Phoenix Takes 3rd, FlagSlam Pulls 4th at NPS semis

Flagstaff took fourth in their semi-final bout, losing to 18th seed San Francisco, Denver's first-seed Mercury Café and eighth-seed Cafe Nuba, but beating eighth-seed Killeen, Texas. (Cafe Nuba and Killeen both tied at eighth-place going into semi-finals).

The results I was able to track down are:
1st Round:
Cafe Nuba 26.2
Flagstaff 26.7
Denver 28.1
Kileen tx 27.4
San Francisco 28.6

2nd Round:
San Francisco 57.6
Denver Mercury 57.1
Cafe Nuba 56.1
Killeen 53.5
Flagstaff 52.8

In Arizona's other semi-final bout, the 16th-seed Phoenix Downtown Slam Team took third, losing to Albuquerque's seventh-seed ABQ Slam
The other teams in the bout were Oklahoma City's second-seed IAO Wayward Slam, Atlanta's 10th seed Java Monkey and Philadelphia's 19th seed The Fuze.

San Francisco, Albuquerque, the Nuyorican (NYC), and St. Paul are the finals teams.

Postage

i will mail myself to you
place a postage stamp
just above my heart
that beats your name in your absence
throbbing in the ache
to remind my fingertips
through the transit of veins
that they once shared the same intent
to graze the goose bumps on your skin
lose sight of the sun
as they sunk beneath the waves of hair
and share the flavor of your pores

I'll crouch low in the baggage compartment
between boxes of old papers and used shoes
shipped between lovers who parted in sighs
whispering, "i promise to return for you"
transfigured into "i promise to return to visit"
and settling on "i promise to return for my stuff"
de-evolved into the hollow conveyance of property
as "i still miss you" wrapped in red tissue paper
hardened into a cardboard shell
and the point with rounded arches
grew upright into a cube with an overlapped lid
duct taped and sealed against prying ears
who could hear the way sorrow echoes
at 30,000 feet above Iowa

i'll shiver in the high-altitude chill
write my initials in the frost
with yours beneath
CFG+XX
encircled that still-throbbing heart
so that if the cold kills me
at least these boxes will understand why
remember their pre-cubic shape
the sound of tissue paper crinkling
convey to the contents inside,
the abandoned orphans betwixt guardians
who will recall that they were once packed
by loving hands dampened by wiped-away tears
and the soft stammering
of "i will return, i will return"
spoken with macarthur's hope
but bonnie prince charlie's acquiesce

after touchdown,
i'll walk in perfect step with the baggage handlers
stand upright as they cancel the postage
leaving a wavy tattoo
emblazed onto my chest
patiently sit in the back of the van to your town
and climb inside your mailbox
to nap until you bring me inside
then rest eagerly between the unopened bills
and soon-to-be castaway junk mail
waiting for you to find the time to open me,
perhaps while on the phone
or waiting for the pasta to boil
or watching the cat lap up cream
before you retire to bed

you'll bring me to your room
half-opened but as yet unread
perch me precariously on the nightstand
above postcards from foreign cities
with hard-to-pronounce names
and beneath the torn-cover paperback novel
that lulls you to sleep
and some morning a day or two later
you'll pull me to you while sipping coffee
open me wide to your sunrise
trace your fingertips along the stamp's ragged edge
and my worn exterior
read me with the intensity of your books
wonder privately what path I took to reach you
press your palm to my chest
raise the goose bumps on both our skins
and restart my heart
back to the throbbing pulse it once remembered
with a rhythm that makes us both imagine
relearning how to ride a bicycle
like we did once when we were children

Flagstaff National Poetry Slam Team's Semi-Final Bout at NPS

The Flagstaff National Poetry Slam Team will compete in the semi-final bout at Monarchy in West Palm Beach, Fla., at 8 p.m., Eastern Time.

The slam will open with the Rookie Showcase featuring Jamila Woods, from Young Chicago Authors, Jaco, from Paris, Adam Gottlieb, from Hampshire College, and Jude Fageas, from Slam Nuatl.

Flagstaff National Poetry Slam team includes Frank O'Brien, left, Ryan Brown, Antranormus, John Cartier and Jessica Guadarrama. Break a leg.

The Bout:
Flagstaff's Flagslam (17th)
Denver's Mercury Café (1st)
Killeen (8th)
Denver's Slam Nuba (8th)
San Francisco (18th)

The bout will be hosted by Robbie Q and bout managed by Corpus Cristi's Stefan Senserz and One Truth.

Phoenix National Poetry Slam Team's Semi-Final Bout at NPS

The Phoenix National Poetry Slam Team will compete in the semi-final bout at The Lounge in West Palm Beach, Fla., at 8 p.m., Eastern Time.

The slam will open with the WoWPS Showcase, featuring four poets:
Ocean, from SlamCharlotte, T. Miller, from Detroit, Queen Sheba, from SlamCharlotte, and Jude Fageas, from Slam Nuatl.

The Phoenix National Poetry Slam Team includes NORAZ Poets alumnus Aaron Johnson, left, The Klute, Ed Mabrey and Myrlin Hepworth. Break a leg.

The Bout:
Phoenix Downtown (16th)
Oklahoma City's IAO Wayward Slam (2nd)
Albuquerque's ABQ Slam (7th)
Atlanta's Java Monkey (10th)
Philadelphia's The Fuze (19th)

The bout will be hosted by Seth Walker and bout managed by Sean McGarrigle and one of my favorite Texas poets, Bob "Whoopeecat" Stephenson (on his motorcycle at the 2005 National Poetry Slam in Albuquerque, N.M.)

Two Arizona Poetry Slam Teams Make Semis

Two of Arizona's four teams are going to the National Poetry Slam's semi-finals.

The Phoenix National Poetry Slam Team (NORAZ Poets alumnus Aaron Johnson, left, The Klute, Ed Mabrey and Myrlin Hepworth) came in at 16th place after winning their first bout Wednesday night and taking second place in their second bout on Thursday night.

In similar fashion, the Flagstaff National Poetry Slam team of Frank O'Brien (left), Brown, Antranormus, John Cartier and Jessica Guadarrama came in at 17th place after winning their first bout Tuesday night and taking second place in their second bout on Wednesday night (Thursday was a bye-day).

Flagstaff came in 0.9 points behind Phoenix in the competition in terms of total points scored.
Mathematically, while two teams from the same state often make semi-finals but the chance of them coming in so close is a statistical improbably.

As both three of the FlagSlam kids and Phoenix's Ed Mabrey competed in the last Sedona Slam on Friday, July 17, I would like to take complete credit for this highly unusual mathematical anomaly and dub it the "CFG Effect." Again, this is for no good reason whatsoever.

In my previous blog post on 8/5/09, I stated: "I predict that by the end of tonight, FlagSlam will be between 12th and 18th place, but no lower and perhaps a little higher."

In any case, the top 20 teams, which include both Phoenix and Flagstaff, are now headed to semi-finals. *This is the first time since 2005 that an Arizona team has made semi-finals (Mesa in 2000 and 2005, Tempe made it in 2007 but was disqualified before reaching the stage) and the first time ever that two Arizona teams have gone.*

Arizona now has a 20% chance of seeing one of its teams on the finals stage and a 4% chance of seeing them both.

Congratulations, good luck and break a leg to both teams. I want to see one of you on that stage on Saturday night.

