Wednesday, May 13, 2009

In Search of the Thing Big Poppa E has Got.


It has been a little more than four days since the last time I set foot in a college classroom, and though I have one midterm left, college is essentially over for me. I couldn’t be less happy about it. In fact, I feel as if I can’t quite shake off the sensation that I somehow missed something; it is the feeling, or rather the belief, that somewhere along my collegiate experience I could have done something different. It is a sensation more exquisite than regret and more complicated than desire. And while I do honestly wish that I had found the time to meet more people and see and hear their art, it isn’t a hunger that could be replaced by hearing a few extra poetry readings. I suppose it is, at least in part, my realization that the conversation has likely ended for me.

Anyone that has been afforded the opportunity of a liberal education can’t reasonably say that they didn’t enjoy academia’s great dialogue. There is something inherently enjoyable about putting your ideas out there and watching them squirm and take shape as your colleagues test their fortitude. I loved participating in this because it afforded me the space to gauge, immediately, the viability of my claims. From here forward, in this post collegiate world, there is no guarantee that I will ever experience that again--unless of course I choose to follow the career path of Big Poppa E.

Months ago I walked into class to find a visitor whom I did not recognize. Worse yet, I had lost my syllabus and couldn’t look it up. I was forced to sit down and wait for an explanation. However, while I did , I decided to watch this guest go about his business. He did not speak initially, instead he pressed his lips together and smiled as each of my colleagues filed into their seats. He was friendly. In fact, beyond his mismatched attire and the reality that he was a few years older than the rest of us, he actually blended in amongst the group quite easily. This guy looked as if he was happy to be where he was at. Class finally began.

Dr. Mike Chasar, being the cordial host he is, introduced Big Poppa E and opened the floor to whatever structure our guest saw fit. Seizing the opportunity, Big Poppa E introduced himself and told a quick story to excuse the fact that he was wearing a peculiar combination of summer and sleep attire. He was funny, deliberate, and his oration was as impacting as it was calculated. However, it was what happened thereafter that provoked what would later grow into the realization I previously described. Big Poppa E paused and said: “I can show you guys what I do or you can just ask me questions and we can talk.”

Here he was, a perennial star in the Slam Poetry circuit, a four-time HBO Def Poetry selection, willing to not only answer our questions but interested in having a talk. Of course, we unanimously selected the former option and Big Poppa E delivered with “Tiger Lily”, a poem that frankly, made me a little uncomfortable. However, that uncomfortableness was what I enjoyed most in its performance. Big Poppa E had, in writing a poem about the return of a menstrual cycle, forced me into a place that I image was not unlike that of the speaker within the poem. The conversation had begun.

He read two other poems, one generally and the other as a dedication to one of our colleagues. The sum of the three gave the overwhelming impression that he was as sincere about his performance as he was about his diction or syntax. He adjusted invisible rear-view mirrors, and turned steering wheels that did not exist-- his every physical action was a visual extension of the words he spoke.

Yet, as I have said, the most impacting quality of the experience was that Big Poppa E seemed to be completely invested in the idea of conversation. It was as if his entire monologue would have been less meaningful to him had we responded simply with a round of applause. He seemed to want to hear from us. So having seen, visibly, the conversation I so loved alive in Big Poppa E, I had to ask: “where does this end”. He paused, smiled and responded: “I’m really not sure..."

I hope that someday, amidst the conversation, I can honestly say the same.

-Tyler Lang Mauseth

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

The Most Interesting Man in the World

Ben Hale, a current Fellow of the University of Iowa' Writer's Workshop, is the most interesting man in the world. He pisses excellence, such that I am afraid to even attempt a review of a recent reading of his. And in full disclosure on the part of the reviewer, Ben Hale recently wrote a letter of recommendation for me which, in part, got me accepted into the cinematography concentration of my choice. But more to the point I should give you some facts about the man:

Much like the Great Wall of China, Ben Hale's aura is visible from space.

