This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.
Ed Mabrey is a two-time Haiku National Slam Champion and 2007-2008 Individual World Poetry Slam Champion. He has been a member of and coached several winning Rust Belt Regional Poetry Slam Teams out of Columbus, Ohio. Mabrey has released two books, "From the Page to the Stage and Back Again" to critical acclaim and "Revoked:My GhettoPass(ivity)" which was a limited release item.Maybrey has released two CDs of his own work, and has been on projects with other artists and DJs.
Ryan Brown is a kid from Phoenix who spends most of his time posing as a writer and poet. He now goes to school and lives in Flagstaff, where he is the SlamMaster of the FlagSlam Poetry Slam. Ryan Brown represented the Flagstaff Nationals Team at the National Poetry Slam.
Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #3, Poet #1, July 17, 2009.
For the past two weekends, my friend Nika Levikov has trekked down the hill from Flagstaff to Sedona for poetry events. She read a few poems at the GumptionFest IV pre-party at Ken's Creekside, then read the Cabaret Tent at GumptionFest IV Day One on Saturday.
This last weekend, she came down to keep score at the Sept. 11 slam I hosted at Studio Live.
We hiked to Devil's Bridge the next day.
Among the components of our friendship is critiquing each other's poetry. My favorite slam poem of hers is the identity poem "My Country," which I was glad she performed at both GumptionFest and as a calibration poem at the July 17 slam.
My Country By Nika Levikov
Babushka likes to tell me about communism the days when Ukraine was Russia. The Soviet Union, a name that has prevented me from understanding who I really am. Who I really am? and sometimes I fear that stories are the only things left to give me an insight. Papa would always tell me how he dreamed of leaving. life was rough and somewhere out there America, was an easier path and that was really all he said, his words flowed from his mouth like Matryoshka dolls, never opened and the layers upon layers of stories he chose not to speak of. And here I am, sitting in front of these faces trying to explain why I must go there.
Dedushka laughs, aside from my youth he says, there is an identity that stays with you before any Russian label. And they aren’t ready for you yet. They aren’t ready for you Jew. They can see it in your face, it’s written in your hair and can’t you see how the letters are bolded across your jawline? Jew, and they will hate you for it.
But I’m wondering how long can you hide me from the ignorance of other’s. How long papa, will you shelter me from the judgment that has slept under your very pillow since the day you learned the meaning? And can’t you see, mama I’m not afraid anymore. my only fear is never getting the chance to understand, to see you streets where I am certain the sun still casts your shadow.
I want to go there and feel your sweat, papa that leaked from your hands as you stood in line for days, waiting for your freedom.
I have heard other stories and I am convinced that my eyes will burn from shattered hearts still hanging on windowsills and my ears will scream, from the sound of tattered orange flags still flapping from the signs that say “welcome”. but I am also convinced, that beauty thrives here still, in the language whose voice cascaded over every Russian text, in the dance that has always broken free from Russian song.
mother, I come for you and I do not forget you. my family, born from you my traditions, my tongue awakened by your distant breathes.
I want to see you. I want to sleep in your skin till the culture of my ancestors becomes the air I’m breathing. in you, rests a side of my family I have never known and please, let me get on my knees, bury my hands in their soil and say “esvenee, esvenee mena” sorry, for not having come sooner.
mother, I may not have been raised under your skies, but I don’t think it’s too late to start learning. to learn about your language, your song, your food, and your independence. I know that you will accept me regardless of the blood that flows with rituals of a different kind. you have always been a part of me. so I guess this isn’t an act of rebellion against my family, this isn’t for the justification that I am who I am, I say to the world, to my family, this, is for my country.
Son of a nightclub singer, Kingman slam poet Mikel Weisser. spent his teens as a hitchhiker. Since then Weisser has gone on to receive a masters in literature and a masters in secondary education, published hundreds of freelance magazine and newspaper articles and political comedy columns, along with seven books of poetry and short fiction. A former homeless shelter administrator, contestant on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire," and survivor of his first wife's suicide, Weisser teaches junior high history and English in Bullhead City. He and his wife, Beth, have turned their So-Hi, Ariz., property into a peace sign theme park. Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #2, Poet #11, July 17, 2009.
This poem was my particular favorite at this slam because of its lyricism, because it captures our seemingly futile despiration to halt genocide despite seeing it and because my mother was in the audience. I almost imagined he was writing it about her because she sometimes still scares the bejeezus out of me.
