni, Janean, Jamie, Jive, Jeremiah, Jasmine, Jerry, Cristin, Kenn, Eitan, Daphne, Danez, Donnie, Delrica, Duncan, De, Denise, Desiree, Darrell, Amelia, Xero, Mack, Paul, Stefan, Angela, Karen, Midnight, Erik, Sierra, Hakim, Adriana, Frannie, Ebo, Jesse, Matthew, Doc, Lindsay, Mickie, Maya, Laura, Emi, Nathan, Mikel, Mojdeh, Tank, Thadra, Robbie, Omari, Gypsee, Tristan, DaShade, Blue, Blythe, Tony, Rudy, Andrea, Ayinde, Abigail, Alex, Akua, Adam, Taalam, Rowie, Claire, Gabbi, Gabrielle, Genevieve, Goad, Taneka, Cass, Frank, Ryan, Valence, Evan, Josh, Nodalone, Neil, Briana, Brenna, Brit, Randy, Lydia, Jess, Naughtya, Eddie, Amy, Angelica, Caleb, Dylan, Dwain, Hakim, Lacey, Natasha, Zack, Panika, Amir, Chrysanthemum, Imani, Glori, Gigi, Tui, Jerri, Omni, Emanuelee, Ekabhumi, Javon, Jomar, George, Joyce, Joaquin, Mercedez, Mindy, Morris, Mckendy, Mayday, Matt, Esme, Brett, Dahled, Sam, Sevan, Suzee, Sabrina, Soul, Cheryl, Logan, Myrlin, James, Taz, Twain, Tova, Thomas, Crystal, Christa, Guante, Angelique, Colin, Theo, Jozer, Kealoha, Keith, Katie, Kat, Khary, Kataalyst, Bryan, Nazelah, Porsha, Daryl, Ian, Jon, Jay, Jeremyah, Jordan,  

Duke, FreeQuency, Flowmentalz, MrHumanity, Candy, Rage,  Diamond, Nova, Tempest, Verbal, Vogue, Tapestry, Rooster, Toaster, Whoopeecat

Don, Damian and Danny, the Trinity of ABQ

AJ, RJ, RC, CR, GNO, IN-Q when initials were enough 

Bowerbird just happy to be there

Mona turning spoken word into silent speech

Jeanne and Jim, no distance too far

Stephen and Julia with a Tattler

Arrian with a camera,

Inkera with a “welcome”

Clebo shirtless and rarefied

and Mighty Mike McGee, whose three names are always spoken as one

And after,

always after,

always underground

where only poets could enter

if you knew the password

the secret location

was Harlym125

the crownless king

holding court

for the best of us 

to duel in the round

until last poet standing

but no cameras in the courtroom 

no secrets from the sepulcher

no record made in this arena,

our Holy of Holies

Some of us were broken people 

writing to survive 

Some of us didn’t

some cut short by our own hands

some by fate we railed against

some by time, that takes us all

they all died too young

even the old ones

especially the old ones 

Some of us never healed 

some only healed through slam

because of the poems

because of the scores

because of the praise

because of the failures

because we got up again, and again and again

because we could banish our monsters

cast them back into darkness with wordmagic

because we would expose our sins

And find absolution by the last line

or because some stranger

we could not see under stage lights

said later in the lobby

or at the bar

or the afterparty, 

“I loved that poem… 

… you made me cry”

sometimes that alone was enough 

perhaps too often, 

it was enough

which is why we’re still here, still living

save one 

and save the world entire

their tears saving us 

from drowning ourselves  

If not for the old days of poetry slam

we would not know each other 

not have lived the stories in other skins

served in three-minute epics

or afterparties or hotel lobbies

we would not have a safe sofa,

a paying gig and eager crowd

in 50 cities and 500 small towns 

a welcome smile from a host we'd never met

but who knew us intimately

from that poem,

you know the one

the one never that good

whose ending you tweaked 

100 times trying to get right

but to someone, tonight,

it will be perfect 

exactly what they needed to hear

“your poems are not good because” 

you say over and over to yourself —

they’re not good — 

to you — 

swallowed in self-doubt and self-criticism,

but to someone,

tonight,

they are a masterpiece

wordmagic from a microphone

slammed by a wingless seraphim

halo lost in stage lights

chasing their monsters into the dark

The points weren't the point

the point was poetry

we knew that, we knew the math:

1,590 teams went to nationals

only 118 touched finals stage

we went to lose

at nationals, 

lose across states, 

lose across town

hundreds of hours practicing 

thousands of miles traveled

to be statistically eliminated on night one

to be cut from round two

to go over minute three

but we went to share

to become family 

stay family

mourn lost family

you stopped caring about the scores

about winning 

about fleeting victories

you cared about family

about impressing them with a poem

trying something new

and winning because

“your poems are good”

because you became the captured sincerity of a moment

the points weren't the point

the point was we wiped clean 

skin and status

age, accent and origin 

to become stories in skinsuits

we were words walking

the bards, bhats, griots, skalds, seanchaithe,

of our slam scenes back home

and a family wherever we were

we knew that 

in the “old days of poetry slam”

II

We forget now

the churning civil war inside ourselves

“The revolution will not be televised”

we believed wholeheartedly

poets may start revolutions, 

but we don't lead them

without an army, armed and funded

no one fights them

airwaves aren't free

raised fists don't rake in ratings

empty seats at finals add up over time 

But we refused to be bought

we refused to cash in

we refused to sell out

even when bankruptcy came knocking

Our poems were never that good

but we believed our own bios

in the old days of poetry slam

Gaslit by our own press releases

we knew the money would come

the chapbooks would one day be bound

TV gigs and book deals were around the corner

bars would become Broadway

book thrift shops would lead to theaters 

finals night would be standing-room only

MFAs were as good as MBAs

success would fall off the shelf

if this poem was perfect

this line was just right

if this hook had teeth

if we unfurled our dreams into a ship’s sail

we could make it to Avalon or Valinor

Penguin, Simon & Schuster, 

Random House, HarperCollins

PBS or HBO’s Def Poets

presidential inaugurations,

UN floor speeches 

White House dinners

Olympic openings

like the other poets who did

But we forgot

no one reads poetry anymore

no one reads print anymore

we pay to be published

selling books at slams

to make it to the next gig

and we’re left with

bookshelves of others’ words from

The old days of poetry slam

It was never enough to be brilliant

you have to do the work to prove it

sometimes you have to break into Harvard

and put your poetry book on the Woodberry shelf

for it to be found there

Now we count our scars and remember

the sins and stages, the dream teams 

the host hotels and victory poems

hip-hop battles and haiku head-to-heads 

nerd quizzes and fifth-wheel features

group pieces and late-night erotica

a trophy we once tore in half

the beautiful bouts 0.1 points apart

with the whim of a judge — 

some college kid on a date

some mom from the suburbs

some closet writer with her journal at home

some wannabe rapper

some grizzled retiree reliving his youth

or sweet grandma seeing what the kids are doing now —

deciding between prize money and parting gift

We were Kings of Kings, shouting:

“Look on my words, ye Mighty, and despair!

All statutes crumble

All empires fall

All languages change over time

or die on lips of the last speaker

"The old days of poetry slam”

are the “old days” for a reason

and the reasons were legion, 

but sometimes

but perhaps too often, 

we were they

III

But words never die

not once uttered and amplified

they echo endlessly across eternity

or get swallowed back into the throat

for a new voice to speak

The new slam isn’t the old slam

it’s better, it’s worse,

it doesn’t follow the rules

that we belabored and bickered over at slammasters meetings

ensconced in scripture we printed before Nationals

but it’s here and it’s now

and it’s asking us to dance

the steps are new

the new music is different

but we learned the last time

and danced waltzes across stages 

“Your poems are not good …”

we shout on social media

with a million reasons why

some don't read other poets

some don't read better poets

some shun critique or criticism 

some forget it's a gimmick not godhood

some outshine their mentors

some have no mentors to follow 

some first drafts stay final drafts

some value victories over craft

notching one-night slams into headboards

like some of us did

time will cull or cure

like it did us —

we forgotten heroes uncelebrated

we word barons stripped of fiefdoms

we veterans with razorblade tongues

Our poems were never that good

but they were good enough

and the proof is new slam is here

in the echo of the old

They love slam like we did

because we taught them to

the high schooler in the back out past curfew 

the fan who bought our chapbook with $1s

the one-time judge, drunk on our fire

the mourner who saw us grieve in public

watching a man cry without sin or shame, 

the teen who added 100 to your view count

didn’t you see them?

were the stage lights too bright

in "the old days of poetry slam”?