Professional athletes no longer use performance-enhancing drugs. They just stand in Ben Hale's presence and after a couple of minutes they are stronger and more self-confident.

Ben Hale invented the taco salad. Then he reinvented it.

Dos Equis wanted to hire him for an ad campaign, but he was too busy actually being interesting somewhere.

Michael Jordan wants to be Ben Hale when he grows up.

And on February 26th of the two thousand and ninth year of Our Lord (surprisingly, not Ben Hale) this wunderkind, this cadillac of men, deigned to read a recent prose work of his named "The Fat Artist" at Public Space One in Iowa City, on the planet of Earth. When the people heard this news, they gathered in eager anticipation. How could they know what they were to hear? How could any of us know? Such mellifluous language, in the sublime movements of its text and at times raising to the dissonance of waves that break on Ilian shores, and when the tears of the people had dried they knew they had taken knowledge onto their souls, and were happy.

"The Fat Artist", a 70-page text about a man who endeavors to become the fattest person in the world, will begin appearing in journals yet to be named this summer.


Liam Neff
C.A. Conrad Reads the Color of Food

The night of Sunday, March 8th saw Philadelphian C.A. Conrad reading
at the University of Iowa's Shambaugh House before a small, rain-soaked audience. Conrad, a short and hefty fellow with long brown hair and who speaks with a soft lisp, introduced himself to those gathered by starting at his very beginnings: "My childhood included selling cut flowers along the highway for my mother and helping her shoplift. I escaped to Philadelphia the first chance I got and live and write there today with others in the PhillySound Poet gang." With the audience now sufficiently prepared for the eccentricities that would follow (and after listing all the important blogs to which he contributes), Conrad began to read a series of poems from his just-published chapbook, "Deviant Propulsion."

"I only eat one color of food a day." he assured the audience. "Some days I eat red, some days I eat the color yellow. This series of poems is about that." This listener may have heard incorrectly, but the poems were as such introduced as "Red" or "Magenta", and the poem's words sometimes evoked something directly culinary, such as "Red" including the line: "A scalpal makes Italian seasoning on the Chinese food." At other moments, this was less the case: food that is the color yellow was represented by a short poem that featured the phrase "Fading cow not far from our dragon-headed sperm stains." In the time that has elapsed since the reading that night I have in fact tried to imagine exactly what a dragon-headed sperm stain would be or look like, but I will admit I've come up short. Maybe if someone was to sperm directly into a dragon-head shaped stencil?

The two dozen or so seated, mainly undergraduates, appreciated moments like these best, and they were often, and Conrad affected a reading style that sometimes, raising from the pleasant softness of his speaking voice to a harsh glee, relished in the staccato delivery of some particularly absurd or fecal image. Iowa City's own Amish Trivedi, the organizer of the reading and the very friendly person that checks out DVD's for me at the University Library's Media Services, was invited on stage by Conrad mid-delivery of a food poem to read a recent piece of his own, whose title I have unfortunately forgotten, about oceans and his childhood.

When Conrad had finished reading from "Deviant Propulsion", he introduced a previous series of his entitled "(Soma)tic Midge," a book of exercises "based on a series of astral projections I recently underwent." It is my opinion that we should all be so fortunate as to undergo even one astral projection in our own life; having a series to speak about, to me, is damn near miraculous.

I think this is a good word on which to end a review of this reading... Miraculous.

Liam Neff

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Please God, Let us Be Good to Each Other

The 2nd Year MFA poetry reading on Thursday, April 30, though it happened at Public Space One, was a decidedly private affair. Each of the 20+ poets who read was preceded by an introduction that was often longer than the reading itself. Because the reading took the form of a sort of “goodbye” to the second year MFA poets who are graduating after this semester, the introductions were frequently sentimental and personal.

For two of the introductions, a woman acted crazy and used props to communicate. She spoke about the immense influence Ezra Pound had on the reader she was introducing while making a soup in a bowl consisting of a book by Pound, some foods, and some milk. She seemed to be, like many readers and attendees, a bit drunk. This was fun.

