Whip It–more than a “Lesbian Fantasy, Disguised.”

Reasons “Whip It” is a fantastic movie:

1. It shows a believable coming of age story of a girl who goes from being lost to having a backbone
2. It features a strong cast of women and is very women-centric in production–for goodness sakes, it was directed by Drew Barrymore!
3. It features one of the best underground sports–ROLLER DERBY–which is defined by its strong women.
4. It shows one of the healthiest relationships I’ve seen in a movie, ever. “Healthy” defined as “Not Obsessive.

Imagine my disappointment when I find one of my favorite pop-culture websites–After Ellen–happily embracing it as nothing more than what Jeremy Clymen of Psychology Today calls a “Lesbian Fantasy, Disguised.”

Where do I even begin with such an inherently flawed idea? Let’s start at the beginning. Clymen writes:

“This film purports to be the story of a small town adolescent who rebels and finds her genuine identity as roller derby star athlete. But I think this film is also a secret communication to closeted lesbians living in hostile places in which the closet is the only safe place to be. Let’s back up before we get into conspiracy theories. “Whip It” is directed by a female (Barrymore), its protagonist is female (Page), and the story is about a girl who becomes a woman in a female dominated world. There isn’t a serious male character to be seen.”

Really? The reason you’re seeing a lesbian undercurrent is because OMG! the film is directed by a female? The protaganist is female? The setting is dominated by women? All of these equate “Lesbian” for you? Really?

He almost has a point with the lack of serious male character–almost. A quick look at the film and you’ll see most of the guy characters as lacking a lot of those “masculine” qualities. But a further look at “Whip It” as a film type, and you’ll see a lot of women characters who are on equal footing. Have you seen Drew Barrymore’s character? Don’t tell me you take her seriously. And also, it’s funny how easily he puts off the male characters. Razor (played by Andrew Wilson), the coach of the Hurl Scouts, starts off as your average surf dude who doesn’t seem all that impressive, but he ended up as one of my favorite characters. He was smart. He knew how to design plays so the Hurl Scouts could go from the bottom of the barrel to a top notch roller derby team. Way to go Clymen, way to pass superficial judgement. Let’s not forget the hot indie rocker Oliver (played by Landon Pigg). If you’re looking for a serious male character, he is one of the few. His role was honest and not just played for comic relief.

Next point of interest that Clymen makes:

” A couple points here:  A. “Whip It” is about roller blading, which this movie defines as a group of half-drunk women, in tight athletic gear and rollerblades muscling each other for inside positioning, as a few key teammates weave in and out of the pack. Those that have finesse are chased by those that have strength, somewhat akin to the cat and mouse pursuit of a top and bottom sexual power dynamic (there’s a reason the standard sexual position is missionary). In short, this game is a metaphor for sex.

B. The protagonist, Bliss (Page), behaves in the way that a lesbian might behave before she knows she’s a lesbian. We meet her just as she’s playfully dying her hair blue for a beauty pageant. Her inexplicably love for roller derby is incited by the image of three women pushing each other on rollerblades. She dumps her boyfriend with suspicious ease and celerity. She’s an adolescent who likes to be different, is experimental and puts a boyfriend second to roller derby.”

Point A of Clymen’s theory has absolutely no basis. Clearly he’s unfamiliar with Roller Derby except as a fictional sport portrayed by the film.

So, let’s start with point B. Since when does a girl “playfully dying her hair blue” equal “lesbian”? Answer: It doesn’t. A girl’s hair color is simply that: hair color. It is not a signifier of sexual orientation.

Clymen says that Bliss’s love for roller derby is incited by three women pushing each other on roller blades. What Bliss (as played by Ellen Page) saw was women who didn’t fit into the social standard as she knew it–the social standard being pretty women who were pageant winners and socially acceptable in the school highways. What she saw were women who were like herself–who didn’t fit into that social standard–but were happy and didn’t CARE that they didn’t fit into society’s standards. What she saw was nothing more than women being themselves with no fear of repercussion.

When Bliss goes to her first roller derby, she tells one of the Derby women that they were her new heroes. The response: Be your own hero.

This line is the most important line of the film, and as cliche as it might be, it means the world to a girl who is shy, stuck in a place she doesn’t feel she belongs, and is trying to figure out who she really is. This line may seem simple, but it’s not. As a woman who has been softspoken most of my life and am only now learning to really speak up and make my opinion heard, I’m still trying to apply this mantra of “be your own hero” to my own life. The reason this movie is so wonderful and so necessary is that it’s about a girl learning to take her own strength into her own hands. It’s about a girl learning to live by her own means. And it’s about giving that girl the opportunity to.

And god forbid, in Clymen’s world, that a girl find what she wants to do to the point that her passion for that thing exceeds the point of her relationship status. God Forbid a woman fall so in love with something like the roller derby that she can’t hold onto a relationship. GOD FORBID that she should be able to break up with her boyfriend and NOT be traumatized. Clymen says that Bliss’s break-up is done with “suspicious ease”. Did he miss the parts where Bliss fell apart because she was so upset that he would cheat on her and let some other girl wear her favorite T-Shirt? Is he so dense that he doesn’t understand how important the roller derby became to her? Did he miss the fact that being part of the Hurl Scouts provided Bliss with a sense of belonging, a sense of family and a sense of identity? Clearly he did. Or maybe he’s right. Maybe the only reason she was able to break up with Oliver and move on was that she’s actually a lesbian.