Place, Slam Team, First Bout, Second Bout, Final Score
Rank 2 Teams:
1st Denver's Mercury Café: 115.5 (1), 116.5 (1), 232.0
2nd IAO Wayward Slam: 112.6 (1), 114.7 (1), 227.3
3rd Minneapolis' Soapboxing: 115.1 (1), 111.5 (1), 226.6
4th NYC's Nuyorican Poets Cafe: 107.8 (1), 116.2 (1), 224.0
5th Hawaii Slam: 114.4 (1), 108.5 (1), 222.9
6th Oakland Poetry Slam: 113.1 (1), 106.0 (1), 219.1

Rank 3 Teams:
7th Albuquerque's ABQ Slams: 114.9 (2), 115.8 (1), 230.7
8th Killeen Poetry Slam: 113.7 (1), 115.0 (2), 228.7
8th Slam Nuba: 111.1 (2), 117.6 (1), 228.7
10th Java Monkey: 116.3 (1), 112.1 (2), 228.4
11th Urbana: 114.8 (2), 110.8 (1), 225.6
12th Austin Poetry Slam: 118.3 (1), 107.2 (2), 225.5
13th LionLike MIndState Slam: 107.9 (2), 116.9 (1), 224.8
14th Orlando Poetry Slam: 112.7 (1), 109.5 (2), 222.2
15th New Jersey's Loser Slam: 113.1 (1), 107.8 (2), 220.9 (withdrew from semi-finals so they could compete in the Group Slam)
16th Phoenix Downtown: 104.8 (1), 113.6 (2), 218.4
17th Flagslam: 106.5 (1), 111.0 (2), 217.5

Rank 4 Teams going onto semi-finals:
18th San Francisco's The City Slam: 117.8 (1), 112.4 (3), 230.2
19th The Fuze: 112.4 (2), 115.6 (2), 228.0
20th Neo Soul: 116.4 (3), 111.3 (1), 227.7
21st Milwaukee Poetry Slam: 107.3 (1), 116.0 (3), 223.3

- - - - -

Rank 4 Teams not going onto semi-finals:
22nd Cantab: 105.1 (2), 116.5 (2), 221.6
23rd SlamRichmond: 113.6 (1), 107.9 (3), 221.5
24th Seattle Poetry Slam: 107.4 (2), 113.3 (2), 220.7
25th San Diego Poetry Slam: 105.4 (3), 114.0 (1), 219.4
26th Echoverse Poetry Slam: 106.3 (2), 110.7 (2), 217.0
27th Writing Wrongs Poetry Slam: 105.0 (3), 108.0 (1), 213.0
28th Lizzard Lounge Poetry Slam: 102.5 (2), 109.8 (2), 212.3
29th Hampshire Co Slam Collective: 109.5 (1), 99.2 (3), 208.7

Rank 5 Teams
30th Forth Worth Poetry Slam: 111.4 (2), 117.2 (3), 228.6
31st Berkeley: 111.4 (4), 116.3 (1), 227.7
32nd SlamCharlotte: 112.8 (2), 112.5 (3), 225.3
33rd Dallas Poetry Grind: 105.0 (3), 118.0 (2), 223.0
34th Dallas Poetry Slam: 106.1 (2), 115.2 (3), 221.3
35th Slam Free or Die: 107.6 (3), 112.0 (2), 219.6
36th Life Sentence Slam: 111.3 (3), 107.0 (2), 218.3
37th Providence: 106.0 (2), 110.4 (3), 216.4
38th DCSlam: 111.6 (2), 104.5 (3), 216.1
39th The Stage: 97.0 (4), 116.6 (1), 213.6
40th Toronto Poetry Slam: 101.6 (4), 111.7 (1), 213.3
41st Slam Nahuatl: 105.7 (3), 104.3 (2), 210.0
42nd Young Chicago Authors: 109.5 (1), 91.1 (4), Disqualified

Rank 6 Teams
43rd Art Amok: 113.5 (2), 115.1 (4), 228.6 44th Writers Block: 110.9 (3), 114.5 (3), 225.4 45th Eclectic Truth Poetry SLam: 104.5 (4), 116.3 (2), 220.8 46th Mental Graffiti: 111.3 (2), 109.0 (4), 220.3 47th Durham-Bull City Slam: 105.3 (4), 113.1 (2), 218.4 48th Boise Poetry Slam: 108.9 (3), 109.1 (3), 218.0 49th Worcester Poets Asylum: 109.0 (3), 108.1 (3), 217.1 50th Omaha Healing Arts Poetry Slam: 105.4 (3), 110.9 (3), 216.3

Rank 7 Teams
51st Respect Da Mic: 109.1 (4), 110.0 (3), 219.1
52nd Vancouver Poetry SLam: 109.5 (3), 108.6 (4), 218.1
53rd Tucson's Ocotillo Poetry Slam: 110.8 (3), 107.1 (4), 217.9
54th Paris: 107.1 (4), 109.8 (3), 216.9
55th Salt City Slam: 109.5 (4), 105.3 (3), 214.8
56th Slamarillo: 106.7 (3), 104.8 (4), 211.5
57th Second Tuesday Slam: 104.6 (4), 106.3 (3), 210.9
58th Houston Poetry Slam: 101.6 (3), 108.6 (4), 210.2
59th Lincoln: 98.6 (3), 108.1 (4), 206.7
60th Montevallo: 102.0 (4), 101.3 (3), 203.3

Rank 8 Teams
61st SlamMN: 116.7 (4), 106.0 (4), 222.7
62nd San Jose Poetry Slam: 107.6 (4), 112.9 (4), 220.5
63rd Puro Slam: 114.8 (4), 102.0 (4), 216.8
64th Ozark Poetry SLam: 108.8 (4), 104.0 (4), 212.8
65th St. Louis Poetry Slam: 106.6 (4), 103.1 (4), 209.7
66th Mesa Slam: 101.9 (4), 100.1 (4), 202.0
67th Madison Poetry Slam: 96.2 (4), 100.4 (4), 196.6
68th Kalamazoo: 85.2 (4), 98.2 (4), 183.4

*Correction as advised by The Klute. Thanks.

Slam Tutorial: Using Sign Language

I saw Rives perform this at the 2004 National Poetry Slam in St. Louis.

Poems specifically about body language or sign language offer the poet another tongue with which to speak. I've been told that my use of my arms greatly enhances my performances. Rives uses sign language overtly in this poem to convey his poem.

The play on words between "deaf poetry" "Def Poetry" (a la Russell Simmons, Mos Def and HBO) is also super-nifty.

Sign Language
By Rives

I work sometimes at a high school for deaf kids.
We put on poetry readings and poetry slams.
We call 'em
deaf poetry jams.

One poets poem goes ...

The night we met,
so many moons, were shining down on us so brightly
I thought
"Hey, maybe those moons have mistaken us for their Gods."

Another poet's poem goes ...

I, I, I, me, me, me, my, my, my
Doesn't anybody tell a story anymore?

And another poet's poem goes ...

Last night I dreamt I was little again.
And i could hear back then,
but the silence in my house
was deafening.

See some of the kids only write about being deaf.
Others make a joke.
Some make a mention.
Some ignore the topic altogether.

Not too different from the choices poets make anywhere else
with gender of skin color.
So you get goofy haiku like:

Homework is bullshit.
And inspires out of me
nothing but vomit.

And poems like

I saw on T.V.
that scientists have taught
a gorilla to speak sign language.
Outstanding!
Why don't they
teach the gorilla
how to wipe
it's ass, assholes?

And the words, the signs themselves
are as wonderful for me to watch
as if they were hummingbirds or butterflies.
Words like goosebumps.
Daydream. Giraffe. Sticky-icky-icky.

These are high school students
who never pass notes in class.
They just sign their shit
behind your back.

And they greet each other
in the hallways lately, going ...

Can you hear me now?
No, well I guess-- that's good! That's all.

And they pester me for the
lyrics to hip-hop songs
which they prefer
because they can
feel the music
throbbing through
the speakers we use for speech therapy
And I tell them
Well, that says
"Everybody put your hands in the air."
And they do
Every month, at our little poetry slams,
where the audience never spreads out,
it spreads back so that everyone can
hear those hands.

And it's damn near silent,
and there's never a microphone.

But sometimes the poets do rock their poems,
and when a deaf poet rocks a poem,
it echoes off the walls for these ears alone, like

i was born as deaf and as quiet as a starfish.
But if I had been born a man,
I would pray to the lord above every night
at the top of my fucking lungs,
just to thank him
for giving me
voice.

My memory my be fuzzy, but remember another ending with a bit more theatrics as right after his last line, Rives actually tipped the mic over.

i was born as deaf and as quiet as a starfish.
But if I had been born a man,
I would pray to the lord above every night
at the top of my fucking lungs,
just to thank him
for giving me
voice.

And when deaf poets don't just rock the mic
they knock it the fuck over

Billy Collins postulates the Prometheus of Rodents

William “Billy” Collins (born 22 March 1941) is an American poet. He served two terms as the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003. In his home state, Collins has been recognized as a Literary Lion of the New York Public Library (1992) and selected as the New York State Poet for 2004. He was recently appointed Claire Berman Artist in Residence at The Roxbury Latin School, in West Roxbury, MA. He is a distinguished professor at Lehman College of the City University of New York.