When we gave up

when the old slam became old

when we euthanized it at 34

in the city where it was born

at a meeting of 200 who loved slam so much

we had to cut its throat

when we took ”kill your darlings” too literally

they rose up 

where our words had sowed them

and built temples 

with the blueprints we burned

enriching their soil with our echoes

A legacy isn’t a carbon copy

it’s not a clone or a rerun

children may have our names

but they are only half-us

half-someone else

wholly themselves

something new built on the old

they read our poems in school

in chapbooks, on websites 

shared our voices, videos and clips

In mixtapes, LiveJournal, MySpace, 

YouTube, Instagram, Facebook, 

Tumblr, TikTok, TedX,
Button, Write About Now

They heard us say 

“you are good enough”

“you are good enough”

“you are good enough”

like we were taught

and they believed us

even when we didn’t believe ourselves

they still believe us

because our poems were that good

they outlived their makers

words still speaking 

“Poetry is Necessary”

like food, shelter, water, poetry is necessary

No cataclysm can kill poetry 

manmade or otherwise, 

not really, not forever, 

it'll rise from the corpses, the ashes, 

the broken bones and fallen towers

emerge from the flood waters 

that could kill, 

but not drown

Team SNO taught us that 

We martyred ourselves in suffering

on stages or pages

but not in vain

and not in silence

and someone was listening

even if we didn’t hear it

They heard about a thing called slam

how it could change the world some day

if the poem was perfect

the line was just right

if the hook had teeth

and when the old slam became old

they made it new again

The new slam isn’t the old slam

it’ll wander and conquer and collapse

and get back up, like we did

they will learn by doing, like we did.

they will learn by failing, like we did.

they will learn but getting up again and again and again

they will anoint new saints in new styles

they will take the ghost from our rebel skeleton

and outshine their ancestors

it is out legacy even if our name is absent

We were candles in the dark

but one can light another 

and still burn brightly 

our words remain to light the way 

even if we don't, 

some new poets will become furnaces, 

others bonfires, 

some just brief matches and flashes in the pan

some will come in like a fireball, 

burn into explosion and fade away into the dark

like some of us did

sometimes it’s enough

just to light the flame

Our poems were never that good

they didn’t have to be

but they were enough 

to someone, somewhere

and sometimes, 

perhaps too often, 

that someone 

was me

New slam is here

there are first-timers on stage

new voices in old skins

old voices with new poems

legends in renaissance

prodigies proving themselves

and audiences oblivious to the difference 

but they heard about a thing called slam

because they’re here

our poems were good enough

they’re ready to listen to wingless seraphim

see halos in stage lights

show them the glory 

of the old days

in the new temples

leave them changed, bettered and brighter

like in “the old days of poetry slam” 

There’s a sign up list 

and a hot mic

if you have a poem to share

or an open seat for tonight

if you want to lend your ears

They just want to be heard

like we did

want to say to us — 

but more so to themselves —

“you are good enough”

“you are good enough”

“you are good enough”

and hear us answer 

sincerely

simply, 

with hope

and with thunderous applause

Haiku Death Match at Heritage Square on April 13, as part of the Northern Arizona Book Festival

The Sedona Poetry Slam and Northern Arizona Book Festival are co-hosting a head-to-head Haiku Death Match at Heritage Square on April 13, as part of the 2024 Northern Arizona Book Festival. The event features $600 in prizes: $300 for first, $200 for second, $100 for third place.

Haiku (俳句) is a form of Japanese poetry consisting of 17 syllables in three metrical phrases of 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables.

Japanese haiku typically contain a kigo, or seasonal reference, and a kireji or verbal caesura. 

In Japanese, haiku are traditionally printed in a single vertical line, while haiku in English usually appear in three lines (5-7-5 syllables), to parallel the three metrical phrases of Japanese haiku.

A Haiku Death Match is a competitive poetry duel that is a subgenre of poetry slam. The Haiku Death Match is a prominent feature at the annual National Poetry Slam, replete with full costume for the host.

Slam haiku used in a Haiku Death Match is far simpler than traditional Japanese style haiku: The kigo and kireji can be omitted.

Slam haiku are simply three or fewer lines of exactly 17 syllables, no more, no less. Slam haiku can be anything from a single 17-syllable sing line or simply 17 words.

"Old Pond’’ by Matsuo Bashō [1644-1694] — a haiga in his own handwriting

Matsuo Bashō [1644-1694], born Matsuo Kinsaku, later known as Matsuo Chūemon Munefusa was the most famous Japanese poet of the Edo period. Bashō's most famous haiku:

古池や 

蛙飛び込む 

水の音

koike ya

kaeru tobikomu

mizu no on

Translated by Robert Hass as

Old pond…

a frog jumps in

water’s sound

やがて死ぬ

けしきは見え

ず蝉の声

yagate shinu 

keshiki wa miezu 

semi no koe

Translated by David G. Lanoue as:

The cry of the cicada

Gives us no sign

That presently it will die.