COME ON, people. Grow up. And appreciate this film for what it is: an ode to female empowerment. A much needed film giving voices to girls who’ve been silenced by the hierarchy of high school and family expectations. A film that celebrates that women have passions outside of relationships and outside of shopping.

Thank you, Drew Barrymore, for directing this movie. Thank you, Shauna Cross, for originally penning this story. Thank you for showing that women can be strong and vocal individuals. Thank you for thinking outside the box, even though some people are still missing the point.

Slam Tuesday: A Quickie

Here’s the deal. Writing about the Salt City Slam team made me realize how awesome it is to hear from the poets themselves, to let them talk about their passions and why they do what they do. So I’m going to try to line up some interviews for this segment so that it’s not just me talking about slam poets. It’ll be much cooler that way. But, I will give you a few good pieces of slam poetry so you don’t feel too gipped:

“Black Statue of Liberty”-Jessica Care Moore

and to go with Jessica Care Moore’s poem, we have something equally inspiring–a 5th grader reciting “Black Statue of Liberty” from memory. This is just beautiful

“Instructions for a Body”-Marty mcConnell

“All We Have”–Carlos Andrés Gómez and Savion Glover

Slam Tuesday: Penny Arcade

Time to move outside SLC and check out some talent outside of Utah. And where better to start then NYC? I recently recieved a book in the mail called “Verses That Hurt”, which is an anthology of poems from the NY Poemfone Poets-who will make up a later slam-related blog entry. The book opens with a few pieces by the NYC performance artist known as Penny Arcade (real name: Susana Carmen Ventura). Prior to this book, I’d never heard of Penny Arcade. But she caught my attention with the very first poem included, the first few lines which I’ll share here:

Manifesto

Here is my personal message to all of you
careerist, slime bucket, fame seeking, sychophantic,
backstabbing, envying, self serving assholes
who are littering the downtown scene in ever increasing
numbers while you choke the creativity out of yourselves as
you turnoff thousands of potential power of the word
lovers by the oxygen you use up on the performing stages of
New York City…

And the poem goes on thus–assertive, demanding, and completely blunt and to the point. The other poems included in her section are very similar. With just a few pieces, it’s clear Penny Arcade is a strong feminist poet who’s not afraid to declare her independence as a freethinking, sexually liberated woman-and loudly.

In addition to making her voice part of the NYC poetry scene, she’s been an actress (she had a role in Warhol’s Women in Revolt) and she’s written/produced several original one-woman shows, becoming well known even outside of the US. The act that took her from being just a New York-based artist to being PENNY ARCADE, someone talked about in art circles left and right, was her work, Bitch! Dyke! FagHag! Whore!

The piece has been performed in the states, including Off Broadway, and in multiple other countries, including England and Scotland

Says TheaterMania.com: “The piece blends political humanism and erotic dancing to respond to the politics of sex and censorship. Originally created in 1990, the show had a prolonged run Off-Broadway and started an international queer/alternative erotic dance/burlesque movement. Arcade hires local erotic dancers in every city she presents B!D!F!W! to expose the dancers and their art form to their own communities.”

Basically: what Penny Arcade has achieved in the span of her career (which is still continuing) is what most artists and dreamers aspire to. Art that is more than just art. Art that goes beyond the artist and makes a resounding impact in the surrounding community and beyond.

For more info on Penny Arcade, please visit her website: Penny Arcade.

More audio of Penny Arcade can be found here.

NPS 2009: Double Trouble Poetry Edition Pt 2

Part 1

It’s with a lot of hesitation that I write this final post in this particular series. It’s been a lot of fun, both in chatting with the SLC poets and in featuring their poems. That said, that doesn’t mean you won’t hear from these cats again, because if I have any say in it, you will. Plus there is a whole wide world of slam poets who are taking poetry to new forms, challenging minds and imaginations, so you’ll be getting to hear more voices every Tuesday (Slam Tuesday, anyone?)

Please leave comments if you’ve read and enjoyed these entries, I’d love to hear from you and I know the poets would appreciate any feedback you have. Let me know if you have favorite poets that you’d like featured, cities to feature, etc.

The last of the Salt City Slam team poets left to feature is none other than the dynamic performance poet Michael Dimitri. Seeing him perform is something you won’t forget anytime soon. He blends words into beautiful pieces that leave the audience inspired and full of hope. As with the other poets, choosing just one poem to feature is practically impossible. But there’s some good news: if you like what you see here, you can obtain more. In addition to purchasing the Salt City Slam book (which features every single one of these poets, 2 pieces each), Michael has his own merchandise available. His more recent chapbook is “Bravado of the Imagination”, and he has an older bit of work, “An Unbearable Gift” which comes in both CD and book form. The CD includes pieces the book doesn’t, partly because there are tracks with backing music. And being a CD, you get to hear Michael in action. For more information on how to add some works of poetry to your collection (by all of SLC’s poets), visit Salt City Indie Arts. Remember, buying stuff by these artists goes to a great cause:

Supporting local art.

Like it or not, we do live in a world bogged down by consumerism, where math and sciences often tend to overshadow art (which classes are cut first when a school is having budget problems? Art & Music). So support your local artists. Support ART.