Ed Mabrey is a two-time Haiku National Slam Champion and 2007-2008 Individual World Poetry Slam Champion. He has been a member of and coached several winning Rust Belt Regional Poetry Slam Teams out of Columbus, Ohio. Mabrey has released two books, "From the Page to the Stage and Back Again" to critical acclaim and "Revoked:My GhettoPass(ivity)" which was a limited release item.Maybrey has released two CDs of his own work, and has been on projects with other artists and DJs.
Gary Every's career has followed many diverse paths including geology exploration, carpenter, chef, piano player, punk rocker, dishwasher, photographer, mountain bike instructor, soccer coach, bonfire storyteller and just a general bad example to society as a whole.
It is perhaps as an author that Mr. Every has gained the most fame. Published nearly a thousand times, he has four books to his credit and more on the way.
Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #2, Poet #8, July 17, 2009.
Frank O'Brien is a 20-year-old student at Coconino Community College, focusing in the general studies and pre-nursing. Originally from Phoenix, O'Brien entered the slam poetry scene in fall 2007. He traveled to Madison, Wis., in 2008 and to Orlando, Fla., in 2009 as a member of the Flagstaff National Slam Team. O'Brien is now an active poet and administrator of the FlagSlam Poetry Slam in Flagstaff. Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #2, Poet #7.
Wendy Davis is Creative Director of W-Fun TV, a certified yoga instructor and vocal coach in Sedona. Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #2, Poet #6, July 17, 2009
Norberto "Bert" Cisneros is a Cottonwood poet and jazz trumpet player. He has slammed in Sedona and FlagSlam and regularly reads at the Sedona Poetry Open Mic.
Ryan Brown is a kid from Phoenix who spends most of his time posing as a writer and poet. He now goes to school and lives in Flagstaff, where he is the SlamMaster of the FlagSlam Poetry Slam. Ryan Brown represented the Flagstaff Nationals Team at the National Poetry Slam.
Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #2, Poet #4, July 17, 2009.
We Call Him Papa for Frank Leslie "Buster" Redfield May 14, 1925 - Oct. 31, 2004
we call him Papa and he could move mountains with his silence
he fathered a family of artists who knew the value of labor the efficiency of expression if it is unclear, rephrase it if it is unusable, remove it if it is imperfect, rework it until it is as much a part of you as a limb he never said this but his life implied it
his stone eyes edited lies from our speech before we could speak them his hands held me tight once after I sinned they held me soft when my father translated himself into a mythology I've since ceased believing in his hands were the tools with which he spoke through his silence
he carved and crafted rifles like Stradivarius made violins and the first recoil was a symphony compressed to a split second he brought wood to life as though generations of forests grew to make the right grain the right feel worthy of his talent
he did not build airplanes, he built aircraft with the precision of a heart surgeon knowing a loose screw, one misaligned wire could transform a craft of beauty into a coffin and wife like his into a widow he made no widows except one
he crafted art that soared like mechanical angels and made us feel how he must have felt with Grandma
even in his absence he scares me because he was so much more of what a man should be than the men I see around me than the man who fathered me
he was sometimes the machine moving me he was sometimes the monster under my bed keeping me from going gently into the night without fighting the darkness he was sometimes a giant stretching hands from horizon to horizon holding down the sun and moon and dictating their rising
I am convinced that eastern Montana is so perfectly flat in awe of him
we call him Papa and he could move mountains with his silence
I never heard him say he loved her not in words not in a way I could steal not in a way that the cheap poet in me could have plagiarized into a stanza for some mediocre poem unworthy of his memory
I never heard him say he loved her with words
he said it with his eyes
he said it in the stories my mother would tell me about how he would raise armies and wage wars just to bring her flowers
he said it with the way he told me about driving across New York and Pennsylvania every weekend just to see her for two hours between college classes and curfews
he said he loved her by playing "waltzing matilda" on a harmonica like he was asking her to dance for the first time, even after all these years
he said he loved her by showing us how good man should love a woman right
we call him Papa and he could move mountains with his silence
he is the poet me, his eldest grandson, I am just his microphone
Antranormus is a hip-hop artist who constantly seeks to redefine or blur completely the boundaries between hip-hop, poetry and absolute absurdity. Known for his complex, multisyllabic rhyme schemes and controversial subject matter, he has shared the stage with members of the Wu Tang Clan, Jurassic 5, Abstract Rude, Illogic, and Sole.
Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #1, Poet #10, July 17, 2009
Ryan Brown is a kid from Phoenix who spends most of his time posing as a writer and poet. He now goes to school and lives in Flagstaff, where he is the SlamMaster of the FlagSlam Poetry Slam. Ryan Brown represented the Flagstaff Nationals Team at the National Poetry Slam.
Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #1, Poet #8, July 17, 2009.
Norberto "Bert" Cisneros is a Cottonwood poet and jazz trumpet player. He has slammed in Sedona and FlagSlam and regularly reads at the Sedona Poetry Open Mic.
Frank O'Brien is a 20-year-old student at Coconino Community College, focusing in the general studies and pre-nursing. Originally from Phoenix, O'Brien entered the slam poetry scene in fall 2007. He traveled to Madison, Wis., in 2008 and to Orlando, Fla., in 2009 as a member of the Flagstaff National Slam Team. O'Brien is now an active poet and administrator of the FlagSlam Poetry Slam in Flagstaff. Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #1, Poet #5.
Gary Every's career has followed many diverse paths including geology exploration, carpenter, chef, piano player, punk rocker, dishwasher, photographer, mountain bike instructor, soccer coach, bonfire storyteller and just a general bad example to society as a whole.
It is perhaps as an author that Mr. Every has gained the most fame. Published nearly a thousand times, he has four books to his credit and more on the way.
Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #1, Poet #4, July 17, 2009.
Ed Mabrey is a two-time Haiku National Slam Champion and 2007-2008 Individual World Poetry Slam Champion. He has been a member of and coached several winning Rust Belt Regional Poetry Slam Teams out of Columbus, Ohio. Mabrey has released two books, "From the Page to the Stage and Back Again" to critical acclaim and "Revoked:My GhettoPass(ivity)" which was a limited release item.Maybrey has released two CDs of his own work, and has been on projects with other artists and DJs.
He is the founder of Black Pearl Poetry based in Phoenix, Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #1, Poet #2
Son of a nightclub singer, Kingman slam poet Mikel Weisser. spent his teens as a hitchhiker. Since then Weisser has gone on to receive a masters in literature and a masters in secondary education, published hundreds of freelance magazine and newspaper articles and political comedy columns, along with seven books of poetry and short fiction. A former homeless shelter administrator, contestant on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire," and survivor of his first wife's suicide, Weisser teaches junior high history and English in Bullhead City. He and his wife, Beth, have turned their So-Hi, Ariz., property into a peace sign theme park. Sedona Poetry Slam, Round #1, Poet #1, July 17, 2009.
To The Girl Riding Shotgun For Montana and Sarrah Wile
across this home country of rednecks and ranchers the pages of my ancestry turn backward to days running barefoot over vetch and stones when i stood much shorter gracing the sweetgrass with elbows and shoulders instead of the strained fingertips of today memories flood back when i least expect them lessons learned, loves lost, childhood games and their innocence before i translated the rules and learned how to break them
the silhouettes of familiar landscapes eagerly welcome me back as if they're the tourists revisiting a boy they knew in their youth
these green wheat fields of farmer tans these western hats signaling oncoming howdys these selfless smiles from strangers this countryside this is home
a boy i knew once lives here we shared the same name wished on the same stars jumped the same cricks together and left the other behind when we cut the cord leaving him in the Rockies while i wandered the deserts
we see each other still in dreams and play tag with fawns, calves and cubs that have yet to learn our parents play predator and prey
he still plays on the hillsides i long for, beneath fir trees overlooking the valley that once held me fast along the yellowstone artery carving a canyon our ancestors will see from orbit
his house is over the ridge, somewhere down this dusty stretch of gravel, somewhere in the shadow of flax and sweetpeas, somewhere i know the outline of the farm like a thumbprint can pick it blindfolded from all the others simply by the sound of the breeze but the roads still seems unfamiliar though the map clearly says it's here
and to the girl riding shotgun all this land is as new as it seems to me mostly as i wait for the memories in bottles to find me lost in this sea of rolling hills beneath blue moons rising red in the blood of harvest sometimes we're both awash anew in these fields National Geographic anthropologists on assignment deciphering a dialect with a common vocabulary in others she is only a passported traveler while i am timeless standing swallowed by the sunset of red fields touching my family's livelihood in the grain reaching roots down deep into the land that we love as a mother