A standard Haiku Death Match is conducted thus:

⏹The host randomly draws the names of two poets, known as haikusters, from the pool of competitors.

⏹The haikusters adorn headbands of two colors: Red and Not-Red (white).

⏹Red Haikuster and Not-Red Haikuster bow to each other to demostrate they are friendly and that a Haiku Death Match is ultimately a silly thing.

⏹Red Haikuster goes first.

⏹The Red Haikuster reads his or her haiku twice. The audience does not clap or make noise (usually, though, they laugh or vocalize, but, of course, we must pretend that this is completely unacceptable).

⏹The Not-Red Haikuster reads his or her haiku twice. Again, the audience does not clap or make noise.

⏹The host waits for the three judges to make their choice for winner, then signals them to hold aloft their Red or Not-Red flag.

⏹Simple majority (3-0 or 2-1) determines the winner.

⏹The host asks the audience to demonstrate “the sound of one hand clapping,” i.e., silence, then “the sound of two hands clapping,” at which point they can finally applaud. The mock ceremony involving the audience is half the fun.

⏹The winning haikuster of that round then goes first.

Depending on the round, the winner will be best 3 of 5, 4 of 7, best 5 of 9, etc., of a number determined beforehand for each round.

After the duel, Red Haikuster and Not-Red Haikuster bow to each other and shake hands. The next duel begins.

Haiku by Matsuo Bashō:
"Quietly, quietly,
yellow mountain roses fall –
sound of the rapids"

Rules for the Haiku Death Match:

⏹Register: E-mail at foxthepoet@yahoo.com

⏹Participation: Anyone can compete.

⏹No Titles: Haikusters shall not read the title of the haiku. Just the 17-syllable haiku itself.

⏹While some haiku are merely three lines, Death Match Haiku must be 17 syllables exactly.

⏹Haikusters shall read the haiku twice, first for initial recitation, the second time for proper digestion. 

⏹Originality: Poets must be the sole authors of the haiku they use in competition. Plagiarized or others' haiku are grounds for disqualification. We all love Matsuo Bashō, but he’s 300 years too dead to compete.

⏹Preparation: Poets can have haiku written beforehand or write them in their head while at the mic. As long as the haiku are 17 syllables, we don’t care how, when or from where the haiku originates. 

Poets can read from the page, book, journal, notepad, smartphone, etc. 

⏹Rounds: Will be determined by the number of haikusters who sign up to compete.

⏹Quantity of haiku needed: Depends on the number of rounds. 30 haiku will likely be enough for poets who push rounds to the last haiku needed and go all the rounds, but 20 haiku might be enough. 50 to 100 gives haikusters enough material to be flexible in competition. Most veteran haikusters have several hundred to compete with.

If you run out of pre-written haiku, you can make them up on the mic and count on your fingers; that's perfectly fine.

⏹Adult themes and language. Remember that this is a live event and content of haiku will not be known ahead of time, but the event takes place at Heritage Square at a family friendly event. Please respect the audience, There may be children present so you may have to deal with their parents afterward. 

⏹Judges: Three random people at the event will be selected as the judges. Using the "fluid rule," the judges cannot share bodily fluids with any of the haikusters (i.e., no parents, siblings, blood relatives, children, spouses or lovers) and hope that the judges are not related and the event is fair. We will ask the haikusters before the Death Match if that rule applies to any judges before the event begins.

⏹Draw: We will pull two names from a hat containing the names of the competitors before each duel. If your name is drawn, you must haiku in that duel.

⏹Third Place: When we get to the final four haikusters, the top two will advance. The two defeated haikusters will then compete for third place, and the $100 prize, before the top two haikusters compete for first place ($300) and second place ($200).

This sheet of kaishi writing paper is inscribed with verse by Japan’s most famous haiku poet, Matsuo Bashō, and one of his pupils in the teacher’s own handwriting. When this work was first publically displayed at Seattle Asian Art Museum in 2015, it created a small sensation among literary specialists in Japan because not only were the Bashō poems recorded here previously unknown, the work must date to relatively early in his career as a poet, before he turned 40. In the West, it would be the equivalent of discovering a manuscript with previously unpublished poems by (Bashō’s contemporary) John Milton in his own hand. At the time of the discovery, the Bashō expert professor Tamaki Tsukasa stated that the handwriting, seal, and signature could also be authenticated as genuine.
Credit: Mary and Cheney Cowles Collection, Gift of Mary and Cheney Cowles, 2018, The Met

What’s the Best Strategy to Win a Haiku Death Match?