And now, onto the poetry. Take these words-not only Michael’s, but all the featured poets-and remember them. And if they inspire you, then write your own works. And keep writing. And if you have a place to share your work, do it. Find a community in your area. Believe me, you won’t regret it.

SOS
by Michael Dimitri

I am sending you an SOS emergency thank you
a thank you for the human to human recognition

because I’ve been lost before
in that stained glass undercurrent of the ocean
like there was a plexiglass reality between us
almost as if there was an internal interrogation box
my stomach sat in like a convict of knuckles-
guilty of feeling too deeply

& I am her & I was him in his complacency

& I used to feel like the metaphor
of submarines who couldn’t relate to the drift
of words hung up there in the air
like the shells of black seagulls pinned
with black nails to a scarecrow
of an even darker sky

& language itself was a self-inflicted taboo
that grew into gnarled hands that could
wrap a painful contraband of confusion to the dark
every corner of the inside

Subjects like death & lost loves
were symbiotic creatures that hid
in the hard parts of the back of my throat
that I had to learn how to swallow

Like this was an unsafe place to say things like:

“Listen, I feel like when a soulmate
dies, everything seems less colorful.
Like a bright blue sky has suddenly been painted grey.
Like a rose as beautiful as it may be, will one day decay.”

But you say things like this for too long
but too short to have made peace with it
and even the most sympathetic ears
in a certain colloquial language
have a designated off-button

But I’ve found that the more times
I’ve stepped up to an environment
that wants to share poetry
I’ve been caught in the solace
of motioning momentum
with each unique story that I hear
like the crashing glass symphonic
beauty of a kaleidoscope
shattering into refraction of answers
to the questions I keep asking
so I keep asking in response
to the answers I’m receiving
the momentum of breathing
that between us can facilitate
a healthy module for healing.

So I’m sending you an SOS emergency plea
to keep unlocking the locks that hold back
your skull from thinking
unlatch the armor built on the core of your skin
Take off your fingers
Take off your hands
Take off your arms
because when you get right down to it-
the burning of the heart
is the only thing you need to hold a pen to the paper
splash the print of verbal pages you carve
from the marrow of your blood
cut from something that keeps you living
like an IV cable coming from your heart
to my ears

DEAR HUMAN
I’m not ashamed to say that I need you.
That your poetry means something to me.

But really?
What I’m trying to say is:
is that when you speak
you can paint an entire landscape
that can hold you up when you try.

Because really-
what I’m really trying to say is:
is the truly beautiful & magnificent
thing about wanting to build hummingbird lips
is that when you are ready…

I mean this…

you can fly.

NPS 2009 Final Day: Double Trouble Poetry Edition pt1

Today marks the last day of National Poetry Slam 2009. The semifinalists who will be looking to take the honor of being The slam team of 2009 are as follows: San Francisco (The City Slam), St. Paul (Soapboxing), Albuquerque Poetry Slam and NYC (Nuyorican)

Congrats to all the finalists! And congrats to all 2009 NPS participants. As the slam mantra goes: “It’s the poet, not the score, that matters.” And can you even imagine the poetic caliber that came together in Miami this year? It’s mind blowing.

Congrats to SLC and the poets for representing this city in a great light by bringing great art to a bigger audience! And thanks to them for letting me do this series. It has been a lot of fun sharing their poetry on this blog, and I’m sad that it’s over.

With that said, I’m going to end with two poets instead of one, since today’s it for NPS ‘09 and I would miss someone if I just ended on one. So today’s Salt Lake Poets are Josh McGillis and Michael Dimitri.

Both of them are brilliant minds in their own right, so keep reading. And for those of you in Salt Lake or in the area, I cannot say this enough: Come out and support local poetry! Every Wednesday at Mestizo and every Saturday at Baxters. And if you have enjoyed what you’ve read by the poets, contact Salt City Indie Arts-the poets featured here plus a variety of other Utah based poets have Chapbooks available-so you can add some original SLC poetry to your collection. And when someone asks about the books, you can shrug and say, “Didn’t you know? SLC is THE place to be for slam poetry right now.”

And with no further ado, some poetry.

Ellipses
By Josh McGillis

You ask, “Why is your poetry so dark?”
And I tell you, “Ma,
The world is a beautiful place,
All ya gotta do is look around and see it for yourself.
The way the stars look like a series of ellipses
And create a pause for tomorrow to have a fashionable entrance,
That’s poetry.
I just don’t see things that way.
My heart beats in breakdowns.
I believe in beauty in paradoxes
Like how the person that brought me back to life
Left me a sticky-note reminding me what it felt like to die.
I try to keep it honest
My mouth is a mediocre set of wind-chimes,
And most times they’re singing calmly,
But the winds that push themselves through this music maker are fierce.
The storm is building
When I write, Ma,
That’s when the rain hits.
Violently.
The release,
Like a sudden keystroke off a piano in an empty ballroom.
Catharsis.
Hope means more to me than happiness,
Because happiness is overlooked,
Taken for granted,
A Christmas gift you play with the first day you get it,
But toss aside the next morning.
See, Ma,
I don’t live off sunshine.
I spend most days in a tunnel
Where the only light source drifts in from the exit.
Sometimes it seems so far off that walking to it may take weeks,
But the light is always there,
I thrive on it,
The light turns my eyes into projectors,
Reflecting off the lenses and casting images of tomorrow
On the walls that surround me.