Another introduction included a woman impersonating the teenage self of the reader she was introducing. “He” read some of his “older poems,” which were overtly graphic, and which included coarse language and long, detailed descriptions of vaginal farts. This was funny. It turned out to be a kind of extreme exaggeration of the typical voice taken on by the introduced poet.

The combination of long introductions and sheer number of readers made for a three hour poetry marathon. Each poet read for about five minutes. There was an impressive range of styles. Many poets read pieces with high diction, making it a bit difficult to follow along and actually understand the poems. This is often a problem with poetry readings. An ethereal, airy tone accompanied about 60% of the poems read, so dramatically different readers like Jeff [last name] were a welcome change of pace.

Jeff read one poem that seemed to be a dialogue about, among other things, cookies, that was very funny. Another poet read a piece she had written about her experiences with her friends at David Bowie concerts when she was younger. Though these were lighthearted and less intense than many of the poems read, most were serious, almost urgent. In this vein, no one was better than Seth Abramson, the last reader of the first half of poets.

Seth’s introduction included the phrase, “But seriously, Seth is better than all of us,” which prompted a roar of laughter from the audience. Seth is a graduate of Dartmouth College, Harvard Law School, and soon will have his MFA in poetry from Iowa. He is a widely published and highly decorated poet. His final poem addressed the homeless and the meek, ending with an extremely moving, powerful line that went something like “Please god, let us be good to each other.”

Another poet shared a story as a preface to his poem entitled “Sword Swallowing.” He explained his first day being workshopped at Iowa. He had brought the poem in, which he explained was about marriage. He wrote it after his divorce. Another poet in the workshop, a woman from South America, asked, “Isn’t a sword, like, a phallic symbol?” This was funny.


In conclusion, it was funny. Everyone did a good job. A+. Candy.


By Tony Flesher

An Open Letter to Skanks

The reading on Wednesday, May 6, at The Sanctuary was put on by the teacher and students of the Undergraduate Poetry Workshop class, which was a class taught by Jane Gregory. Thirteen poets read, all of whom were, as you can guess by the title of the class, undergraduates at the University of Iowa.

The Sanctuary was a strange place for a reading. The reading was held in the side room of the bar. The poets sat at a table and read into a microphone. The audience was surprisingly very respectful, considering the setting was a bar after eight o’clock. This was probably because 90% of the attendees were friends of the poets.


Jane Gregory, the teacher of the class, introduced the poets and commented that her time teaching had been a humbling experience. She also pointed the audience to the stack of journals on the stage, which were a collection of poems by the readers.


One of the most memorable readers was Mitch Belfield, who was introduced as a man who “hates everyone.” His poem was concerned with the flatness of tables and how boring that is. His poems were different from most all of the rest in that they were much more straightforward. They were direct and had a consistent voice. It was a bit lacking in focus, but felt genuine.


Danny Mills read one particularly inspired poem that was concerned with how the speaker saw trees as a child versus how he sees them now. It was a special experience. The audience responded well to it.


The first poet read poems which were largely voice-driven. One of his poems consisted of an extended awkward response , which prompted laughter from the audience. All of his poems were short, which the audience seemed to appreciate. He was much more brief than the rest of the poets, leaving the audience wanting more. He was a very attractive man.


In general, it was hard to pay attention to most of the poets. The poems read would warrant at least two or three readings in print, so a lot was lost there. Many of the poems had a similar tone. Like much contemporary poetry, most of the poems were airy and felt mostly empty. They used difficult words and probably were structured interestingly. They said many things that felt important, but also said very little, which is strange.


Another poet was Josh Fomon, who read a couple pieces of surreal theatre. Josh read stage directions and both characters, which made it difficult to understand. He did, however, have a nice, sharp golden tie. He introduced Emileigh Barnes, who read poems that seemed to be influenced by her home state, Georgia. Josh spoke about this in his introduction.