The Country
By Billy Collins

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time-

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

Is FlagSlam Headed to NPS finals?

I just got off the phone with Ryan Brown, a member of the FlagSlam National Poetry Slam Team, who told me that the team took second in their second bout, Bout #17, held at O'Shea's in West Palm Beach, Fla.
FlagSlam is Frank O'Brien (left), Brown, Antranormus, John Cartier and Jessica Guadarrama.

Going into the bout, FlagSlam was a Rank 1 team, out of 4 ranks. After the second bout, they are a Rank 3 team out of 7 ranks.

What does that mean?
Every team at NPS competes twice. Teams that win both their bouts have a rank of 2 (1+1=2). Teams that win their first bout and take second in their second are ranked 3 (1+2=3). Teams that take fourth their first bouth and second in the second bout are ranked 6 (4+2=6), etc.

FlagSlam faced Toronto (Rank 4), St. Louis (Rank 4) and Boise (Rank 3). FlagSlam, now Rank 3, lost to Toronto (Rank 5) by 0.7 points but beat St. Louis and Boise (now both Rank 7s), so statistically still placed higher.

Mathematically, the lowest position FlagSlam could fall two wouth be 24th place only if all 16 Rank 1 teams take second place
and
all 17 Rank 2 teams win first place
and
20 of the 33 of these teams place mathematically higher than FlagSlam

Of course, slam is a fickle beast and many of the Rank 1 and 2 teams will score 3s and 4s tonight. Also, several of those Rank 1 and 2 teams face each other, mathematically making it impossible for them both to win their respective bouts.

I predict that by the end of tonight, FlagSlam will be between 12th and 18th place, but no lower and perhaps a little higher. To make semi-finals FlagSlam just needs to be in the top 20. If they do, they'll be the first Arizona team to make semi-finals since the late 1990s.

FlagSlam wins its first bout at the National Poetry Slam

Flagstaff won its first bout at the National Poetry Slam last night, held at at 9 p.m. at Respectables, in West Palm Beach, Fla.
Bout 4, hosted by GNO and bout managed by Joaquin Z:
Flagstaff's FlagSlam 106.5
Detroit's Echoverse Poetry Slam 106.3
San Diego Poetry Slam 105.4
Kalamazoo's PAKZOO 85.2

Mathematically, this places FlagSlam in a great position to make it to the semi-finals. The team is Frank O'Brien (left), Ryan Brown, Antranormus, John Cartier and Jessica Guadarrama.

First-place teams (teams that won their bouts):
Decatur, Ga.'s Java Monkey 116.3
Denver's Mercury Cafe 115.5
Denver is historically a highly polished team with tight, imaginative group pieces and a tremendous support structure. Alumni include legendary Andrea Gibson, the perennial Paulie Lipman, Ken Arkind and (my heartbreaker) Katie Wirsing.
Minneapolis' Soapboxing 115.1
Due to its proximity to Chicago, Minneapolis has been a major player in the National Poetry Slam community since the early 1990s.
Hawaii Slam 114.4
Despite what one would think would be bad geographic conditions for performance poetry, Hawaii hosts one of the largest poetry slams in the United States. Their team consistently ranks highly, especially with their political poetry. At the 2005 National Poetry Slam, the team intentionally violated the "no-repeat" rule by performing the same anti-war group poem twice in both their first and second bouts, effectively disqualifying them from semi-finals. Their justification: "the audienced needed to hear it." Cojones. Loser Slam 113.1
Oakland Poetry Slam 113.1
Oakland is the most "urban" of the San Francisco Bay Area slam teams. Unlike radical Berkeley or artsy San Franciso, Oakland is nitty-gritty and draws in poets from both scenes as well as their own local crowd.
Orlando Poetry Slam 112.7
The home-town favorite.
Hampshire County Slam Collective 109.5
Based at Hampshire College in Amherst, Mass., the Hampshire County team comes from a long line of Massachusetts area slam scenes.
Young Chicago Authors 109.5
Chicago is a longtime, stalwart slam scene. Slam was born in Chicago, after all.
Nuyorican Poets Cafe 107.8
One of the other largest poetry slams in the country, the Nuyorican Poets Cafe has been a Lower East Side Manhattan poetry icon in the early 1980s, before slam was born. After its birth, the Nuyorican Poets Cafe became the New York City hub. It was featured in the 1996 documentary "SlamNation." It was also the home of Saul Williams, star of the 1998 dramatic film "Slam" (which was shot in Washington, D.C.). The Nuyorican Poets Cafe routinely makes semi-finals at the National Poetry Slam.
Milwaukee Poetry Slam 107.3
Flagslam 106.5
Arizona's highest ranked team this year and my favorite, obviously.

Second-place teams
ABQ Slams 114.9
Urbana 114.8
SlamCharlotte 112.8
Forth Worth Poetry Slam 111.4
Mental Graffiti 111.3
Slam Nuba 111.1
LionLike MIndState Slam 107.9
Seattle Poetry Slam 107.4
Echoverse Poetry Slam 106.3
Dallas Poetry Slam 106.1
Providence 106
Cantab 105.1

Third-place teams:
Writers Block 110.9
Ocotillo Poetry Slam 110.8
Worcester Poets Asylum 109
Boise Poetry Slam 108.9
Slam Free or Die 107.6
Slamarillo 106.7
Slam Nahuatl 105.7
Omaha Healing Arts Poetry Slam 105.4
San Diego Poetry Slam 105.4
Dallas Poetry Grind 105
Writing Wrongs Poetry Slam 105
Houston Poetry Slam 101.6

Fourth-place teams:
Respect Da MIc 109.1
Ozark Poetry Slam 108.8
San Jose Poetry Slam 107.6
Paris 107.1
St. Louis Poetry Slam 106.6
Second Tuesday Slam 104.6
Eclectic Truth Poetry Slam 104.5
Montevallo 102
Mesa Slam 101.9
Toronto Poetry Slam 101.6
Madison Poetry Slam 96.2
Kalamazoo 85.2

Slam Tutorial: Who's Your Hero?

Poets idolize other artists, be it Ludwig von Beethoven, Frida Kahlo, Jimmy Hendrix, Jackson Pollock or Stephen King. A hero poem is a rather simple construction: tell us who your hero is and why. The art is in the telling.

Beethoven
By Shane Koyczan

Listen
his father made a habit out of hitting him
see
some men drink
some men yell
some men hit their children
this man did it all
because I guess all men
want their boys
to be geniuses
Beethoven
little boy
living in a house
where a name meant nothing
living in a house
where mercy had to be earned
through each perfect note
tumbling up through the roof
to tickle the toes of angels
whose harps
couldn’t hold half the passion
that was held in the hands
of a young boy
who was hard of hearing
Beethoven
who heard
his father’s anthem
every time he put finger to ivory
it was not good enough
so he played slowly
not good enough
so he played softly
not good enough
so he played strongly
not good enough
and when he could play no more
when his fingers cramped up
into the gnarled roots of tree trunks
it was
not good enough
Beethoven
a musician
without his most precious tool
his eardrums
could no longer pound out rhythms
for the symphonies playing in his mind
he couldn’t hear the audiences clapping
couldn’t hear the people loving him
couldn’t hear the women in the front row whispering
"Beethoven"
as they let the music
invade their nervous system
like an armada marching through
firing cannonballs
detonating every molecule in their bodies
into explosions of heavenly sensation
each note
leaving track marks
over every inch of their bodies
making them ache
for one more hit
he was an addiction
and kings, queens
it didn’t matter
the man got down on his knees
for no one
but amputated the legs of his piano
so he could feel the vibrations
through the floor
the man got down on his knees
... for music
and when the orchestra played his symphonies
it was the echoes of his father’s anthem
repeating itself
like a brok-broken recor-brok-broken record
it was
not good enough
so they played slowly
not good enough
so they played softly
not good enough
so they played strongly
not good enough
so they tried to mock the man
make fun of the madness
by mimicking the movements
holding their bows
a quarter of an inch above the strings
not making a sound
it was
perfect
see
the deaf have an intimacy with silence
it’s there in their dreams
and the musicians turned to one another
not knowing what to make of the man
trying to calculate
the distance between madness and genius
realizing that Beethoven’s musical measurements
could take you to distances
reaching past the towers of Babylon
turning solar systems into symbols
that crashed together
causing comets to collide
creating crescendos that were so loud
they shook the constellations
until the stars began to fall from the sky
and it looked like the entire universe
had begun to cry
distance must be an illusion
the man must be
a genius
Beethoven
his thoughts moving at the speed of sound
transforming emotion into music

.......

and for a moment
it was like joy
was a tangible thing
like you could touch it
like for the first time
we could watch love and hate dance together
in a waltz of such precision and beauty
that we finally understood
the history wasn’t important
to know the man
all we ever had to do was
listen

Cadaeic Cadenza, a poem in π

To my critics who think I include "too much mathematics" in my poetry, I have found that beats my wildest attempts at using mathematical number theory.
It's also one of the biggest formulaic constraints on writing a poem I've ever read, Mike Keith's "Cadaeic Cadenza." Why is it so constrained?