Now look,
I’ve invited you here for two reasons.
The first is to show you that it’s not as dark as you think.
I know you worry, and I needed to show you that I’m okay.
The second is a little more complicated.
I’m always hearing about the things you’d like me to  change,
And now it’s my turn.
I worry about you too,
So consider what I have to say as lessons in hope.
All I’m asking is that you listen to what I have to say,
I know you have more experience in this life than I do,
But please,
Allow yourself to get a little lost with me.

Mom, you’re a beautiful woman, and I wish you could see that.
So first, I want you to look into the mirror and tell
yourself you’re pretty.
Then I want you to say it again and again until you believe it.
Every time that you look at yourself and say you’re fat,
I can hear a little piece of you die off,
Like the petals of a flower that doesn’t get enough water.
Second, I want you to make a list
Of every dream you’ve ever given up on.
When you wake up each morning,
I want you to cross one off and create a new one at the bottom,
But don’t give up this time.
Third, I dare you to trace each letter of the word LOVE
Along the scars on your wrists
And forget about the mistakes you’ve made.
You don’t have to do it right away,
These things take time…
Just work on it for me.

I know that sometimes you don’t think you’re doing your job right,
But know that a year and a half of sobriety is all that I’m askin’ for,
So really,
you’re doing just fine.

I know that it will only be a matter of time until you ask me again,
“Why is your poetry so dark?”
And I’ll have to tell you, “Ma,
You and I are both in the same program,
One day at a time,
And judging by those ellipses in the sky…
We’ve almost made it.”

NPS 2009 Day 4: Cody Winger-Poetry Feature

Congrats to the Salt City Slam poets! The score from last night’s bout is up and we placed 3rd. Not the best placement, but hey, it really isn’t about the score. Every team had killer poets, we could only bring our best.

Great news for the Salt City Slam team and other SC slam enthusiasts: we DID rank in the Group Finalists. When talking to the slam poets for the initial post introducing them, many of them mentioned that they were trying to get as many group pieces together as they could, and the strategy of working on group pieces seems to have worked.  The Salt Lake team impressed judges enough to rank us #2. And while this entry was supposed to just be a showcase of Cody Winger, I’m going to have to bring in one of my favorite duo pieces to celebrate our ranking on the group finalists list.

If you’ve seen Cody Winger live, you’d be able to guess that choosing just one of his poems to feature is something of an impossible task. His style, as mentioned in the initial introduction blog to the Salt City Slam poets, is intense, dark yet often hopeful. But choose I will. And just remember that this is only one piece by him. If you live around SLC and can chill with the Salt City team at Baxters or Mestizo–you should! you’re missing out if all you’re doing is reading. Slam poetry, ultimately, is meant to be performed, and SEEN by an audience. And if you don’t live here in the city, just visit Cody’s myspace and find out if his tour this fall with DeAnn will bring him to your town (dates tba). And if the schedule doesn’t include your town, you could try requesting that he visit.

And now onto the poetry:

Saturday, June 06, 2009
Simplicity
By Cody Winger

You said
That you loved me
With all that you understood
Of that thing in your chest you called your
Heart.

You just
Couldn’t give me what I wanted

I said,
That’s fucking stupid

In my confusion
and in my sorrow
and in my anger

I curled into cannon balls
On my father’s couch
My emotions propelled me like gunpowder
Into every ghost ship
Floating in the foggy sea of my memories
And you captained each ship
I so angrily wished I could sink
But could merely sail through

Convulsing and writhing
To the rhythm of my crying
After a few hours
This cannon ball eroded away into sand
On the beach of my fathers couch
And restless
Finally I slept.

But my friend,
I am no longer propelled
Into depths of depression
By my emotions towards you.

My body is no longer filled
With the eroded-cannon ball
Sand of sadness

My turmoil exists now
Only on the documents in which I inscribed
The tangible language
Of my sorrow.

My friend,
I am no longer angry or sad with you.

And now
Watching beautiful ghost ships
Sail off into the sunset

I understand why you could not give me what I wanted.

Because you do not understand
The simplicity of that thing
In your chest.
Your hearts hands
Are fantastically large and outstretched
For the world
Like a smile to a suicidal
But they have not yet returned to their core.
The do not know the warmth
Of embracing your own heart
Before another’s.

My friend,
If you were to ask me
What I wanted from you
I would say
That I wanted you to know
You wake up beautiful every morning
And when you rise
You are that much
Closer to the sun.
If you would just dream to catch it
To take it
And plug it into your heart
So that your blood would beat
Sunbeams.
And cleanse
The dark parts
Of your body
Where your self hatred clings
Like a suicidal to a smile

I wanted you to know
That when you lay your head to rest
Your brittle bones
Absorb the moonlight and
That light
Is miracle grow

To the millions of yellow rose seeds
Planted deep in your marrow.

I want you to know
That the lines of my poetry
Did not die like the lines of our
Once clasped together hands.

I want you to know
That you will always be my friend

But for the next person
You open the dusty padlock
To let them glimpse at that thing
In your chest:

I want you to know its simplicity.

Word Smoke and 100 Love Letters
Performed by Cody W + DeAnn

So.
Here I am
Bountiful Utah
Barnes and Noble.
I undoubtedly realize 2 things.

