Poetry Slam Time.

I recently attended a couple of poetry events in London. I didn't know what to expect, and was thoroughly impressed with the range and talent. This one teenage girl memorised a poem that was as raw, complex and powerful as any I can ever remember; another older man shared pristine verses of carefully chosen lines with the precision of a ballerina. It was an evening of unexpectedly rapturous joy (for my fellow Londoners, it's at http://poetrysociety.org.uk/poetry-cafe/).

So I decided to join the fun. 

The only context one really needs for this poem is that it was written for a room full of 50 other poets, and I was able to read it aloud (which meant I could verbally help along a couple of the rhymes).

Once upon a curious time,

A man sat down to pen a rhyme,

There was no political protest,

Burning deep inside his breast,

No comical commentary,

No axe he longed to bury. 

Nor even an impassioned cause,

No broken heart, no menopause. 

No this chap was simply curious,

Of developments quite spurious. 

For when he first wrote poetry,

He sat down with paper and ink,

Thus many lines would get scratched,

As odd ideas within him hatched,

And if he wanted one that rhymed,

A lyric just perfectly timed,

The whole long day it might require,

To write the thing of his desire,

For finding the words in his brain,

That perfectly fit each refrain,

Was kinda tough, was kinda hard,

(ok maybe not for the Bard)

But for merely mortal beings,

Poems could be challenging things. 

So he came up with strategies,

To help his vocabulary,

Certain rules he learned and knew,

Recipes for his writing stew,

Like which words held no hope for rhymes,

One could rack his brain for all time,

And come up with no solution,

Regardless of his elocution,

For words like fifth, eighth or amongst,

Have no match declared ... some monks (..!..),

Rouged, sculpts, whilst and unbeknownst,

Joined the ranks of ... painful jokes,

(Despite its repute, the word orange

Works with the Welsh hill of Blorenge,

Still it’s pretty hard to work that hill,

Into stories other than Jack and Jill.)

So coming up with ways to expand,

The words his mind could quickly scan,

Became the thinking filter through which,

Each experience must enrich. 

So into this concocting mood,

Did he first write after a brew,

Of beer then wine then whiskey

The rhymes just getting more frisky,

So he would sit in shady places,

Pubs and other drinking spaces,

Find all sorts of inspiration,

From the joys of lubrication. 

The words they came cascading through

On a dancing fairies avenue,

With the perfect-ly metered rhymes,

of a wordsmith, in his prime.

In the teeming years of youth,

he had found the fountain of truth!

(Now perhaps it should be confessed,

the poems nearly all expressed,

That overly eager anxious hue,

Of booty call poetry - so ingenue.  

He also noticed there seemed to be,

A window where the alcohol teased,

A flow of words with melody,

More than one drink, but less than three.

And frankly if we’re getting picky,

some of the rhymes could get sticky,

Unless you are really forgiving,

Shapely doesn’t rhyme with sucking.)

But moving on the point thus far,

drinking expanded his repertoire,

of cleverly coined terms and phrases,

that he had hoped might amaze us.

A score of years has passed since then,

which brings us back to this po-em.

A great crime has befallen poetry,

that should concern this community.

Were Shelley or Blake alive today,

Or Whitman or Frost they'd surely convey.

Their shock / horror, and general dismay,

At this case of lyrical foul play.

The prosecution begins its case,

its first witness, the human race.

All of you here, are now on the stand,

the court must ask you heed its demand,

place your smartphone in your right hand, 

then raise it slowly on this command.

Let the record show that all confessed,

without either shame or distress.

What is the crime, I hear you ask?

Oh, you wear such an innocent mask.

Fellow poets and writers, friends perhaps,

You’ve been found guilty of using apps.

Apps on your phones, that cheat your mind,

and make any word so easy to find,

Thesaurus dot com, is a mafia boss,

leading an underworld of language loss,

And the great serial killing designer,

Murdering our brains is Rhymer.

After the trail of these criminals,

Shakespeare’s work looks... minimal! 

And since poets no longer require,

Alcohol as a word supplier,

This court can think of nothing tougher,
Than sentence you all to writing sober.