⏹A winning haikuster is flexible.

⏹If your opponent reads a serious or deep haiku, read one that is more serious or more profound, or go on the opposite tack and read something funny.

⏹If your opponent reads a funny haiku, read one that is funnier, or go on the opposite tack and read something serious or deep.

⏹If your opponent makes fun of you, make fun of yourself even bigger or make fun of them. A good head-to-head haiku can work wonders and often wins a Haiku duel. 

⏹If you’re on stage and you get an idea for a haiku, feel free to write it down immediately. That might be the next round’s haiku that wins you the duel.

⏹Have a good time. Even if don't get past the first round, it's still a great time for all.

⏹You get to read the haiku twice, so let that play into how you read it. You may want to read it verbatim with the same inflection or intonation, or you may want to emphasize a different portion of the haiku the second time. You may also use the repetition to your advantage and write a haiku about repeating yourself.

Poet Matsuo Bashō meets two farmers celebrating the mid-autumn moon festival in an 1891 print by Tsukioka Yoshitoshi from "Hundred Aspects of the Moon." The haiku reads:
“Since the crescent moon,
I have been waiting
for tonight.”

The Robert Spiess Memorial 2012 Haiku Awards

nautical chart

I touch the depth

of my mother’s ashes

— Scott Mason, First Prize

slave quarters ...

the shapes of their shadows

in this dust

— Duro Jaiye, Second Prize

shades of blue ...

the deer’s remaining eye

cradled by bone

— Susan Constable, Third Prize

winter dusk

my grief released

from the crow’s throat

— Margaret Chula, Honorable Mention

formation of geese —

a log opens

to the woodsman’s maul

— Michele L. Harvey, Honorable Mention

I seem to be

an intermittent shadow . . .

summer clouds

— Kirsty Karkow, Honorable Mention

Northern Arizona Book Festival sponsors free Sedona Poetry Slam, featuring slam legend Bill Campana on Saturday, April 13

The Sedona Poetry Slam proudly welcomes Arizona slam poetry legend Bill Campana to the stage on Saturday, April 13, as performance poets bringing high-energy, competitive spoken word to the Mary D. Fisher Theatre starting at 7:30 p.m. 

Admission is free, thanks to funding from the Northern Arizona Book Festival.

A poetry slam is like a series of high-energy, three-minute one-person plays, judged by the audience. Anyone can sign up to compete in the slam for the $75 grand prize and $25 second-place prize. Between rounds, Campana will perform a featured set.

Bill Campana

Campana seeks to find answers to the big questions in life, but usually settles for vague, watered down, surreal explanations.

Campana has been a fixture in Phoenix poetry since 1997 and is the author of six out-of-print collections of poetry, a six-time member of the Mesa National Poetry Slam Team, and is the 2014 Individual World Poetry Slam's Haiku Death Match Champion.

“A poetry tour de force, Bill Campana has done what few poets could ever dream of in writing sharp, entertaining poetry that doesn't cater to anyone but is enjoyed by all,” publisher Bob Nelson stated. “In his live performances, he comes at you like a machine gun of short, powerful linguistic observations. Bill's live performances are the thing of legend.”

Anyone Can Compete

To compete in the slam, poets will need three original poems, each lasting no longer than three minutes. No props, costumes nor musical accompaniment are permitted. The poets are judged Olympics-style by five members of the audience selected at random at the beginning of the slam.

Slam poetry is an art form that allows written page poets to share their work alongside theatrical performers, hip-hop artists and lyricists. Poets come from as far away as Phoenix, Tucson and Flagstaff, competing against adult poets from Sedona and Cottonwood, college poets from Northern Arizona University and youth poets from Sedona Red Rock High School. 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 and inspire the audience with their creativity.

Mary D. Fisher Theatre is located at 2030 W. SR 89A, Suite A-3, in West Sedona. Call 282-1177 or visit SedonaFilmFestival.org.

The next poetry slams of the season will be held on Saturdays, May 11 and June 8.

The prize money is funded by the Northern Arizona Book Festival and by Verde Valley poetry supporters Jeanne and Jim Freeland.

