Caught the Guardian and the PN Review on Watts and the others and I can't
help but remember my reading for the Stone Soup series hosted by the late
Jack Powers. It was--what--1988 or so, and my reading happened to be the
warm-up act of the first 'Poetry Slam' ever to be held in Boston. I'd never
seen one before; neither had I ever met Patricia Smith, her sig. other at
the time, and the kind of crowd that turned up to participate. Of course, I
was a guest judge. I had just read for the Boston Poetry Society at the
Longfellow House and was riding high from that gig so that sustained me
through what appeared to be an evening of bad acting and patter from
would-be stand-up comics with a heavy dose of self-justified,
finger-pointing rage. All of the contestants were victims of something, and
if they weren't they were people expressing contrition and concern for
victims. Or they were brand new beginners just as good--or almost as
good--as everyone else. There were some 'poet poets' among the contestants,
but they did not fare so well. Patricia Smith threw lightning bolts at the
audience that night and they screamed and applauded. I recognized the M &
M-type guys and gals, trying to follow Patricia Smith into the ionosphere of
her rage but they lacked what she had plenty of--charisma, talent, genuine
hurt--even if they talked about needle tracks and being on the mean streets
of Bean town as genuinely as they could. There was a heckler who kept
shouting--the only difference between you and me, guy, is just a couple of
staples and some paper! Later I saw him get up and do his 'funny dance' as
a slam contestant and call it 'a pome'. After the slam was finished, there
was an open mike where things bounced along in the same manner. By that
time I was having drinks with a 'Video Poet'--first time to meet one--who
turned out to be a full-time Jungian therapist. She got my address and sent
me some of her video performances which I duly watched on a friend's video
player. I recall one part where she was noisily breathing through a snorkel
in a posh-looking hotel lobby and taking breath so hard that it rattled the
safety ball in its plastic yoke. She then moved on to read the Tarot for a
few guests who leaned forward to catch the words she said through her
snorkel and to appreciate her silver leotards.
There have always been poets 'of the people' of various degrees of
sophistication. Rebecca Watts riffing about breastfeeding on a rap-style
video is ok, I think. We don't have to watch it. We don't have to call it
anything or we can call it sentimental in the worst possible way. She has a
point to make, though: there are victims involved and she's throwing her own
kind of lightning bolts.
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