The reading ended with a poem that was apparently a joint effort by the last two readers, Emileigh Barnes and Josh Fomon. Its title was “An Open Letter to Skanks.” It was a piece employing high diction to contrast with the skankiness of skanks. It was entertaining.


All in all, the reading was mostly boring.


By Tony Flesher

Friday, May 8, 2009

Blueberry-Pomegranate Juice Will Lure Me To Any Given Event

The Gerber Lounge in the EPB is bustling with chipper creative writing students when I walk in for the first annual reading by the Provost’s Postgraduate Writing Fellows. There is an abundance of cardigans and thick spectacles. It is four o’clock exactly and I take the last available seat; the turnout is fuller than I expected, perhaps due to the table of refreshments in the back of the room (blueberry-pomegranate juice, F yeah). The audience seems to consist mostly of the first semester writing-track students, which makes sense, because their teachers—Ben Hale, Kevin Holden, Andre Perry, and Diana Thow— are the evening’s readers.

Robyn Schiff, poet and founder of the undergraduate writing track, opens the reading by remarking upon its celebratory nature—it is, as I said, the first annual reading of the Writing Fellows at the conclusion of the writing track's first semester, which seems to have been a success. Schiff introduces each reader with a short bio of their history accomplishments and then some brief warm comments about their personalities.

Kevin Holden, the poet of the group, is the second reader. He, like many in the audience, is thickly bespectacled. His list of accomplishments is impressive—he’s a Harvard graduate with an MFA from Iowa, and his poems have been published in a series of well-known Reviews. He has published two chapbooks, Alpine and Identity. Upon taking the podium, he makes a joke about a combination letter press/cider press. Chuckles abound.

Holden’s first poem is a dream-narrative tribute to John Ashbery, published in the Colorado Review. Before reading, he announces that he wrote it before attending the Writer’s Workshop. The poem is typically lyric in structure, and is funny and wistful and bittersweet. At the end, Holden informs us that he actually sent the poem to Ashbery, who replied with something like “I’m always glad to make an appearance in your dreams.”

Holden’s second poem, “Geode,” was, he announces, written during his time in the Workshop. This poem is markedly more experimental; the enjambment is what my own poetry teacher would call “aggressive,” and I notice that Holden takes pains to pause slightly between lines so the enjambment is audible to the audience. The third poem continues in this same vein. It is an excerpt from a much longer poem (sixty pages!) called “Aspen.” It is written, so Holden tells us, in tercets, and this too is apparent from his reading. His style relies a lot on the interplay of sounds in his carefully selected words.

Because there are three other readers, Holden is cut a bit short. I felt that Ben Hale, the fiction writer who preceded Holden, was allowed more time to read. This makes sense, of course; prose typically takes longer to read aloud than poetry. But still, I would have liked to hear more from Holden; I felt that the short timeslot allotted for each reader pressured into finishing quickly and a bit breathlessly. Perhaps I can see Holden at a later date—I’m sure this was not the last reading he will give in Iowa City.

By Madeleine Wurm

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Hybrids Across America

            The poetry reading at Prairie Lights on April 27, 2009 brought in a huge crowd. The seats were packed, and the aisles were filled with people sitting wherever they could find space. The presentation was supposed to start at 7:00, but at 7:10 they came in to say that it would be postponed until 7:30, but the crowd – a mix of young hipster students to older poetry enthusiasts – never ceased to give off their excited vibes.

            There were three poets who read, Cole Swensen, James Galvin, and Mark Levine. Cole Swensen introduced the book by reading an introduction to the idea behind their anthology, American Hybrid. She spoke so clearly, and with such ease that I could not help but feel relaxed. After her introduction, she read a poem called “Insatiability,” which had a beautiful rhythm that kept the poem moving smoothly the entire time; there was no clear pattern or style that I could find, which was a consistent feature of all of the poems read. American Hybrid is a book of poems written in a mixture of stylistic patterns and forms, which gave the reading itself a lot of uniqueness. Swensen continued to awe us throughout the rest of her performance, whether she was reading a poem or wrapping up the night.