bud lights, rodeos and Hank Williams rise up from the soil in the aftermath of a solid spring shower as honky-tonk two-steps, broad-rimmed stetsons and a vigorous fiddle shake free the alfalfa baled back home and for a moment in the dim lights old men remember being cowboys while cowgirls look for old wives they will become
to understand montana you must travel it by road knowing that distances are measured in days, not hours every stop is a must-see because haybales are the only signs of human habitation no matter what town you visit, there's always a drink waiting at The Mint, where the bartenders call you "hon," even if they know your name
lost locals identify themselves by family name first in the smallest towns to which your bloodlines tie you in Montana, family comes before the man
here, where death and life are cyclical we learn young to converse honestly because each visit may be the last until the hereafter words are ties that bind
that boy i once knew i see now grown up behind the wheel of every beat-up Ford that passes us the girl riding shotgun learns that the difference between redneck and revolutionary lies in the chance taken by my parents before i could even spell "poet"
that boy sees me, too behind the wheel of every out-of-state plate knowing that this boy looking for home, somewhere is on the interstate, somewhere dreaming of catching up, somewhere where the beer is cold the jukebox plays only johnny cash and on the drive back down country roads the breezes bring back memories on the parachutes of roadside dandelions
Misha Saez, who works at Tlaquepaque, shot these two photos of the flash flood damage shortly after the waters subsided on Thursday 10 Sept. "I caught Superman sitting, with a shellshocked look on his face... it all happened so fast, he didn't have time to act!" "and this guy really went out of his way to avoid those pedestrians!"
Every day, Grandma would come into my room and I would hear her say- Rise and shine, the world has a whole 'nother design, there’s someone out there some where young man.
So I rose and I shone put on my shoes and I was gone.
See, Grandma bought me my first phone, she said Don't bother calling the people who care, call the people who don’t.
Don't bother calling the people who have taken up the fight, call people who won’t.
And I learned at a very young age where my grandma’s rage came from: The entire congregation of God. Never ask grandma about God.
I'd argue with her everyday and all she'd say was, Go down to the store, buy some light bulbs. And when you run out, buy some more.
Because the light at the end of your tunnel needs to be maintained.
You can't let it be stained by "their beliefs are better than your beliefs" and you can't agree to disagree because they're fucking wrong!
It's not the strong who have gotten lazy, its just your vision is a little hazy- you're not sure what it is you want but what you've got is all you need.
It falls to greed.
For every hypocritical church-goer who won’t walk past beggars because they can't spare a dime, Grandma says fuck them.
I don't speak to God because I think God's a tyrant.
And yeah, it struck me as strange every time I walk past a brother that stops to ask me "Hey, can you spare some change?" because yes I can. You see, I don't carry change around in my back pocket; I don’t wear it around my neck on a chain in some locket.
I keep change on the tip of my tongue so I can climb the rungs of a ladder to a better place; I forgot about saving face, Grandma told me save your grace.
I keep change in the tip of my pen and it seeps out every now and then as bursts of anger that make me think, maybe the writing on the wall could use a little revision.
Grandma told me stop trying to calculate the difference between people, people don't need division. Gotta stick together, gotta love each other, father brother sister mother uncles sons and aunts, forget about the chants the cheers the jokes the tears after two thousand years you'd think we'd know by now!
Grandma said We will only find equality in our number of tears.
And she was right because I don’t know what injustices you've suffered based on size sex race religion or the political pigeon shitting on the shoulders of us versus them like in Bethlehem when a man said Hey, I could be wrong, but why can't we all just get along?
No.
So we nailed him to a tree. See?
Justice isn’t just isn't, it just is.
And I can't change it, you can’t change it, so we just gotta try to rearrange it and if at all this miracle got the chance to work would I see people the way they see me?
Because seeing is believing and if you see what I see you wouldn't want to see anymore. But I’ve got a little surprise in store.
For every man who looks upon me with judgement in his eyes, there’s a woman looks upon me with wetness in her thighs.
I'm the world’s greatest overweight lover.
And you might just laugh and you might just gulp but my bones are big for sticks and stones and names just piss me off and Grandma told me, Young man you cant be concerned with whatever it is that they've got the only reason they think they're beautiful is the same reason they think you're not. And Young man, you have beauty beyond measure you are a treasure entrenched in this earth, you can’t let strangers determine your worth, Rise and shine.