Think π.

"Cadaeic Cadenza" is a short story/poem of about 4,000 words composed in Standard "Pilish," or "πlish" in which the length (in letters) of successive words in the story "spells out" the digits of the number π - in this case, the first 3,834 digits. The constraint is reflected in the story itself: its narrator discovers that all the books in the world have suddenly been transformed into πlish. In order to illustrate this for us, the readers, excerpts from the πlish version of several works of literature are included in the story.

Written in 1996, "Cadaeic Cadenza" still holds the record for the longest composition using this particular constraint. Every word in the poem/story below comes from π. It begins thus (3.1415926...):

One
A Poem

A Raven

Midnights so dreary, tired and weary,
Silently pondering volumes extolling all by-now obsolete lore.
During my rather long nap - the weirdest tap!
An ominous vibrating sound disturbing my chamber's antedoor.
"This", I whispered quietly, "I ignore".

Perfectly, the intellect remembers: the ghostly fires, a glittering ember.
Inflamed by lightning's outbursts, windows cast penumbras upon this floor.
Sorrowful, as one mistreated, unhappy thoughts I heeded:
That inimitable lesson in elegance - Lenore -
Is delighting, exciting...nevermore.

Ominously, curtains parted (my serenity outsmarted),
And fear overcame my being - the fear of "forevermore".
Fearful foreboding abided, selfish sentiment confided,
As I said, "Methinks mysterious traveler knocks afore.
A man is visiting, of age threescore."

Taking little time, briskly addressing something: "Sir," (robustly)
"Tell what source originates clamorous noise afore?
Disturbing sleep unkindly, is it you a-tapping, so slyly?
Why, devil incarnate!--" Here completely unveiled I my antedoor--
Just darkness, I ascertained - nothing more.

While surrounded by darkness then, I persevered to clearly comprehend.
I perceived the weirdest dream...of everlasting "nevermores".
Quite, quite, quick nocturnal doubts fled - such relief! - as my intellect said,
(Desiring, imagining still) that perchance the apparition was uttering a whispered "Lenore".
This only, as evermore.

Silently, I reinforced, remaining anxious, quite scared, afraid,
While intrusive tap did then come thrice - O, so stronger than sounded afore.
"Surely" (said silently) "it was the banging, clanging window lattice."
Glancing out, I quaked, upset by horrors hereinbefore,
Perceiving: a "nevermore".

Completely disturbed, I said, "Utter, please, what prevails ahead.
Repose, relief, cessation, or but more dreary 'nevermores'?"
The bird intruded thence - O, irritation ever since! -
Then sat on Pallas' pallid bust, watching me (I sat not, therefore),
And stated "nevermores".

Bemused by raven's dissonance, my soul exclaimed, "I seek intelligence;
Explain thy purpose, or soon cease intoning forlorn 'nevermores'!"
"Nevermores", winged corvus proclaimed - thusly was a raven named?
Actually maintain a surname, upon Pluvious seashore?
I heard an oppressive "nevermore".

My sentiments extremely pained, to perceive an utterance so plain,
Most interested, mystified, a meaning I hoped for.
"Surely," said the raven's watcher, "separate discourse is wiser.
Therefore, liberation I'll obtain, retreating heretofore -
Eliminating all the 'nevermores' ".

Still, the detestable raven just remained, unmoving, on sculptured bust.
Always saying "never" (by a red chamber's door).
A poor, tender heartache maven - a sorrowful bird - a raven!
O, I wished thoroughly, forthwith, that he'd fly heretofore.
Still sitting, he recited "nevermores".

The raven's dirge induced alarm - "nevermore" quite wearisome.
I meditated: "Might its utterances summarize of a calamity before?"
O, a sadness was manifest - a sorrowful cry of unrest;
"O," I thought sincerely, "it's a melancholy great - furthermore,
Removing doubt, this explains 'nevermores' ".

Seizing just that moment to sit - closely, carefully, advancing beside it,
Sinking down, intrigued, where velvet cushion lay afore.
A creature, midnight-black, watched there - it studied my soul, unawares.
Wherefore, explanations my insight entreated for.
Silently, I pondered the "nevermores".

"Disentangle, nefarious bird! Disengage - I am disturbed!"
Intently its eye burned, raising the cry within my core.
"That delectable Lenore - whose velvet pillow this was, heretofore,
Departed thence, unsettling my consciousness therefore.
She's returning - that maiden - aye, nevermore."

Since, to me, that thought was madness, I renounced continuing sadness.
Continuing on, I soundly, adamantly forswore:
"Wretch," (addressing blackbird only) "fly swiftly - emancipate me!"
"Respite, respite, detestable raven - and discharge me, I implore!"
A ghostly answer of: "nevermore".

" 'Tis a prophet? Wraith? Strange devil? Or the ultimate evil?"
"Answer, tempter-sent creature!", I inquired, like before.
"Forlorn, though firmly undaunted, with 'nevermores' quite indoctrinated,
Is everything depressing, generating great sorrow evermore?
I am subdued!", I then swore.

In answer, the raven turned - relentless distress it spurned.
"Comfort, surcease, quiet, silence!" - pleaded I for.
"Will my (abusive raven!) sorrows persist unabated?
Nevermore Lenore respondeth?", adamantly I encored.
The appeal was ignored.

"O, satanic inferno's denizen -- go!", I said boldly, standing then.
"Take henceforth loathsome "nevermores" - O, to an ugly Plutonian shore!
Let nary one expression, O bird, remain still here, replacing mirth.
Promptly leave and retreat!", I resolutely swore.
Blackbird's riposte: "nevermore".

So he sitteth, observing always, perching ominously on these doorways.
Squatting on the stony bust so untroubled, O therefore.
Suffering stark raven's conversings, so I am condemned, subserving,
To a nightmare cursed, containing miseries galore.
Thus henceforth, I'll rise (from a darkness, a grave) -- nevermore!

-- Allanpoe, E.

Two
Change

My customary bedtime reading book hastily shelved, I sat, bewildered, pondering Allanpoe's poetry.
"Something's wrong", I murmured. "Despite Ravenesque timbres, so mesmerizing (the echo

'nevermore
nevermore
nevermore
nevermore
nevermore
nevermore
...'

survives, for example), my intellect detects wrongful alteration. This imitation, simulated Raven!..."
I recognized large, arbitrary changes. "Odd", I thought. "Why?" To research, I headed downstairs, muttering softly, "Hmm".
I hastened below carefully, there revisiting my book room. Books inhabited each table, shelf, and nook. Taking Cambridge Literature Treasury and proceeding to "Poetry, Poe's", my fears - oh my God! - heightened. Sighting no Raven but The Dark Bird, severe distress arose. "Absolutely, The Raven is maimed!", I exclaimed. "How?!"
Immediately arriving upstairs, I posited a conspiracy: a literature alteration conspiracy. "Are," I did quietly question, "all writings changed?"

Three
Of Carrolls

Jabwocky

Slithy toves, borogove
Gimbled there all out in strathwabe
Mimified and gyrified,
A rath is outergrabe.

"Beware a scrunch, a scratch, stepson!
Beware Jubjub, withstand a word!
Respect the Jabberwock and dread
Manxomian songbird!"

He, sword off hand, placement maintained
Thus to complete father's grand quest -
Then waited, vaunting showily
His progenitor's crest.

Therewith three swords he animized,
Before the creature, rumbling.
It was alive; its feelers straight
Burbled while whiffling!

The vorpall sword o' vulcanite
Smote - snicker! snacker! - artfully
A headless Wocky residue
Yielded strength mournfully.

