Poetry Slammin’

by Amie

Better than a night out slam dancing, Taryn, Christy, and I threw our bodies instead into the Rochester poetry-reading scene for an evening of poetry slamming. Dusting off some personal poetry and feeling a wave of adrenaline in our chests and throats at the prospect of being in the literary spotlight, we met, accompanied by Charles, at a crowded Java’s coffeehouse on Gibbs Street.

A loud jazz band played to a wild crowd as we wondered if the poetry reading was still on and where exactly it was held. Inquiring at the order counter, after waiting my turn for young hipsters to order their fixes of espressos and lattes, I was told that the reading was located downstairs. The craftygal gang moved down a steep and narrow flight of stairs and found a small room with three old, dirty, and mismatched retro couches, with clunky coffee tables in front of each. We staked out and settled in on the empty couches, noted the pool table on the right, and admired the red-painted walls and the many pieces of surreal art work that made us feel as if we were sitting in someone’s living room. We wondered if any one else was going to show up as we rustled through our poems and talked about the tremendous "crowd."

Eventually, as we scratched our heads and wondered if we were going to have to plug ahead and just read the poems to each other, a woman who was a regular at the night showed and explained that the usual hosts were upstairs watching the band. After about an hour wait, the place started to slowly fill, like coffee at the bottom of an empty cup. Two young and affable alternate emcees called the place to order and mobilized the night’s readers to put their names into a cup. Picking out the first scrap of paper, one of the emcees called out "Taken?" misreading Taryn’s name on the slip of paper.

"I knew they were going to call me first," said Taryn, who fervently hoped that she wouldn’t be picked first. However, as she confidentially approached the "stage," which was really just to stand in front of the pool table and use a music stand for a podium, her poem brought a smile to the face of one of the hosts (we think her name was Jeannie) and enticed a young man, who had been lingering in the doorway, to crouch in front on the rug, perched with his coffee mug, for a better view.

i’m a fool for interminable crushes.

they’ve been known to last for years at a time–

totally undetected by the object of my affection,

and obvious to absolutely everyone else.

generally he’s in for the long-term,

chained to some mindless blond he’s long since taken for granted;

seems unhappy, seeking escape even,

yet I’m sure at some point her must have been

smitten.

isn’t it funny how easily woman rationalize–

with me it would never be like that.

we think,

he wouldn’t follow his obsessions

with no regard for me,

wouldn’t choose music, golf, work

over being with me…

we would travel abroad,

never tire of each other’s company,

or run out of money.

things would be grand.

but in truth, there’s no magic.

those couples have just as much chance

to last fifty-six years

as the next.

I am just lost in my daydream,

safe behind a shield of

what-ifs and maybes.

--Taryn Chase

Taryn also read another poem, introducing it with "This is about the weather we have been having lately." Although Taryn had to speak loudly to be heard over the music upstairs, she did a fine job, received a hearty round of applause, and took her seat.

My name was next plucked up from the cup. "My name?" I thought. It looks easy when someone else is up there, but when it’s you on the spot, the feeling is one of total apprehension. By now, the couches were filled and the music upstairs had temporarily ceased, so there were a lot of silent eyes on me, it seemed, as I sheepishly took the front of the room. However, I remained calm and, telling myself to read slowly and enunciate, and receiving support, whenever I dared look up, from Taryn’s broad smile, I made it through and, sitting back down on the couch, basked in relief and accomplishment.

Relic

Penciled in body–

His flesh is stretched

A concave chest

He’s hairbreadth and haggard,

Like a sweet string

Limply suspended on

Once ablaze

He listlessly lies,

In a ghostly shroud,

Eruptions he breathes,

A blanketed blue

A crown for the hurting,

--Amie Arnold

The emcee Jeannie (we think) read her poems before Christy, last and definitely not least, was called to read her poems. The crowd was pleased with her first number, a "ransom note poem," a dadaistic exercise accomplished by cutting out words from magazines and pasting them together in a random, but poetic, fashion. Next, she read her "Lady Winter," linking it with the theme of the second poem Taryn had read, noting that winter poems were a prevalent theme for the late March night.

Lady Winter

Lady Winter comes on tall

legs walking on tip toe.

She steals herself in under

woolen blankets and through

cracks in the mortar.

Clasp hand to ear and hear

her voice.

She beckons at the wooden

gate.

It is her the willow

Weeps for, for Winter.

She slays her love even

as she holds him

in her young hand.

She browns the whim

of Autumn and is left

a Widow

to dance with naked

trees and pricking

pines all Winter long.

--Christy Flanders

A job well done, Christy felt the applause and, sitting down, brought the craftygals, each having had a turn at bat, to home. We listened to the next few poets read before the night came to a close.

All in all, although we were glad to get together and flex our literary and public speaking skills in one, we were disappointed that the poetry night was relegated to the basement, that we had to read over loud music, and that there were so few people there, especially those who were willing to read. Gone may be the days of beret wearing beatniks who play bongos and chant in smoky coffee shops, but gone also are the days of a once thriving, active, and happy performance poetry scene? Due to "Lady Winter" did people just want to stay home and keep warm? Is it just the scene in Rochester? I guess craftygal will have to hit all the poetry nights coming up in order for us to reach a conclusion. In the meantime, at least the process of the poetry slam has motivated us to write some new poetry.

April poetry slams in Rochester:

Christian’s Coffee House--Pure Kona Series, every Wednesday at 8 p.m., followed by Open Mic. Village Gate Square, 274 North Goodman Street, Rochester. (716) 785-3571. For Kona information: (716) 586-5864.

--Open Mic, Poetry, and Open Acoustic Jam, every Sunday, 7-11 p.m.

Barnes and Noble--Rochester location: April 19 at 7 p.m. 3349 Monroe Avenue, Pittsford. (716) 586-6020. Call for future dates.

--Greece location: April 26 at 7 p.m. 330 Greece Ridge Center Drive, Greece. (716) 227-4020. Call for future dates.

Borders Books--Rochester location: No April reading. Call for future dates. 1000 Hylan Drive, Rochester. (716) 292-5900.

--Victor location: Thursday, April 12, 6:30 p.m. sign-up, starts at 7 p.m., located in the café. 30 Square Drive, Victor. (716) 421-9230. Call for future dates.

Java Junction--Every Thursday, 7-9 p.m. 56 Main Street, Brockport. (716) 637-9330.

Java’s--Every Thursday, 8:30 p.m. sign-up, starts at 9 p.m. Located downstairs in the billiard room. 16 Gibbs Street, Rochester. (716) 232-4820.

Writers and Books sponsored "Wide Open Mic"--the first Friday of every month (next is April 6) at 7 p.m. at Daily Perks, 389 Gregory Street, Rochester. (716) 271-2340. (Writers and Books, 339 East Avenue, Rochester. 716-232-1070).

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