            James Galvin’s presentation of his selected poems was wonderful. He seemed so comfortable in front of the huge audience that I, personally, was amazed at the immediately intimate feeling in the room. One poem that he read was titled “Nature Averts Her Eyes,” and I really enjoyed listening to it, although I am not positive that I completely understood it. It sounded a lot like a stream of consciousness from the perspective of “the fool.” Another poem he read was written in the form of a list; each number on the list was different, and each was just as confusing as the next one. My favorite, number 2, was a repetitive mess of sentences, but each repeat had some part of a word taken out, until it was completely incomprehensible on the last cycle.

            Mark Levine presented his selections in such a way that he seemed to be relating to each person in the room individually. He appeared a bit nervous when he first got up to the microphone, but after some time he just seemed to be carefully considering his words before he said them. He introduced his first poem as an assignment that was completed after dropping acid; this unique introduction to a poem gave an interesting, and quite clear point of view to listen to the poem from. The rest of the poems he read were not his own, but they covered a large range of subjects and styles; from the personification of nature to a repetitive motion, the selections that he read were presented beautifully and, again with so much ease that it felt like he was talking only to me.

            Cole Swensen closed the reading just as she opened it. She read her own selection of poems from the anthology, and the way she presented these poems really emphasized her own, unique voice; she paused a little bit between words, letting the meaning of each word sink in before she rushed on to the next one. One poem that she read, “Yawn,” consisted of metaphors for a yawn, from a snake’s gigantic jaw to the ownership – or lack thereof – of a yawn.

            This poetry reading was more than the cliché gathering of hip writers in a book store. The comfort of the readers, as well as the listeners, made sure not to intimidate anyone out of enjoying the poetry of American Hybrid.

-Suzi O'Hare

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Poetry with a Side of Political Activism

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The poetry reading given by Mark Nowak on April 24, 2009 at Prairie Lights focused mainly on his new book Coal Mountain Elementary.  This book included poems and pictures of coal miners in West Virginia and China.  Many of the topics zoned in on the continuous problems, accidents, and danger the miners encounter on a daily basis.  The pictures in the book were presented via slideshow during the reading, creating visual interest in addition to the traditional audio pleasure of a reading.  His poems had an easy, talkativeness that made them simple to understand, but still poignant.   

 

I found the combination of these two mediums very moving, especially considering the subject matter.  As Nowak mentioned later in the Q&A section, no other profession excluding the active duty military has a deathwatch like mining does.  Every morning husbands kiss their wives goodbye for what may very well be the last time.  I found this fact very sobering.  Why is mining still necessary?  This was the question Nowak posed to all of us through his reading.  Though he was using the art of poetry, his main goal was to inform the public of the situation miners across the world today find themselves in. 

 

One of the most prominent subjects in his reading, and his book, was the Sago mine catastrophe.  I found myself mildly embarrassed to only have a fuzzy memory of this event.  Twelve miners, who had been reported alive, were actually dead as a result of an explosion in the mine.  One of Nowak’s poems describes this horrific event and what it must have felt like to be one of the family members of those twelve miners. 

 

However, this is only one event that happened three years ago.  Nowak stressed that this happens around the world, nearly on a daily basis.  Miners are still in great danger today, yet, little has changed in these past three years to prevent another disaster like Sago from happening again.  Nowak is working hard to change this fact.  His book discusses these problems; he is actively touring to promote his book, and reading selections from it in forums similar to Prairie Lights.  He also suggested that audience members become involved as well.  His webpage http://coalmountain.wordpress.com/ links to current events involving mining accidents, and he suggested going onto PBS to look up further information on the Sago mining disaster. 

By: Shannon Green

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Victorian Women's Lives ARE Worth Celebrating


On a somewhat rainy Saturday night, my parents decided to drive out from Chicago to visit me. Obviously, the time to impress was at hand. After taking them to dinner somewhere besides Chipotle, I decided that I would bring them to a poetry event my teacher had told us about—little did my parents know, I was required to go to another reading, as such events are not my typical Saturday shenanigans.