"Youth did it - O, praised fearlessness!"
He issued melodies, forthright.
"Death's strike! O, day! Strallough! Stralleigh!" -
A-chortling in delight.

Borogove, strange slithy troves,
A brilligtime quickstep
Mimsy creatures, gimblified,
Frolicked on a steppe.

Four
An Hypothesis

I exhausted Carroll's rewritten ode, Jabwocky, soliciting essential clues to fully explain my difficulty.
"A Heisenberg Twinge could have modified books' contents thusly, but (my dubious thinking declared) surely these mutations are willed. I could sit and research a quantity of poetry's excellent, famous passages, or try uncovering the structures."
I therefore chose to scrutinize the words, and deliberate. I pondered games of alphabets, verses, language, sentences, equations, words. Lifting feather and inking it, my quill carefully scribbled thus:

A few schemata involving linguistical play

Lipograms: Writing so a letter's missing
Haiku: An uncommon ode (poem) bearing eccentric metrification characteristics
A Cento: Quite strange poem; borrowed lines
Anagram: To turn an item (words) into a novel expression
Double-entendres: Words, dualistic sense
Palindrome: Forwards or backwards, words are not transformed ("Redraw, detooted warder!")
A pangram: An amazing sentence, using whole alphabet
Acrostic: Inspected vertically, letters spell additional statement
Mnemonic: Can remember a factoid using this device
Pun: Groaner ("Stop, pundit!")

Thus utilizing the plumelike pen, I hesitated.
"To cause these variations surely insinuates much diabolical, innovative ingenuity. My poetry's clearly overturned; I cannot, however, rationalize. The [repeating] diabolical, innovative ingenuity! Although most beguiled, actually I'm near exhaustion. I am defeated, quite defeated, and undone!", I yelled.
Truthfully, the eerie enigma was greatly intriguing. Reading afresh Raven's discourses, I considered many options - a palindrome, a mnemonic, a conundrum.
"Full of mysteries, these poems crave observant review," I announced. Thoughts involving rest stayed, however, slowly causing lethargy.
"Now," (quietly said) "this sojourner will seek serenity. To bring sleep, the Musical Anthology usually renders help." Turning to "Poetry, Anderson", thus emerged a remarkable poem suggesting Jon's musical group, Yes.

Five
Dreams

Many depths of accustomed
Workings controlled when dreams single electric life do touch
Assessing expression, future affection, ways yesterday
O, to yesterday
The day, a way, flying through someone
Controlled my reigning

Accepting evenings knowledge, a shout
To a revelation laid endings, talks by a flower
No yesterdays, heart faster alternate
Mutant leaves creativity
Of clay, understand doors reigning silhouette our skylines
A stone

Expression - a children's - and being
Discoursing in lands, not put movement
Of hate - all expression creativity
The queen, those
Thousand answers sights done, understood, to mean changed
Love daughters

Memory come between all my antics
Did splendour I tell, a confusion endlessly?
We quickly as turned understood
Seed on turned
Mountains flowering of my sunrise, forgotten valley
Reasons together

Oh, all hands when highest
Touching a future way there's thunderous oppression
Straining and work, a spirit's
To a winter
Will I be, I regaining, returning, to this woman?
Outbound corner

Not I, apart yesterdays
You controlled my relayers, runner. I remember
My endlessly quickly soft mover
Night, night, deliver
Proportion spread running down forgotten coloured day rebounds
Watch loneliness

Arose ways satisfied from round
Thoughts consider touch preacher nailed daughters, as turned
Political regaining clear flower expressed
Understand rearrange, we dancing
We a foundation, morning, endlessly morning, while
Encounters searching

Not understand, my awakening
Hurry shoot out to transformed mutant
Enemy son, when here dislocate
Recorded chasers to battleship
In charger white begun returning moment loneliness
Is not seemed

From relayer's silhouette charge
Liquid sweet girl disregard, conceived topographic endlessly
Strength mornings I consider the good; highest
Splendour reasons silence
Watch one space season glider, I'll awaken
Regaining together

Silhouette amongst them, to lights
Stand more to stare, as watched begotten
There's to begin solid, I remember
A madrigal; tell a marcher,
Touch wonder's hand, there's running my eclipses
Somewhere accustomed

Returning,
Awakens
Awakens
Awakens
Awakens
To stories wonderous

Six
Cadaeics

Conundrums, conundrums, conundrums...nonsense! I needed some outdoor atmosphere. Taking Cambridge's Literature, I opened a door, waved my hand, commenced a promenade.
"I'm a Cadaeic!"
Huh?
"I'm a Cadaeic! I'm a real Cadaeic!", shouted an old woman.
Astonished, I took a step back.
"A veritable Cadaeic, old woman? Really?" Cadaeics' myths were numerous. A clique, a new mystic association, whose members had...power. An eerie power. So, I was now most curious. Still, staying calm, I placidly said, "Elucidate more, please."
"Cadaeics have," she murmured, "power. Do you?..."
"Yes, so I've intimated. Regardless, . . . Cadaeic? You apprehend this?" I said.
"Yes, sir. The true power lies greatly, heavily, within me."
"What," I softly inquired, "manner of power? A strength? telepathy? learning?"
"The power" (thusly continued that wizardly woman) "makes change in paralleled, tunneling universes. As I cultivate it, it is a powerful good, an element of great peace. Deplorably, he - Surta - uses it quite evilly, altering original Cadaeic intent."
"Changes? A Cadaeic scoundrel generating wild mutations? This, though intriguing, I cannot quite see. This humble spirit requires validation - your narrative produces numerous doubts!"
"My apology, oh sir - I'm utterly desperate. A Cadaeic normally avoids 'incapables', enjoying other Cadaeic contacts only. Can, stranger, you befriend me? Cadaeic existence - indeed, people's existence - demands prompt action."
Startled, I then asked, "What? A pedestrian incapable's worthless skill?"
"You, stranger, treasure the crucial analytic skills. Our people undervalue numerical ideas, preferring arcane, mystical, Cadaeified philosophy. Please help! Oh my Surta! O my Surta! Oh, lamentable Surta! O!"
I replied, "Yes, outlander, I'm available, amenable - also, somewhat numerical. Please, completely disclose:
When I am expected,
What assorted mathlike topics to review carefully,
plus
Where Surta's mysterious home is."
"Come, I recommend, before seven on tomorrow night (Michaelmas it is). Of a mathematic nature, review mensuration, infinite series, and trisection. Surta's shadowy home? Meet me. Cadaeic fortress awaits."
As my rendezvous was concluded, I meandered back, returning home.
"Quite impossible, what?", thought I. "An old Cadaeic, a bad Cadaeic...mythical powers subverted, indeed!" Regardless, curiosity still stayed. The woman's plea was serious, I concluded.
I desired an easement - perhaps more poetry. Opening Oxford's volume near "Poetry, Eliot", stanzas quite strange yet notorious filled my eyes. I saw Prufrock Lovesongs remarkably modified, thusly:

Seven
Prufrock

Let us depart then,
While eventide's withering skies threaten,
Impersonating the sufferers etherising upon pallets;
Together henceforth go, through these partially-unoccupied boulevards,
Muttering arguments like shards
About furtive nights amid threadbare hostels,
Discreet dialogues among oystershells,
Street complexes like dreary argument.
Its insidious regiment
Now leads to heavy questions . . .
Never inquire distinctly, 'wherefore?'
Directly go visit, herefore.

To an affair th' matriarchs sadly go
To talk touching MicAngelo.

Mist, cellophane breaths, rubbing on window latches,
A creamlike mist, rubbing, muzzling on window lattices
Soon lingered on watery apartments a curt instant,
Licked eventide's perimeter, tonguelike
(Partially discolored by fallen soot),
Vacillated a bit, making one extremely fast leap,
And, deeming that March night too remarkably quiet,
Stealthily curled womblike in quiescence, and fell perfectly asleep.

So, truly so, will exist a sundown
When amberlike fog permeates Cambridge Street
Above a door and a pane of doorglass;
Peaceful nighttimes darkening a boulevard,
Nighttimes whence faces verbalize to faces;
Nighttimes expedient for murders, or to intercommunicate;
Nighttime labors that create a query,
A query exalted, henceforth summarily despised.
Times touching you, touching anybody whom I appreciate.
Times involving several thousand hiatuses,
Forty illusions, forty revisions,
Finally settled by elegantly sipping green teas.

