Слем поезија (Slam poetry)


17 февруари 2012
Huntington Beach, California
Слем поезија е натпревар на кој поетите читаат или рецитираат свое оригинално напишано дело. На овие настапи се суди од претходно избрани членови од публиката.


Во националните натпревари публиката се состои од 5 судии, додека во помалите најчесто се 3. Откако секој поет ќе го изврши својот настап, секој судија доделува бод оценувајќи го настапот. Скалата на бодување најчесто се движи од 0 до 10 бодови. Во оценувањето на настапот секако голема улога има реакцијата на публиката.

Постојат 2 вида на слем натпревари: Open slam каде што може да учествува било кој со одреден број на слободни места, и Invitational slam каде што учесниците се повикани да бидат дел од натпреварот.

Јас се заинтересирав за овој вид на поезија преку настапите на Neil Hilborn. За да видите за што поточно станува збор ќе ви го покажам неговото ремек дело "OCD":

"Everything in my head went quiet.
All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..
Or the eyelash on her cheek-
the eyelash on her cheek-
the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or talking to her..
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times at different times of the day.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely lock the door eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked-
when she talked-
when she talked-
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
But then.. She said I was taking up too much of her time.
That I couldn’t kiss her goodbye so much because I was making her late for work..
When she said she loved me, her mouth was a straight line..
When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking..
And last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but..
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touch her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed my an endless succession of cars..
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she opening a safe.
How she blows out candles-
blows out candles-
blows out candles-
blows out candles-
blows out-….
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once-he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
I want her back so bad..
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on.

Дали ви се допаѓа овој вид на поезија?
Може да споделуваме клипови од настапи и да ги дискутираме нивните изведби.


A Witty Cat
Член на администрација
23 мај 2013
All Ireland slam poetry champion of 2009, Seamus Fox :

Dying isles, неопеаното ремек дело на современата поезија.


22 февруари 2012
во светот на бајките
Интересно е,а дали некој знае дали кај нас има вакви дешавки освен во Менада?Дали бил некој во Менада да ни раскаже подетално, дали има и доделување на награди освен рецитирање и читање на свои дела ?! :)


17 февруари 2012
Huntington Beach, California

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.