1. This sounds like the shitty beginning to a shitty stand up act and
2. Unfortunately I actually am in Barnes and Noble.

However
With the other contenders being
American Eagle
Or
Electric Beach Tanning Salon
I figured
At least Barnes and Noble had some poetry.

And poetry I did find.
But when I approached the poetry section
My eyes immediately came across a book titled:

Understanding poetry
Written and edited by
Some fuckhead with a degree.*

Right next to that was a book titled

100 Ways to Write the Best Love Poems
Written and edited by
Some fuckhead with a degree
Who probably hadn’t been laid in fifty years.

Right next to both of these
To my utter joy and relief
Boldly, sat

The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry

My mind immediately jumped to David Lerner:

“The literary world SUCKS DEAD DOG DICK”

Poetry is not understood
It is not studied

It is not raised in captivity
And shipped off to hundreds of middle schools
To be dissected by a bunch of kids
Scratching at their new installation of pubic hairs.

It is not a magazine
It is not an absolution.

There is no 100 ways to write the best love poetry.

It is not some French dude
Sipping wine and spouting off poetry so romantic
Women flock to him
Like crickets playing mating songs.

Poetry is inhaled.
It is rolled up and smoked

Poetry is feeling the grass beneath your feet
It is crying from laughing so hard

Poetry is putting too much sugar in your coffee
It is not enough salt in your chowder.

Poetry is the bacbone in my breakdown
It is the fiery atmosphere for my breakthrough

Poetry is laughing at the funny noises our bodies make
When having sex
It is loitering for the sake of being kicked out

Poetry is making out for hours in the back seat of a car
It is the weird inquisitive looks you get as people walk by
It is the sad realization that apartment complex parking lots
Don’t make the best places to have back seat car sex.

It is bleeding on to paper

It is orgasms commanding pens

It is crying into the margins

It is laughing into ears

It is breathing word smoke

It is spitting metaphor fire

It is tattooing passion

It is wearing expression like a therapist business coat

It is seeking stories

It is knowing backgrounds

It is feeling feelings.

It is knowing
That the best way to write 100 love poems
Is to stare into your lovers’ eyes
Until the sun rises
And just then
The flower of their soul will bloom
And you will know
Why people use flowers
To express love

I hope
If one day my poetry finds its way
On to a Barnes and Noble shelf
The reader will know
I pried open my padlocked chest
Pulled a painting
From the war torn brick wall of my rib cage
And with a thin piece of paper and pencil
Lightly scribbled over the top of the paper
To translate that fraction of my soul into words
Before placint it back into my chest for a later time.

I want to breathe word smoke.

*italics added for emphasis and are my own doing

For more info on Cody and the Salt City Slam poets, please visit Salt City Arts. And the second poem is so much better when you see it live. So if you can: Come support your local poets.

NPS 2009 Day 3: DeAnn Poetry Feature

Salt Lake had its first bout last night, and despite putting what I’m sure was a valiant fight (how could it be anything else?) came in 4th. Although, it’s hard to be surprised that we weren’t first given the nature of the competition–namely our team was up against the Nuyorican Poets Cafe–who’ve had a very extensive history. Like, 35 years of being involved in this slam poetry thing. Like when I say slam, you think “Nuyorican”.

Nonetheless, life goes on and Salt Lake stillk rocks. And on that note, I present to you another piece of poetry–this time from Salt City slam poet DeAnn. For more on DeAnn and the SLC slam team in general, please visit here.

For My Chesire Cat
By DeAnn

He smiled acceptance
in the form

Of Cheshire Cat challenges,
Witty banter
hidden between each tooth
I found a new degree of friendship
as strong as the cement
that held his braces into place.
He smiled acceptance.

He smiled a dare
when my learning curve
discovered his biological urge
was left of center.
I was given a choice
between two natural impulses:

Love or Hate.

Luckily,
both sides of the coin
in my 13 year old
bleeding heart chest
pointed to an open mind.
I made room in
the space between silver crooked teeth
for the other boy
and he painted our cheeks rosy.

And then there were three
and we smiled graciously
at rock wall challenges
because we knew
we had the most efficient pulley system
the world had ever seen.
We broke down entire mountains
of school ground bullies
with a new found
ability to question,
to recognize ignorance
in advice we once mistook
for wisdom.

It was they
who flipped the switch in my naivete
from adults are always right
to most times they’re not.
That intentions made
the necessary crooked edges
of jigsaw puzzles
even when they’re wrong…
and that LOVE
would somehow
make the pieces fit together
to form a bigger picture
for us to frame and show
the entire world compassionate perspective.
All the
religions
parents
teachers
bullies
and friends
would see it hanging on the walls
of humanity’s art gallery.

See the answers in
the honesty
of our young rosy cheeks
and finally notice
how the wide open eyes of
friendship and tolerance
had blind spots
in all the right places.

But the Cheshire Cat’s father
blew through humanity’s art gallery
on anti-fairy tale winds of destruction
from the direction of a condition HATRED
as old as the religious rising of the sun.
All the jigsaw pieces
of compassionate love
fell to the bathroom floor
in a crumpled heap
as the wind blew south
to a cheap motel in Arizona;
leaving behind his soul shattering aura
for the other boy and I to find.

