Poetry slam falls flat / And that is that.

My friend recently invited me to accompany her to a poetry slam, and gave a compelling set of reasons to attend:
– It’s free.
– It’s cultural.
– It’s something different.
– It’s free.

Since she’s unemployed and I’m, well, self-employed (which is about as secure), the free part’s important.

But in the end, we got barely more than we paid for.

One of the two featured poets was entertaining, engaging, talented, and simply a joy to watch and listen to.

But the others… man, the others… what were they thinking? Or not thinking? Is there much worse than a bad poet? Yes… someone who is bad poem presenter.

These folks failed to grasp one key fundamental in presentations: Contrast.

Louds. Softs. Fast. Slow. Pointed. Fluid.

No, these men and women came from the “Fast, Loud, Abrasive” school of poetry, apparently. After about ten minutes, my friend and I had had quite enough.

Unfortunately, after starting a full hour and a quarter late, the first ‘act’ lasted about 90 minutes.

We left, exhausted, annoyed, and disappointed.

I think I’ll go back to reading Shel Silverstein to myself. At least I won’t have to worry about someone else’s bad performance skills.