Email foxthepoet@yahoo.com to sign up early to compete or by the Friday before the slam or at the door the day of the slam. 

For more information, visit sedonafilmfestival.com or foxthepoet.blogspot.com. For a full list of slam poetry events in Arizona, visit azpoet.com.

The Saturday, April 13, Sedona Poetry Slam is FREE ADMISSION, thanks to funding by the Northern Arizona Book Festival, which is cover the costs and prize money for the winning poets: $100 for first place, $75 for second place and $50 for third place

Northern Arizona Book Festival

The Northern Arizona Book Festival returns from Friday, April 5, to Monday April 15, with in-person and online events and activities for all ages, including readings from multiple local and regional authors, poetry slams, workshops and live performances for all ages in multiple venues across Flagstaff, Sedona and online.

Admission to all festival events is free and open to the public. The list of the over 30 different events are available at noazbookfest.org.

The bulk of the events, including a Haiku Death Match, take place Friday, April 12, to Sunday, April 14.

What is Poetry Slam?

Founded at the Green Mill Tavern in Chicago in 1984 by Marc Smith, poetry slam is a competitive artistic sport designed to get people who would otherwise never go to a poetry reading excited about the art form when it becomes a high-energy competition. 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. Slam poets have opened at the Winter Olympics, performed at the White House and at the United Nations General Assembly and were featured on "Russell Simmons' Def Poets" on HBO.

Sedona has sent four-poet teams to represent the city at the National Poetry Slam in Charlotte, N.C., Boston, Cambridge, Mass., Oakland, Calif., Decatur, Ga., Denver and Chicago

Lizard the Wizard, Sondraya and Lalli will represent Sedona at the BlackBerry Peach Poetry Slam's Arizona Championship

Chosen by the five judges in the audience after three rounds of high-energy, competitive spoken word at the Sedona International Film Festival's Mary D. Fisher Theatre, the top three poets at the Saturday, March 9, Sedona Poetry Slam earned spots to compete at the BlackBerry Peach Poetry Slam's Arizona Championship, to be held in Phoenix on Friday, April 19. 

From a field of 14 competing poets, the top three slam poets earning Sedona's berths are:

Lizard the Wizard, with a score of 82.2

Lizard the Wizard, photo by Christopher Fox Graham

Sondraya, with a score of 78.5

Sondraya Bradley, photo by David Jolkovski/Larson Newspapers

Lalli, with a score of 77.7

Jason Lalli, photo by Christopher Fox Graham

The other competors included Adrienne Peters of Phoenix, Cylie Naylor of Scottsdale, Eric Hoff of Sedona, "Moose" of Phoenix, Roger Blakiston of the Village of Oak Creek, Bear Smith of Sedona, Gary Every of Cottonwood, LMB of Prescott and Rex Arrasmith of Sedona.

Athena Zelda Nebula Skye Sylvia Diana Fox Graham, age 5, of Sedona, and Naughty A. Mouse of Phoenix, calibrated the slam.

Athena Zelda Nebula Skye Sylvia Diana Fox Graham, photo by Christopher Fox Graham

BlackBerry Peach

The top three poets will earn Sedona's three spots at the BlackBerry Peach National Poetry Slam's Arizona State Championships, sponsored by the Arizona State Poetry Society.

Three poets each from open poetry slams in Sedona, Mesa, Prescott, Phoenix and Flagstaff will compete at the 15-poet slam held by Ghost Poetry Slam and hosted by Ben “B-Jam” Gardea on Friday, April 19. 

The overall state champion will win trip sponsored by the ASPS to represent Arizona at the National Federation of State Poetry Societies' BlackBerry Peach National Slam from June 5 to 8 in Roswell, Ga.

B-Jam, photo by Sedona Poetry Slam

A regular competitor at the Sedona Poetry Slam, B-Jam is a Phoenix native, married father of three children. Gardea overcame both alcoholism and a rare hip disease that made him unable to walk. After getting sober and a total hip replacement, he had two goals: To share his poetry and and hike a mountain in Sedona. Three years later, B-Jam is the 2023 ASPS State Poetry Slam champion, ranked 10th nationally and has curated writers workshops, featured at poetry events, won a grant to publish a poetry book and is the host and producer of the popular PHX Poetry Slam.

“Poetry has changed my life and I want to be a caretaker of the artform for future generations to explore and become part of, because I know that poetry can make the most profound impact on human beings,” B-Jam said. 

B-Jam, photo by Sedona Poetry Slam