We found our frowning Cheshire Cat
among puzzle debris and blood.

Instead of witty banter
he spouted
the ancient burning ways
of the old religious sun
from shattered braces
and bruised pale cheeks.
His wind battered body
told of battles
with crooked intentions
brought upon
by a 13 year old boy
seeking compassionate LOVE
from an adult.

The ambulance came
and treated his blood as though
it were infected with the contagious
deadly disease of queer
and told us to go home.

Over ten years later
I no longer have the company
of rosy cheeks.
Only the wisdom
that crooked edges have carved into me
over time.

I have a handful of jigsaw pieces
to drop into all of your laps.

For my Cheshire Cat
who taught me to question
even respectable authority
and the oldest cliche’s
who now speaks only in religious tongures
with a penchant for gays
disguising a secret desire
he must have swallowed
the day the orthodontist pulled
a jagged disarray of braces
from every corner of his mouth
like a painful memory

For the destructive wind
who might have taken pride
in the young man
who mirrored the better parts
of his grace
but allowed his fear of God
to overshadow love for his son.

For the other boy
who’s rosy cheeks
inspired my own
exploration of various shades of silver

And for me, the last one standing.

I give all of you these jigsaw pieces
from us
with hopes
of someday painting
the world with
daring rosy cheeks
baring accepting silver smiles
once again.

-fin-

NPS 2009 Day 2: Jesse Parent Poetry Feature

Today is the second day of the National Poetry Slam in West Palm Beach, Fl. Since poetry is being celebrated all week long in Florida, the same thing is going to happen here. I’ve already introduced you to the Salt City Slam poets with some brief bios and other information, now you get to see a little more of each poet’s work.

Today’s feature is Jesse Parent:

Gallows Humor
by Jesse Parent

Skott Greene and I started the same summer in 1993
Working at my uncle’s tattoo parlor in East Providence.
He was always blaring Deep Purple
And trying to turn me on
To Black Sabbath and other bands with too much hair.
We’d celebrate late nights at Bickfords with Coffee
And the occasional creamer that defied gravity
With its viscosity and consistency.
The man’s ink covers much of my epidermus.

On February 20, 2003
At the Station Nightclub
In West Warwick, Rhode Island
Great White played a small concert
To a capacity crowd,
Where 100 people spent their last night
Snuffed out by flames.

One of them was Skott Greene.

He had tattooed the lead singer the day before
And been tipped tickets to his demise.
News was scarce.
I wondered how such a heavily tattooed man
Could take so long to be identified,
Slowly dawning on me with sickening realization
How blackened and charred
His ink and skin must have been.
What his last moments must have been like,
Clawing through the crowd to get out of there.

Seeking solace, I looked to see
What others were saying online,
The debates on safety,
The finger pointing,
The question of
“How could that building have gone up
In flames that fast?”
And the one answer that stood out:

“Hairsprary.”

And with that,
I laughed loudly in breakbeats of sobs.
And to the sick song of Gallows Humor.
That inappropriate joking that I so desperately needed.
The clinging to comedy to explain away our tragedy,
Making one mask out of two.
We’re a sick lot,
Those of us who need this.
Like teenage cutters freeing flowing emotion
With razor wit.
The off color offensive humor
Concocted between falling towers and breaking levees.
Making sense out of senses of humor.
And ignoring any outraged cries of “Too soon!”

Like my dad at his own father’s wake.
My grandfather. Our Pepere.
Looking at a room swamped with eyes
And loudly recounting how
Pep wanted to be buried face down
So the world could kiss his ass.
Breaking out this small gag box
That would shake and exclaim,
“Hey! Hey! Let me out of here!”
Whenever you bumped or shook it.
Dad threatened to put it in the coffin
With conspiratory glee.

But on a shady funeral day,
While burying our Pepere,
My father broke.
Emotion let out of him
As he was handed a triangular flag.
And for the third time in my life,
I saw him cry.
No cloak of jokes or laughter,
just raw sorrow as I turned to hold him,
Bumping his jacket pocket.
Laughing loudly as we shook in time with sobs
To that goddamn gag box
He had hidden in his pocket,
Surrounded by a shitload of shaking heads
And three sets of seven shots,
Punctuated with cries of
100 people
Trapped in a box:

Hey.
Hey.
Let me out of here.

For more information on Jesse and his work both in the slam community and in improv, just go HERE.

SLAM TUESDAY: Spittin’ Poetry with the SLC Slam Team

Warning to non-Utahns: You’ve no doubt heard the rumors about Utah, and Salt Lake City. I’m not going to say they’re all false-the LDS church does have a big presence, but that doesn’t make all of the rumors true. You might have heard that Salt Lake City and the people therein are a God-fearing people who spend their Sundays in elaborate temples and then go door-to-door trying to sell their religion to the people who weren’t at Church.

Sure these people exist, but I’m going to tell you something. You may not believe it, but it’s more of a truth than the rumors you’ve come to believe.

Salt Lake City isn’t as backwards as you think.

Salt Lake is just as alive as other cities. We’ve got our bars. Our pubs. We’ve got a thriving LGBTIQ community. We’ve got vegans, activists, rebels, anarchists…

And we have a thriving community of slam poets who wield their words like daggers, slicing straight into the heart of anyone within hearing distance. And this week they’re one of 67 teams (both national and international) who plan to leave their mark on the 2009 National Poetry Slam.