Celebrating Victorian Women’s Lives: An Evening of Music and Recitations began at 7, so naturally we showed up at 7:15. I was very surprised to discover that the Old Capitol Senate Chamber was almost packed, and we had to awkwardly walk in front of many people to find seats together. Just as we sat down, Judith Pascoe began her introduction, “Hearing Voices.” By 7:45, she was just finishing up, and I was greatly beginning to regret what had seemed like a brilliant plan. Pascoe seemed to be talking more to her students than the audience, about a topic few of us knew, and my thoughts trailed to the chandelier above and the growing cries of drunken college kids outside. I was not impressed, and quite fearsome for the next hour and a half or so. What had I done??

However, the night took a much-appreciated turn for the better. Five actors walked onto the stage, holding binders, and seated themselves on chairs. They took turns reciting poems, with piano interludes interspersed every so often. While the binders the presenters read off of were somewhat distracting (reminding me that they were indeed performing), the poems themselves proved to be much more daring than I had expected. Considering the time period they were coming from, the female author’s voice’s were much more powerful and opinionated that I ever would have expected. They did not shy away from bold topics and commanded the audience’s attention.

The night was compromised of many different sections of themed poetry, ranging from childhood, marriage, motherhood, age, and activism. They also varied from humorous to extremely tragic. The almost “melodrama” of the poems was obviously something the 21st century listeners were not expecting. For the first half of the night, giggles and laughs were often heard, even if the poems themselves were not humorous; instead, some of the actors were incredibly committed and (at times) a bit overdramatic. One woman even came close to tears while speaking about her relationship with her husband. Whether or not this was a good thing to bring to the performance, at times I felt completely out of my element and comfort zone.

My favorite poem, that moved me the most, was rehearsed by Connie Winston, who I considered by far to be the most impressive performer of the night (for those of you fans out there, she can also be occasionally seen on Law & Order). “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point” by Elizabeth Barrett is an extremely heartrending poem about a slave who is raped by her master, becomes pregnant, and eventually commits infanticide on her own mixed child. At one point, Winston held up her arms, talking about the marks on her wrists from chains, and I honestly looked to see the scars. She was completely devoted, but never over the top, and did an amazing, moving rendition of the poem.

Overall, the night left me pleasantly surprised, due to the range of poems, themes, actors and style of presentations. I managed to sit through almost 2 hours of poetry and only checked my phone a few times. And, of course, my parents are still pleased to this day that I do such intelligent, educational activities with my weekend nights. All in all, it was an enjoyable and insightful evening.

-Lucy Williams

Harp Saves the Night


Chris Vinsonhaler begins the night explaining the need for Beowulf to be told through a story versus being read. She tells how this enhances the epic. Vinsonhaler starts off her presentation with obvious humor of telling her past experience with Beowulf and her hatred for it, much like many of the audience members. This allowed for Vinsonhaler to immediately connect with the room full of the Spring 2009 Introduction to the English Major students. The small auditorium of the Becker Communications building smelt of damp cloth from the rain that persisted outside as we all gathered to watch Vinsonhaler, in her black robe, perform Beowulf.

The two hour performance was divided into three sections. The first was Vinsonhaler acclimating the audience to the vocabulary of Beowulf, the second was the first part of Beowulf, and the third was through about half of the second part of the epic. To set up the background of the story, Vinsonhaler had the audience read ‘The Lord’s Prayer’ to “taste Gaelic upon [our] tongues.” She then translated the Old English into a language that we could understand. This allowed the audience to get a grasp of what was to come.

After a ten minute intermission before Vinsonhaler began to perform the epic of Beowulf she sang a song accompanied by her harp that seemed to be of her own composition. Vinsonhaler’s harp player a major role in her performance of Beowulf, she used it to sing, she used it during prose, and she used it to create dramatic effect during the battle scenes. In fact the performance was postponed from the Sunday, March 29th to Sunday, April 5th because Vinsonhaler had misplaced her harp tuner.