Matriarch speakers persevere [the discourses I forego],
A-talking about old MicAngelo.

So, cursedly, will remain eternity.
I can meditate: 'To aspire? Evermore aspire?'
Mornings for mounting stairs,
Brushing uncovered spot in nervous, swarthy hair -
[I think she'll certainly recognize a thinness!]
Stiff shirt, adamantly in place on chin,
Newly-purchased black tie, decorated using glamorous gold pin
[I conjecture he'll pronounce forthwith: 'Heavens! So frail! So thin!]
Should discreet adventures
Confound this earth?
Certainly eternity remains
To preside and deride, then turn around, reversing prior opinions.

Life advances, barely known -
The mornings, the bright middays, the nights of it.
My career is marked, poignantly, utilizing teaspoons;
I do know voices collapsing, sleepily collapsing, dying.
I do know the melodies emerging from the anterooms.
Henceforth, what ought I do?

Full well I did notice those eyes, everyone's glaring stares -
So glaring, implying formulated phrases.
Afterward [quietly subdued] I, stick-pinned, embellish a wall;
Sit stuck, wriggling, alongside baroque designs.
Altogether hopelessly extinguished, wherefore should I assume?
Mournfully spitting lifetime's butt-ends [a dreary existence],
What thoughts should thinkers think?

Truly known: discreet arms, jewelled arms,
Appendages slight and white and bare
[By th' lamplights, covered up by an hairy gossamer]
Is hyacinth what provokes memories,
Causes such reveries?
I loved graceful arms, lying across davenports or wrapping about nightgowns
Should, henceforth, I assume?
Moreover, what to presume?

. . . . .

The noiseless dusk falls on my narrow streets
When lonely fellows settle, smoking pipettes,
Sacredly communing, shirt to shirt . . .

Oh, I can envision being as an empty claw
Scuttling violently about seas' silent floors.

. . . . .

Thence unfolds an ominous property of the nighttime
Smoothed, having long hands,
Asleep . . . tired . . . lingering,
Easing comfortably beside you, while very serenely reposing beside me.
How, henceforth, after teapots, candies, ices,
Might lonely man's forgotten strength reenergize, and arise?
Every afternoon I've fasted and wept - cried, fasted.
Ofttimes I dreamed, then saw my head surrendered to Herod;
I never approached prophet status, lamentably.
Though greatness came, quickly greatness went.
Often I recognized eternity's hooded being, patiently biding, snickering.
Aftermath: fear perseveres.

So would it be valuable, valuable overall
Following saucers o' marmalades
Admixing porcelain and a talk among window shades?
Therefore, I can wonder, valuable indeed?
Alarmed by an evermore-present need
Pressing universes into mysterious balls
Slowly unraveling a disturbing, ultrameaningful difficulty.
I'll say: 'Hallelujah! Lazarus's return! I breathe, reanimate,
To entirely answer mankind's conundrums'
Afterward, if matriarchs, settling quietly upon pillows,
Should derisively pronounce: 'I despise meanings
My soul renounces all meanings.'

Would anything transpire worthwhile, everything appraised?
Mightn't a time symbolize 'worthwhile',
Following dreary sunsets, plain dooryards, shopping carts on street
O' the novels, after-lunch teas, lingering dresses -
Evermore a measured existence? -
It's a so-difficult mission, enduring this struggle!
If a candle revealed my innermost yearnings
Exposing skeletons upon vertical screens
If an oldish woman, settling cushions,
Discarding day's tattered, light-colored shawl, should aver:
'Worthwhile? I know no moments worthwhile,
Just shadowy, dreaded voids after while.'

. . . . .

I, too, am not William Shakspar's Hamlet - this I know, above a doubt.
Am one related lord, posing on the side
For acting very small acts or starting small episodes,
Most easy tool, Prince's attentive slave,
Am always ready, obedient, useful,
Politic, cautious, of a meticulous frame;
Extravagant also, a bit dense;
Many moments I've fitly enacted the classical Fools.

I'm old . . . exceedingly old . . .
Soon my trouser I desire rolled.

A procession of contemplation - which marmalade flavor: raspberry? peach?
I'll arouse up, and I will walk on Dartmouth Beach
To hear mermaids sing sublimely, and beseech.

I continue ignored, sorrowfully uninspired.

I have spied mermaid scales going fast underneath the waves,
Endlessly traversing an aquatic continent;
Wandering the high seas, capricious and content.

Thus we deliberate, oceanbound,
Looking for a harborside
Until mankind subsides.

Eight
The Readiness

Michaelmas. Waking up, I carefully pondered the baffling dilemma.
"Fact: vast changes unsettle alphabetic writings. Also, printed writings seem modified purposely (though possibly it's not so). A fact: this woman (Cadaeic?) I saw recently, before eventide, bravely spoke a fantastic tale. She spoke concerning change also, and insinuated I'm a relation amid these two!"
I swallowed a breakfasty meal heartily, then gingerly I approached downstairs' study for further linguistic review. I read poetry, employed statistics, parsed phrases. Near luncthime I modulated - as advised hitherto, I practiced mensuration, performed decimal expansion, and trisected triangles.
After my analytical labors, I read A Victorian Poetry Reader, The Book of Pastoral English Poets, Odes from Omar, Coleridge's Heroic Poem, and Pindar's Odes. "Still, I am not winning", I lamented.
I ruminated: "Is a chapter division's numbering important? Ignoring all elsewhere, I considered antepenultimate divisions. I succeeded there! Eureka! I codified a nice, simple formula which (I said to myself) "perfectly demonstrates the division's pattern. Some somewhat different rule appertains elsewhere, apparently."
Quickly I wondered: "Always this functions thus?" To see, I inspected longer antepenultimate pieces. Perfect agreement once again! No antecedent chapters functioned similarly, sadly.
I read poetry again, while hearkening to my clock - it was, I marked, dinnertime. Six literary booklets I collected (and, conjointly, a coat). On proceeding outwardly, the Cadaeic waited by a car.
"Quickly, neighbor, enter. Surta conspires - great danger awaits," she declared.
Instantly her vehicle (holding unlikely mankind-protecting partners!) did accelerate and commenced travelling toward...somewhere. Driving purposely, my companion's overall conduct was very somber. "Serious, is it?" I wondered.
To speak seemed an inapt stratagem, therefore nobody talked. "I think" (internally I said) "of a poem's subtleties I'll reconsider." Thence appeared, transmuted, one quatrain that that eminent Persian - the tent-maker Omar - fashioned (as translated by Edward FitzGerald), hence:

Nine
O Ruby Yachts

Poetic Muses alongside th' Bough
An oversupply o' Wine, possessed somehow
Thou with me treading Eden's Wilderness
Through all it seems a Paradise enough!

[Stanza twelve;
Translator: FitzGerald, Ed A.
3rd ed., 1872]

Ten
Clue

Completing poetical perusals, I restudied algorithms. "Perhaps," I speculated, "some counting scheme?" The car, I noticed, had just paused near downtown's Market Court. I then noted the miniature passageway which resided presently before us.
"Thence, neighbor, Surta awaits."
A mysterious passageway stood there, entreating. Entering, I discovered Surta's friend there.
"Promptly, proceed. Veritably, Surta's inventing monstrous calamity."
I walked the stone cobbles that covered the street and surveyed some ornamented doors. My guide uttered a word (magic?). Instantly I confronted an interior apartment - perhaps malevolent Surta's room?
I then discovered innumerable mystifying artifacts therein:

A "Mr. Sardonicus" poster (Wm. Castler's remarkable film)

Six heptagons containing six inscribed circles, drawn carefully below a weird finite-product formula

A large drawing showing horizontal striations with an underlined "sin (x¹²)"

Several computer prints involving triangles and angles

Accurately-reproduced picture of the Woolsthorp Manor House (Grantham, England)

Pieces for a strange "Snakes and Adder" children's game.