So I rose and I shone, I put on my shoes and I was gone.
See, Grandma bought me my first phone, she said, Young man from time to time I too need to smile, would you do me a favour and keep me on speed dial.
Yes grandma,
I will.
And still to this day I can call her up and can hear her say It’s a game, you play, you win, you play, you lose, you play.
Rise and shine the world has another whole design, there’s someone out there somewhere but young man if you are playing to win the first thing you have to do is apply within.
This poem was inspired by seeing a single image replayed on video the night of Sept. 11, 2001. Two people, presumably a man and woman, holding hands as they fell from one of the World Trade Centers in New York City, N.Y. It haunted me more than other images from the attack because of its premeditated rationality as opposed to a reactionary act of desperation.
I haven't seen the image since and sometimes wonder if I just imagined it. If I knew their names and who they were, would it change the nature of the poem or my performance of it?
They Held Hands by Christopher Fox Graham On a commonplace Tuesday morning, not unlike that Sunday morning 60 years before, destined for infamy they held hands as they fell
It was a working Tuesday a date on the calendar a morning like the morning before but now they found themselves standing on the window sill of the 92nd floor overlooking the city and they felt weightless
They were not thinking about the cause-and-effect history of textbooks and CNN sound bytes they weren’t debating the geopolitical ramifications leading up to that morning he had decaf she had a bearclaw and an espresso and they talked about "Will & Grace"
then jets impregnated buildings with infernos and now the fire was burning and the smoke was rising and it was getting hard to breathe even after they smashed the window out the inferno was swelling it had reached their floor their stairwells were gone and the options now were to burn
or to fall
when the human animal realizes death is inevitable psychologists say we want control over those final moments choosing suicide over surrender is a healthy reaction because we choose to accept our annihilation rather than letting it choose us
So on one side is unbearable heat roaring flames acrid smoke and screams of the suffering
On the other side: fresh air
suicide is the final act of free will that keeps the consciousness intact even as it is destroyed
but they were not thinking about psychology they were not thinking about terrorism the debate about responsibility, retaliation, wars, flags, and Patriot Acts can wait until September 12th this morning belongs to them because they did not have a tomorrow
the true terror of that morning is to know what they were thinking as they decided then whether to burn or to fall now, imagine having that conversation with the stranger sitting next to you: The barricade at the door is on fire the extinguisher is empty we are blinded by the smoke and on the windowsill of the 92nd floor we wait until flames lick our clothes before we lean forward and choose that moment to fall others who fell were scrambling or screaming or on fire but we held hands as we fell
survivors of falls from extreme heights report that falls are slow-motion transcendence and the experience is almost “mystical”
I don’t know if they felt “mystical” I know it takes
1 …
2 …
3 …
4 …
5 …
6 …
7 …
8.54 seconds
to fall 1,144 feet
just enough time to say a prayer or regret a memory or ask forgiveness or say goodbye or wonder how the sky can be so perfectly blue on such a beautiful morning
I shot this at the far end of Tlaquepaque near Plaza de la Fuenta. Sorry for the brevity, but I wanted to save batteries for the later photos. Traffic begins to get back to normal. Anyone can use these photos. E-mail me at foxthepoet@yahoo.com for the full originals.
Looking toward the Tlaquepaque employee parking lot beyond the caution tape. I heard one of the employees earlier state that she was quitting in a week and didn't have any insurance, so she's doubly out of luck.
Anyone can use these photos. E-mail me at foxthepoet@yahoo.com for the full originals.
This is the center of Tlaquepaque's Patio de Las Rosas, looking north. That thing in the middle is the 7-foot tall elk on its side. The caution tape is up due to the gas leak, caused by the car. Please not the yellow "FLT" sticker on the upper left of the license plate: a tourist rental.
Anyone can use these photos. E-mail me at foxthepoet@yahoo.com for the full originals.
Note the third car, in the ditch, under the blue one. That's the one blocking the culvert that essentially backed up the water. Anyone can use these photos. E-mail me at foxthepoet@yahoo.com for the full originals.
Right after I took this photo, I heard the best quote of the day, "Your car is the one on top of mine, right over here." Anyone can use these photos. E-mail me at foxthepoet@yahoo.com for the full originals.
Ed Mabrey is a two-time Haiku National Slam Champion and 2007-2008 Individual World Poetry Slam Champion.
