THE APRIL CONTEST has been post-poned til TOMORROW due to
The rules are simple, most of you probably have a piece like this already.
Present a poem inspired by another work of art, EXCLUDING POETRY.
This can be music, film, photography, painting, or anything else you can portray as a piece of art in the contest.
Moving on now, the slam on the 13th was still a successful one. 15 readers in total, although the original count was 17 - it seems a couple jokers thought it would be funny to sign each-others names on the list. Well, it was funny. But, next time - sign the names as Simpsons-esque pranks; such as,
"Amanda Huggenkiss" or "Hugh Ass" or "Oliver Clothesoff"
otherwise you embarrass yourself much more than me
and that simply
will not do.
Oh yes, did I mention that Ty Cummings surprised us with an appearance?
He read from his recently completed novella, but beforehand--he relayed a message from 2 (out of 6) original New Poets: Trevor Griffith and Alex Colston.
However, circumstances as they are, neither audio nor photographic evidence was taken; so, it could be a big rumor I made up. Still:
It set the stage for an evening of prevailing emotional urgency.
Barrett followed Ty, recovering from his recent experiments into prop interactions.
Which made his poem slightly less memorable, in my opinion.
I mean, really, it's hard to follow up smashing a porcelain clown with a hammer with big glasses, low decidable projection, and questionable Jewish ethnicity. (I'm just joking on _____!)
Next came Isis, who split her set into three, beginning with a newer poem -
so new, she had yet to memorize it. It was a different side to the often crowd favorite; something that everyone, I'm sure, desired to see.
Two new readers graced the stage, David Wade and Poppy (last name).
Having known David a little over two years now, it came as a delightful shock--not like the masochistic, mad enjoyment one might derive from electrotherapy--but more intune with the after affects of successful defibrillation.
Poppy read a poem inspired by a painting his cousin Austin did. Called White Bullets, Austin actually brought the painting--presenting it before the audience. This was somehow unrelated to the contest.
Even Clay Cooper somehow managed to get serious on stage, recounting a trip to euthanize his father's dog. The experience, which occurred earlier in the day, seemed to have a rather profound affect on Mr. Cooper. He stood on stage without a poem, blue wristwatch n'all, simply speaking--a direct message intertwined with rarely seen earnest words.
As is often the case on Tuesday Night, we ended with a poem of gratuity.
Isis read one of the more loved pieces, a poem every poet must write:
a love song for words. In context to the evening, it came as a culminating force rather than a personal explanation. Where life finds each of us in hardship, ecclectisim seperates our situations by social standards. Cultures often celebrate how different they are from one-another, but what I saw in Isis' poem was an ardent adoration for similarity.
To assert our differences requires us to use that which connects us all, the foundation of civilization, an ineffable idyll every person in End of the Line on any given Tuesday can share in.
To me, she was saying: "we can always find each-other in words."
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