By the end of the end of the two hours the epic started to make a little more sense to everyone viewing. Even though she was unable to present the ending of Beowulf, due to time restrictions, Vinsonhaler still allowed for the audience to experience most of the poem and get a feel for the language employed throughout it. The dark sky was cool and moist as it quickly swallowed the bodies that occupied the seats of the auditorium…and we all could still hear the harp’s echo into the night.

-Annemarie Chambliss

When We All Felt Like the Kid with Red Dreadlocks


It was over a month ago that I walked into the MacBride auditorium to see slam poet Big Poppa E perform at [J]Amnesty. His words are still resonating. I remember his ode to “every gay kid who was ever beaten up for being gay…and every straight kid who was ever beaten up for being gay.” I remember “Tiger Lily,” how a girl names her period after recovering from an eating disorder, once her body has healed “enough to bleed again.” The next day, speaking to a poetry class, he revealed, “I almost never read that poem out loud.”

Mostly I remember the way this renowned poet, three-time HBO Def Poet, Austin Slam Poetry Team member, and National Slam Poetry Champion came to Amnesty International’s event and made it theirs instead of his.

It must be easy to get a big head as a respected poet, but Big Poppa E came off down-to-earth and genuinely interested and impressed with Amnesty International’s work for human rights issues. He stepped aside for members of the Feminist Majority to speak about a protest, continued to call attention to the human rights booths at the back of the auditorium, and insisted that we as the audience get off our butts and do something to change the world. It was hard not to listen to him. He adjusted his readings around the schedule of the other performers: Capes of Lead, Olivia Rose, Jarrett Hugg, and Muffin Top. Instead of performing for a straight hour and then allowing a certain poetry reviewer to duck out early, he showcased the other acts by truly acting as an emcee who happened to be performing amazing poetry, instead of a visiting poet who required his own allotted time slot.

He told the Daily Iowan, “I love [Amnesty International’s] goals and energy. I love how [the members] get young people...to do something with their world. I love how they give them the tools to do that and show them that all it takes is one person to really affect someone’s life.” Throughout the evening, he embodied that spirit with his personable performance and also with his poetry.

“Propers,” a favorite, was a structured shout-out to the kids who feel alone. At other events, he often introduces this poem with an anecdote of reading in a tiny town and being approached by “the one kid with red dreadlocks.” “Propers” is a response to that loneliness that we have all felt, the idea of a poet to reaching out, saying “I understand—I used to be you” just might be enough to, as he is quoted saying, “really affect someone’s life.”


And it seems like he meant it - he reached out to individual members of the audience, giving them nicknames for the colors of their hair or their shirts (I was "Green") and interrupting his poems to interact directly with the audience. As he showed off the guns of poetry with the line, "I don't pump iron, I pump irony," and I laughed, he stopped, pointed, and said, "Oh, shut up. You knew it was coming." (So I shut up.) But Big Poppa E's personal interaction made audience members feel as though he was speaking directly to them - that we were all the kid with the red dreadlocks.



Reviewer: Nora Heaton

Saturday, May 2, 2009

"It's just art, just a change from hotel room wallpaper."


A few minutes after I sat down in the Frank Conroy Reading Room at the Dey House on Wednesday, April 29th, a woman who I did not know began to introduce the reader for the evening, Mark McMorris. Even the introduction was poetic, and the woman spoke in a very sing-song way. She told us that McMorris was born in Jamaica and is the author of three books of poetry. He is also a sound and performance poet and has written multiple fiction works. She said, “His work brings us a world…” She explained that McMorris’s poetry creates connections between different places and cultures, while also having a political edge.