Salt City Slam is composed of: (as pictured from right to left): Jesse Parent, DeAnn, Josh McGillis, Michael Dimitri and Cody Winger.

Together they make up a team National Poetry Slam attendees won’t forget any time soon.

Jesse Parent may not have been born and raised in Utah, but he’s been involved with performance arts for a long time. He began with improv and soon developed a style known as “the hook” which combines improvised performance poetry, acapella music and scenework. He has been a staple of the Salt Lake slam teams since 2007 and has done work as a coach, slam master, and currently serves on the executive council of Poetry Slam, Inc.

Because of his beginnings in theater and improv art, poetry was far from easy. Jesse was “scared to death” of writing a poem and had to get over the improv mindset of art being little more than toilet paper: used once and then tossed. His style of poetry is comparable to an emotional rollercoaster. Jesse doesn’t want the audience to JUST laugh their way through his piece. Nor does he want them to get more and more miserable as his poem is presented. No, he’s got to have it both ways. Humor here, darkness there, a dash of discomfort, an anecdote to lighten the tone-you’ll know it’s a Jesse Parent poem if it takes you on an emotional journey you weren’t expecting.

His poetry tends towards confessional-based on real events he’s experienced and people he’s known. Take the poem “Gallow’s Humor.” It was written a few days after a friend of his died, burned to death at a 2003 Great White concert in the Station (Rhode Island). The poem captures Jesse’s ability to use both humor and grief in a poem, twisting it into something far more powerful than if it was just grief.

DeAnn is a relative newcomer to the Salt City Slam Team. This will be her first year at nationals, and yes, she’s worried. But anyone who has seen her in action at Baxters Open Mics on Saturdays could easily attest that she has no reason to be worried. DeAnn carries a confidence through her poetry that is only emphasized by gestures that punctuate each word she says with new meaning. Her poetry is intense, filled with metaphors and passion set to distinctive rhythms.

She has been writing poetry since middle school, and it shows in the expert way that she crafts her poems in narrative schemes. Though she isn’t sure what to expect at Nationals this week, she does look forward to the connections she will make with other poets. Partly because she and fellow poet/friend Cody Winger will be touring the West Coast, bringing their poetry to stages outside of Utah.

Is she concerned about the chances Salt City Slam has this week? No. As she said–”It’s more about the experience than the score,” reitterating Jesse’s belief that the scores don’t really matter. The scores are just a sneaky way to bring the art of poetry back to a wider audience.

Josh McGillis got into slam poetry via a youth workshop held by Westminster College and since then has stuck around. He participated in the 2008 slam team, and is back for another round this year. He isn’t as frequent a contributor to Saturdays at Baxters as the other slam members, but his performance poetry leaves an impression. Because I didn’t get a chance to talk to him personally, I’ll have to let him do the talking (thanks to getstakerized for the video.)

Michael Dimitri: It’s Saturday night at Baxters. Open Mic. The first round is already in progress when Michael Dimitri, coach of Salt City Slam ‘09 arrives. But he still makes the first round. When he gets up to the mic, he’s barefoot. He steps away from the mic, almost reverently. Quiet. After a few seconds he steps forward and launches into the first poem of the night.

Though Michael ended up as team coach by accident (Jesse originally had the duties, but stepped back due to the difficulties of balancing his family life with all of his other interests), it’s not a surprise that he got the role. When Michael speaks, it’s hard NOT to listen. It’s hard not to follow the words, the emotions, the pictures he paints. His voice is powerful, dynamic and he makes a point to speak directly to the audience–eye contact and all.

Michael started writing poetry at the age of 7, and found himself immersed in the Salt Lake City slam poetry scene in 2004. He was introduced to slam by a friend at the old open mic location-Cup of Joe-and fell for slam immediately. There was an energy in the air he’d never seen before, and he found himself identifying with the words spoken by many of the poets. He started finding puzzle pieces in others words, and soon realized that he himself had puzzle pieces to offer, and stepped up to the mic.

Michael has participated in Nationals since ‘04, sometimes as team member, sometimes as an observer. Like Jesse, Michael isn’t Utah born-and-bred. He’s toured with his poetry and seen other slam poetry venues, and is confident that SLC offers something many other cities can’t. In many venues he’s been to, poets would come up to the mic, speak their piece, and then leave. Here in Utah-that’s just not the way things work. Though there are a lot of regulars who show up at Baxter’s on Saturday and Mestizo Coffeehouse on Wednesdays, this is no clique. This is a group that’s about celebrating art, in whatever form it comes. It’s about welcoming any aspiring artists. Let’s say you’re a local Salt Lake poet and you decide, “it’s time to share my stuff.” I guarantee you’ll find no better place to find yourself embraced. (Remember: Wednesdays at Mestizo, Saturdays at Baxter’s-1615 S. State St; and Sundays at the Greenhouse Effect.)

When asked how the Salt City Slam team will do in West Palm Beach at Nationals Michael laughs, “I’m going to skip numbers altogether!” He maintains that the point of nationals is not about the scores. Salt Lake is one of 67 teams across the country, each of which have 5 members who’ve worked to develop their craft throughout the year in anticipation for this event. And winning, ultimately, isn’t the point. The point, as mentioned by all of the poets, is making a connection. Finding the people in the audience who felt a deep resounding connection with a line or verse of a poem. Something that makes them say “huh” with a new perspective on a question/situation that’s been bothering them or a new appreciation about something they’d begun to ignore.

