Slam poetry is an art form characterized by its creative use of language and rhythm.
It aims to evoke an emotional and/or intellectual response from its listener, and
often draws from sensitive topics and life experiences. It is an open-ended format,
but use of rhetorical devices such as rhyme, alliteration, simile, and metaphor are
heavily encouraged. The content of the piece is embodied in its style and presentation
which can be achieved through the four P’s: pausing, pacing, punching, and painting.
Effective use of pausing creates and releases tension to highlight the main ideas of
the piece. It is a tool to direct the listeners attention to the necessary places.
Pacing has a similar purpose, but it is done through the speed at which the poem is
recited. The pacing should mirror a performer's intention with the poem and represent
how certain sections feel through their speed. However, one must keep in mind not to
exaggerate too far as to cloud its message. Punching is the emphasis placed on certain
words in a phrase. Where the “punch” is placed can drastically change the tone and
meaning of what is being communicated. This can be a great tool for creating emotion.
Finally, painting is the tone, body language, and gestures used to give emotion to a
performance. Gestures can be used to illustrate a scenario of feeling, overall placing
the audience in a similar mental state. Additionally, it is paramount to utilize the
appropriate tone in a performance, as it is the main contributor to a piece’s emotional
impact.
I got this devastating, heart-shattering haircut.
I went in, swear to god, I said: “trim around 2 inches off”
And she gave me this borderline pixie cut thing, as they do,
And my day was ruined.
I had so many plans!
But I had to push them all aside,
To mourn the loss of my luscious locks,
Cause no longer could I recognize what I saw in the mirror: A young woman.
Needless to say, I could not go on,
Go out like that, let alone, and live?
Another day of holding back the indescribable sadness.
I got this awkward, stomach-churning project a while back,
But it wasn’t that way when we first met.
When we first met, I read the words: “self-portrait reinterpreted”
And felt my being become a magnum opus,
Anticipated my mind and body configured in a likeness to living,
As ethereal as I imagined myself, and as unreal and I felt.
And who knew that would be difficult to capture.
So I thought about it,
For a while,
That became longer as time went on,
As time does that,
And you could say, what once was this exciting opportunity for self actualization,
Became this dreaded prophetic failure,
Became another day
Of holding back the indescribable sadness.
I got this feeling one day, that everything was going to turn out fine.
If I could just get everything over with.
So I began to make a list of all the things I needed to do,
And planned it, in bullet points, on a calendar.
But as time went on,
As it did,
Half the tasks shifted over each day.
And as I saw the stacks of bullet points, piling,
A paragraph of my future autobiography,
Waiting to be fulfilled,
I felt this indescribable sadness within me,
That I just could not hold back.
I got this fantasy, where I’m crying while doing all my work.
Saltwater skin with the words “Shakespeare’s Macbeth suggests” plastered on it
Like wallpaper.
And for my popcorn ceiling to move,
Like the raindrops in my shower, like the water out my eyes, like the filter in my fish tank,
To be in the background,
As I do what’s most important.
Because the indescribable sadness I feel,
Doesn’t fit into my schedule.
It’s not a subject,
Or a job,
Or a friend,
Or an art project,
It's a realization,
That I am bad at doing all the things
That are supposed to make me human.
I got this idea for my future,
Where I like the person I am,
Because doing all these things
It's easy.
Because passion hasn’t turned against me,
And swallowed my worth with its
Promise of purpose and meaning,
And leaving a mark.
And I can, at some point, realize:
I am still a person when
I’m not making art.
I could hold the indescribable sadness
Not back, but in my hands,
Let it be free,
And though it may return one day,
It would be a visitor,
And not a part of me.