Mark McMorris is a statuesque Jamaican man with graying hair and a round, friendly face. He looks academic and has the air of an experienced poet. He started by reading from a manuscript that he began writing in 2003, called “traces of current affairs.” He read many different poems that started with “Dear Michael;” Michael is the name of one of the archangels. The “Dear Michael” letters sounded very intellectual, but I have to admit that the concept of them went over my head. I did not really understand them, and I found myself listening to his voice rather than the words themselves. He has a very low, soothing voice. I feel that the reading would have been more effective if I had had the poetry in front of me; much of the reading went far too fast. He also jumped to other poems, and then went back to more “Dear Michael” poems. I feel that I would have been able to understand better how all of the poems fit together if I had been able to see them on paper.

Other parts of the reading made me wish that here was some sort of program as well… One of McMorris’s poems started with the words “Dear K.” I liked the poem, it was short and the whole thing sounded like one run-on sentence. However, I realized that I had no idea if the name of the person who was being addressed was “Kay,” or if he was shortening the name to “K.” The poem could have had distinctly different feels with each of these two options. Also, at the beginning of the reading when McMorris was being introduced, I heard the guy sitting behind me confirm with his friend that the poet’s name was “Martin Morris.” It was unfortunate that McMorris’s name was not written anywhere.

Despite the fact that there were parts of the reading that went over my head, I very much liked some of the specific stylistic choices that McMorris made as a poet. During some of his poems, McMorris’s Jamaican roots really shined through. Some parts started to sound like songs or chants, and his accent seemed to be more apparent when he was reading than when he was just talking normally. I very much liked this line: “No, no, no, no… NO a thousand nos!” As he read this part, McMorris’s voice got louder with every “no.” It was intense and added dimension to the poem. Many of McMorris’s poems did not rhyme, but I loved his use of things like alliteration and onomatopoeia. He also mirrored sentences after one another and repeated words throughout certain poems. One of my favorite lines was the following: “If myth is material practice, if I burn my arrows today, when will I begin to write?”

By Rachel McNamee

Friday, May 1, 2009

Poetry through the smoke

As the sun set on the Ped Mall on the 1st of May a small group of people gathered in the Tobacco Bowl to take part in a poetry slam being hosted by the Concrete Muse Poet Society. The event, which was scheduled to kick off at 7 P.M., kicked off a few minutes early as the host of the event started by grabbing the mic of the small PA plugged in at the front of the shop and began the slam. Her poems incorporated strong visual images with repetition to deliver her lines of "Cat pee on the floor, cat pee on the floor." The crown was fluctuating in and out the doors as the performances continued, some for the poetry, most for business. The second performer grabbed the mic and began to slam on more conventional themes found at a slam. He read on injustice, corporatism, capitalism, and the evils of a media controlled populous. He delivered his message with much gusto and was quite convincing in his tone. The third performer was a well recognized face in the Iowa City, most would know her as the lady that walks the downtown selling hemp bracelets and homemade crafts. She pulled out her loaded notebook and began flipping through her selections. Her poems were quick and numerous, a short applause crackled after each selection. The fourth performer took a different approach to the event. Being pulled off the street to and coaxed into reading, he read a longer selection from Edgar Allen Poe. He read at an accelerated pace which offered a different perspective on the classic “The Raven.” The readings continued to cycle through the select few poets in attendance. As new performers continued to show up they were added to the list. Local promoter Tyrell Spitt made an appearance after his hip-hop show in the Ped Mall and revitalized the crowd. The place erupted with applause after he began spitting his slams. This was the pinnacle of the event. People began coming in from outside to listen to his methodically lyrical verse. Tyrell won the only prize of the night, a journal for scribing resistance art. As the sun began to wane, bodies started filling up the previously empty chairs. The performers represented a wide demographic of backgrounds and ages.


The host of the performance announced that this would be a weekly event on Friday from 7-9PM at the Tobacco Bowl. The event was not technically structured like an actual poetry slam, it was more of an open mic reading. The audience was responsive after each poet read, sometimes only for the sake of being courteous however, and poets were not eliminated. This was probably due to the lack of participants, but considering this was the first event of its kind hopefully the word will spread and more people will be open to participation. As the evening wound to a close the crowd began to disperse back into the twilight of the bustling streets, people left in high spirits.

By: Spencer Poulos