So I observed hastily. "Yes, I am close," I said. "Perhaps I am incredibly close now to resolving my dilemmas." I perceived a bookcase in shadow. I repeated, "Surely, I am close!". Infamous Surta's shelves (all in a grand display) contained:

A Cambridge Treasury
Poe's A Poem
Herbert's Dune, Wyndham's Triffids
Ad Infinitum & Beyond, Buzz Lite
Stories, Fitzgerald
Novels, Richardson
Aliceland, Lewis Carroll
Poems of England, Wordsworth
Oulipo Anthology, Perec

Several of my undeniable favorites I spotted among Surta's shelves. Undoubtedly worthy choices!
In my wandering I discovered Shakspar's Comedies & Dramas. "Hamletian inspection beckoneth!", I joked. In restless expectancy, I located the final paragraphs.

Eleven
William Shakespeare's tragedy King Claudius

[Fifth (terminal) Act]

. . . . So it is - deceased tanners a-populate the earth in multitudes. Wherefore? The skins are callously tanned! Here's, gravely, th' skull - O! - of a celebrated confrere.

HAM. Whose? Prithee, interpret.

A CLOWN. A mad fellow, foolhardy whoreson. Methinks he oftentimes frolicked i' your path.

HAML. Ay, I frequently experience jovial company.

CLOWN. A pestilence 'pon his head, stupid boaster! Doubtlessly oftentimes did 'e brag: 'I am Yorick, emperor o' merrymakers!'

HAM. Behold, [Thrusting skullbone heavenward.]
wretched Yorick! Truly, Horaitio, truly I adored him - excellent banterer and a great wellspring o' happiness. Thereon flourished a visage merry, a mouth pleasurably kissed, Horaitio. Where, I beseech, O head, are Yorick's verses, gibes, gambols? Sounds o' laughter tha' caus'd a table great gaiety? Quite chapfallen? Perceive, Horaitio, this deathmask expression: merriment, merriment, evermore merriment!

Horaitio, three troubling questions confound me.

HOR. Disclose, prithee.

HAM. Thus look'd Cesar, as entombed?

HOR. Yes, I reckon.

HAM. Would great Alexander's remains offend this nostril similarly? O! [Releases skull.]

HOR. Quite severely, assuredly.

HAM. So, is Caesar a dirtlike clump that remedies winecasks' splits?

HOR. No, I say, no! Blasphemy, sir!

HAM. Understand, Horaitio - visualize mankind's grave process. Originally, Caesar dies. In subsequent time, Caesar resides under th' earth. Thereupon, celebrated Caesar's decomposed. Forthwith, 'e makes loam. Consider - a loam, a plaste! Might this overlord's granules patch Horaitio's beer-barrel?

A Caesar now becomes a sediment
Henceforth to toughen graveyard's fundament;
Although a sovereign overrules with ire,
Henceforth, heartless, resembles th' ashy mire!

[Retreats]

Twelve
The Meeting

Carefully replacing Shakspar's Dramas in its shelf, I immediately heard a distant tapping. Anticipating Surta's arrival, instead I saw my Cadaeic guide.
"Directly Surta will arrive," she whispered. "Already I have ascertained several things. Every literary change that's happened is, indeed, caused by Surta's latest spell. I (actually, we, since I am quite unanalytical) must determine what change he's effected exactly, and what (if anything) will reverse it. But silence! - Surta arrives."
Fleeing quickly, my guide disappeared within an adjacent chamber. Evidently she maintained faith in my abilities - a faith that I didn't necessarily share. Casting my gaze near Surta's artifacts, I reassessed the clues present there. Each literary piece that I had studied flashed in my mind. Heuristic and mathematical schemes flickered in my brain.
I was interrupted by a stranger's entrance.
"Greetings, stranger. I knew that she was disreputable, but I never imagined she'd enlist an incapable..." Clutching a paper sheaf, the middle-aged man snarled the final epithet. Being sure he was Surta, I (surprising myself) gave a defiant reply.
"Capable, I'd say," I replied with sarcasm. "Huge literary changes were the first clue that the universe was amiss. Desecrated literature isn't a small matter - thus, I'll rectify the injustice," I declared.
"Fie!" yelled Surta, suddenly. "But a single flaw in my skills has permitted this discernment. Fully the entire universe (a single being excepted, apparently) can't even perceive the literary changes."
Determining that I was near the right track, I pressed ahead.
"Certainly, indeed, several rules determine each printed text's structure. Chapters besides the antepenultimate use a certain rule, and the antepenultimate uses a different rule." Haughtily I said this, as if sure, even as uncertainty nagged at my brain.
Clearly my statement had an effect, as Surta was visibly surprised.
"B'Gah's skull!" he hissed. "Getting a bit near the truth there, but still... I can't be hindered by a mere lucky guesser. Even with luck, my secret will remain hidden!"
Jauntily, he remarked, "The literary effect can be reversed - in quite an elegant way, I must say - albeit certainly this will never happen. But simply write a text using precisely the same rules as mine and all will be mended. Hilarity ensues at the mere idea - what a time-waster! Ha, ha, ha!", he cackled.
"Decidedly predictable, isn't he?", I said internally. "A big speech just like the classic villain's I'm-invincible-thus-I-might-as-well-tell-the-secret spiel!" I had, it seemed, learned all I needed, except the exact rules determining a text's structure. Given that I had already divined the antepenultimate-chapter rule, I was certain that, given time, I'd determine the remaining rules.
At that instant, my Cadaeic friend returned. Flashing me a significant glance, she entered in earnest debate with Surta. I sensed her cue and hurried exitward, stealthily grabbing the Shakspar's Dramas as I left.
Cursedly, I remembered that we had entered rather magically. I didn't have any idea where the exit was! I thus walked the hallways until I saw an uninhabited chamber. Camping there, I again began intense study, this time primarily in each text's early chapters.
Giving A Midsummer Night's Dream, the first play in the Shakspar reader, intense scrutiny, I suddenly saw it! "Electrifying!", I exclaimed, as further study verified, at least tentatively, my belief.
A rumbling in the nearby wall suddenly caught my ear. Jackhammers! "Egress must be nearby," I said quietly. Hunting left and right at eye level I quickly spied a crack. Behind it I saw the passageway we had walked a few minutes earlier. Jumping back, I ran firmly at the wall.
Gingerly picking myself up after my inelegant exit, I hurried back in expectancy, desiring the mathematical treatises residing in my study. During the next several days (as Surta's writing rules were quite difficult, the task advanced quite gradually) I crafted a slim treatise - this very tale - that fulfilled the necessary requirements. I finished it five days after Michaelmas at three A.M.
Descending my stairs, I apprehensively checked my Cambridge Treasury. Despite my best attempts, mutated texts still met my eyes!
Evidently, I was still missing a key clue. I was sure that my main rule (describing all chapters but the antepenultimate) was right - it was very bizarre, thus it must be right, I argued. But a new idea appeared: as the antepenultimate rule I had crafted was relatively simple, perhaps there was an extra rule that applied as well?
Carl Sandburg's Grass inhabited the antepenultimate chapter in the Cambridge Treasury. Just its few lines did I see, and study, thus:

Thirteen
Sandburg's Grass

Caskets piled beneath Austerlitzes, Dresdens
As, silently uplifting, blanketing, grass
Disguises it all, it all.

And as fierce Gettysburg witnesses,
Evident at Champagne, Falklands, Jutland,
I am grassiness, settling ever thus.
But ten years passeth, and my guests plead:
Fury, military struggles, did mutilate us?
Ere yesterday, hatefulness prevailed?

Cut my grass.
Evergreen grasses mend.

Finale
The Victor

Though concise, the aforecited lines revealed new formal properties. Thus I came to discover a new symbolic paradigm. "It's perfection now!", my conviction did maintain.
My book requested alteration - not, luckily, broad revision. Following numerous fixes, my opus was perfect! "Good show!" I exulted cheerfully. My intellect philosophized: "Is textual change fully mended?" I examined Cambridge's Anthology.
"Yes! Reality returns!"

Was this saga real? Apocryphal? Not believable? Perhaps. Regardless, Cadaeic foes remain, perchance to reciprocate or obliterate.
I celebrate.
I end, whispering ad infinitums.

THE END

Slam Tutorial: The List Poem

The list poem is one of the simplest poetic forms. Essentially, the poet takes a simple theme and pens a list of extended metaphors, similes, narratives, punchlines, twists on cliches and turns of phrase. The art form is not simply listing things, but leading to audience to assume what's coming next, then flipping the expectation on its head.