Michael said that the experience of coaching has been an incredible one. “[The group is] competent, motivated, and their heads are in the right places.” And everyone, he added, is coming at this with their heart.

Cody Winger-in the sense of poetic delivery-is very much the opposite of Michael Dimitri. Where Michael’s poetry tends to soar and inspire, Cody’s style of performance is much more immediate, much more visceral. He will spit a poem while rocking to the invisible tune that seems to be coursing through his veins, waiting to get out. His movements are jagged, rough, and every bit as effective at bringing his words to life.

The poetry of Cody Winger is not easy to define. Dark, yet beautiful, with hope mixed in. Gritty. It’s the kind of poetry that can really dig under your skin, and at the same time, inspire.

Cody has always been a writer, though he didn’t get into poetry until his senior year of high school. His first exposure to slam poetry was through nationally reknowned poet Buddy Wakefield. After finding Buddy Wakefield, Cody began to get involved in the local slam scene at Cup of Joe and found inspiration through slam. This is his first year at Nationals, and he’s looking forward to having some fun, making some connections, and “bring[ing] poetry with integrity.”

Cody is a careful poet whose work is filled with deep constructive metaphors and circular flow. His process behind writing reflects that.

“I’m not a hands-on poet. I have to sit down and pull it out of me,” he explains. From the intitial writing, the poem goes through an intense revision process until he feels ready to share it and gauge the reaction of the audience. From there he looks at what the audience responds to, what works and doesn’t, and when he’s ready, the process of memorization begins. And after that comes the process of choreographing the gestures, the movements. And is a strong enough performer/poet to fool the audience into thinking everything they saw was seamless. Easy. Not the product of hours spent in memorizing/choreographing/workshopping.

It’s humbling to remember, that as much as he has developed through the Salt City Slam group, he was once a novice too, and was once intimidated by the local slam poets who had developed their styles and inspired him.

When asked what’s unique to the Salt City Slam Team, Cody answers “Our experience of living in Utah and not being Mormon.”

None of the slam poets are Mormon, and none of them fit into the stereotype people think of when they think of Utah. The Salt City Slam teams, throughout the years at Nationals, have had to deal with many of those attitudes. Michael noted that some judges, upon finding out that a poet was from Salt Lake, tend to stop listening. Some scored the individuals badly based on being Salt Lake City.  All of the poets have seen this.

Since 2004 various Salt City Slam Teams have worked to combat the image of the Mormon stereotypes that are associated with SLC, and as they make more connections, those walls are starting to crumble. Michael is optimistic and believes things are getting much better.

West Palm Beach better watch out, because we sent some of the best of the Salt City Slam (some of the best? Yep, you heard me. Believe me when I say we’ve got more) your way. Be prepared. And don’t worry. We won’t bite.

Much.

New Feature: SLAM TUESDAYS

Think poetry is dead?

Think again.

Put aside any preconceptions of poetry you might have and let’s talk slam. Slam’s nothing new–it started in the late 80s–but it’s one of those movements that refuses to die. Slam poetry is not solely about the written word. Sure, form matters, but so does the delivery. Slam poetry is meant to be spoken. To be delivered. To be shared with an audience. Here more than on paper, word flow matters. Dramatic effects add spark to the poem, turning it from simple words to an impassioned call for justice or a subtle-yet-important revelation.

And the time to recognize slam poets is upon us. August 4-8 marks the National Poetry Slam–which this year will be held in West Palm Beach, Florida. Teams from all over the US–and a few international teams!–will bring new life to Florida.

Because Slam Poetry is a great art form and because it’s an awesome way to incite and inspire change, this blog will be celebrating different slam poets and their contributions to the art form. Every Monday. Right Here.

And to kick things off, we’ll start with the one and only Alix Olson.

Subtle Sister

Alix is anything but subtle. She embodies the art of slam with bold in-your-face words and content that openly exposes the flaws in the

American system and gendered/social relations. She’s unabashadly feminist and she refuses to be held by gendered expectations. In addition to her fiery presence, she uses music and vocal intonations that makes her poetry better heard than read, better seen than heard.

But whatever way you get your Alix-fix, you won’t be disappointed.

She is a warrior to the core–no topic is left untouched by her razor-sharp insights. But she’s also a lover -showcased by poems that are beautiful and touching. She’s a multi-talented artist not only with her poetry, but with music. As an activist, she fights for what she believes in.

Thus far, she’s released two full length albums,  Independence Meal (featuring poetry with backing music) and Built Like That. Both showcase not only her feminist-queer ire, but also her passion, her attention to detail and history and to the finer details of love/romance.

She also edited and contributed to Word Warriors, which is a great way to discover more poets who aren’t afraid to let themselves shine.

For more info on all things Alix, check out her myspace page and get her documentary–Left Lane: on the Road with Folk Poet Alix Olson.

Alix Olson is a voice of the revolution. Defiant. Strong. Her words carry meaning that should not be ignored. Listen–and learn:

(Note that the opening of this video is Alix explaining the background of her poem “Subtle Sister.”)