Shihan's "This Type Love" is a prime example of a list poem. It runs with a number of stereotypical young love themes, but done with colloquial understanding of human nuance:
"I wanted to see how far I could get without calling you, / and I barely made it out of my garage"
"I want to celebrate one of those month anniversaries even though they ain't really anniversaries, but doin' it just cause it makes her happy"

Yet still incorporates a degree of somewhat rational self-interest:
"I want a love that makes me want to cut off all my hair / Well, maybe not all of the hair / maybe just cut the split ends and trim my mustache"

If you choose to incorporate this style of poem into your repertoire, the art is in doing the unexpected, playing with the audience's intentions and expectations, and writing outside the box.

This Type Love
By Shihan

I want a love like me
thinking of you
thinking of me
thinking of you type love,
or me telling my friends more than I've ever admitted to myself about how I feel about you type love,
or hating how jealous you are, but loving how much you want me all to your self type love,
or seeing how your first name just sounds so good next to my last name,
and shit, I wanted to see how far I could get without calling you,
and I barely made it out of my garage.

See, I want a love that makes me wait until she falls asleep then wonder if she dreaming about us being in love type love,
or who loves the other more,
or what she's doing at this exact moment,
or slow dancing in the middle of our apartment to the music of our hearts, closing my eyes and imagining how a love so good could just hurt so much when she not there.
Shit, I love not knowing where this love is headed type love.

And check this, I want to place those little post-it notes all around the house so she never forgets how much I love her type love then not have enough ink in my pen to write all there is to love about her type love.
Hope that I make her feel as good as she makes me feel,
and I want to deal with my friends making fun of me the way I made fun of them when they went through the same kind of love type love.

Only difference is this is one of those real love type loves.
and just like in high school, I want to spend hours on the phone with her not saying shit,
and then fall asleep and then wake up with HER right next to me,
and smell her all up in my covers type love

I want to try to counting the ways I love her, and then lose count in the middle just so that I have to start all over again.
I want to celebrate one of those month anniversaries even though they ain't really anniversaries, but doin' it just cause it makes her happy type love.

And check this, I want fall in love with the melody the phone plays when her number is dialed in to her type loves and then talk to you til I lose my breathe, she leaves me breathless, so with the expanding of my lungs I inhale all of her back into me

I want a love that makes me need to change my cell phone calling plan to something that allows me to talk to her longer because, in all honesty, I want to avoid one of them high cell phone bill type loves.

I want a love that makes me regret how small my hands are I mean the lines on my palms don't give me enough time to love as long as I'd like to type loves,
and I want a love that makes me st-st-st-st-stutter just thinking about how strong this love is type love.

I want a love that makes me want to cut off all my hair ...
Well, maybe not all of the hair
maybe just cut the split ends and trim my mustache, but it will still be a symbol of how strong my love is for her.

And check this, I kinda feel comfortable now, so I can tell y'all this:

I even be fantasizing about walking out on a green light just dying to get hit by a car just so I could lose my memory get transported to some third world country

just to get treated

then somehow meet up again with you so that I could fall in love with you in a different language just to see if it still feels the same type love.

I want a love that's as unexplainable as she is, but I'm married, so she is going to be the one that I share this love with.

Don't forget Billy Collins

William “Billy” Collins (born 22 March 1941) is an American poet. He served two terms as the Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003. In his home state, Collins has been recognized as a Literary Lion of the New York Public Library (1992) and selected as the New York State Poet for 2004. He was recently appointed Claire Berman Artist in Residence at The Roxbury Latin School, in West Roxbury, MA. He is a distinguished professor at Lehman College of the City University of New York.

One of my favorite poets is former U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins. He is not a slam poet, just one of the most brilliant writers I've come across. He pisses me off in that he could write a poem about dog's toes or knackwurst and it would be more brilliant than half the poems out there. To me, he sounds like Kevin Spacey. I own a great recording of "Billy Collins Live: A Performance at the Peter Norton Symphony Space April 20, 2005" where he is introduced by actor Bill Murray.
If you enjoy reading really great poetry that doesn't take a lifetime to decipher but still knocks you on your ass with its brilliance, pick up one of his poetry books. I own copies of the highlighted titles and often pull a poem or two out of them when I'm hosting the Sedona Poetry Open Mic.
* Pokerface (1977)
* Video Poems (1980)
* The Apple That Astonished Paris (1988)
* Questions About Angels (1991)
* The Art of Drowning (1995)
* Picnic, Lightning (1998)
* Sailing Alone Around the Room: New and Selected Poems (2001)
* Nine Horses (2002)
* The Trouble with Poetry (2005)
* She Was Just Seventeen (2006)
* Ballistics (2008)

Forgetfulness
Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Ashley Haiku

Warm summer evenings,
Jazz, poetic embraces
leave a gentle dawn

Slam Tutorial: Stand-up Comic Poetry

Nothing says poetry needs to be rhymed meter and perfect symmetry. Some great slam poetry is essentially a scripted stand-up comedy routine with great punchlines, poetic turns of phrase, and a standard narrative structure. If you think you can't write poetry, try writing down a story that teaches a lesson, entertains, or concludes with a great punchline. Embellish the language with metaphors, rhetorical devices, turns of phrase, and
Most poems of this narrative style are essentially 5 to 10 second hooks, meaning each line or two has a natural rise, climax and fall involving a metaphoric image, a turn, a dash of humor, self-reflection, social commentary, etc., that all culminate in a grand finale by the time the poet reaches the end of the poem. For instance:
The rest of the class is made up of
seventh-grade celebrity impersonators.
Perfect examples to the power of product placement.
Decked out in rhinestone jeans and velour sweat suits
that cost more then I'm paid to teach their poetry workshop.
Jason is easily the most interesting one out 40
and if I could,
I would kick the rest of them out to watch "Elimidate" in the library.


"Ode To My Bathroom"
By Geoff Trenchard

Jason is white sneakers and black socks pulled up to his knees.
Jean shorts and a Hawaiian shirt
he can't for the life of him buttoned straight.
He is multiple decks of "Magic the Gathering" collectible playing cards
and a hair-to-gel ratio still in its experimental phase.

The rest of the class is made up of
seventh-grade celebrity impersonators.
Perfect examples to the power of product placement.
Decked out in rhinestone jeans and velour sweat suits
that cost more then I'm paid to teach their poetry workshop.
Jason is easily the most interesting one out 40
and if I could,
I would kick the rest of them out to watch "Elimidate"
in the library.
No one likes to admit it, but white trash does not grow on trees.
You can look at a 12-year-old
and sometimes see the obnoxious idiot they could one day become.
They aren't bad in that 'grow up
and sell crack to preschoolers' kind of way.
More of the type to drive a Hummer with a
'Save the Planet' bumper sticker.
I don't blame them completely.
Jeffrey McDaniel says
some people are doomed
just because their parents had boring sex.

But Jason is different,
a ball of nervous ticks and endless Monty Python quotes
that tell me
mom and dad got freaky.

He knows more about They Might Be Giants than any human needs to.
Has read Lord of the Rings so many times he speaks Elvish.
But not one of the assignments he has turned in had anything to do with
who Brittney kissed or who Ja Rule's got beef with.

So he's standing at the front of the room about to
read his poem.
Clenching his paper like it was god's autograph.
he says
"AHEM, Ode to my bathroom.
I am a roll of toilet paper
and my life is shitty."

Now, to the kids at Union Middle School,
"shit"
is not just second banana to "fuck."
It's own atomic bomb of profanity
that sends electromagnetic spasms of laughter rippling
through the room.

The 12-year-old J Lo in the front row
laughs so hard she snorts
like a vacuum with a mouse stuck in it.
Every day I watch him stare at her
with the unrequited longing you only have
when you're still a virgin.

He continues,
"I was born in a factory
and grew up in a plastic bag.
Now I hang next to the magazines and plunger
in the constant fear of ass."

In the back,
Eminem's biggest fan flaps his arm like palm leave
welcoming comic Jesus.
Last week, he spent the whole period flicking bits of eraser
and calling him a homo
'til he was about to cry.

Now, Jason's smiling so wide he can barley speak to
finish the poem.
"but today" he says "I am relieved,
because I can smell the three-bean chili the family I live with is cooking
and I know the end is near.
Thank you."

He sits down to a standing ovation.
I shake my head in an awe shucks pendulum.

Later, he asks me if I was pissed
I said,
"Jason don't let anyone tell you any different:
poetry exists
to give the socially awkward
a way to be finally applauded by their peers."