Victoria – Poetry is my church, and tonight I’m praying with my congregation.[rssbreak]
I’m in an 800-seat converted 1894 church in Victoria, BC, filled close to capacity with hungry locals clamouring to hear spoken word performed by poets from across Canada.
It’s finals night at the annual Canadian Festival of Spoken Word, and there’s no one god to worship in Alix Goolden Hall, but many divine souls let us peek into whatever madness swirls beneath their rib cage.
The little-known CFSW event is in its sixth year. This roving grassroots festival showcases the many voices in the spoken word scene, staging nightly preliminary poetry slams (aka competitions) that culminate in a showstopper of a final night, the biggest spoken word blowout of the year.
Tonight, I’m praying to the preachers hailing from Vancouver, Ottawa, Montreal and a “wild card” team made up of two Toronto poets and two Vancouverites. The Toronto Poetry Slam Team (which I pseudo-?manage) didn’t make the finals, but they were given the honour of performing a well-received team piece about bisexuality.
Tonight is not just about the oral tradition of performance poetry. Nor is it just about the fevered crowd applauding, laughing and eventually booing scores they don’t like. (Judges rate each poem from zero to 10 with scorecards).
This night is about hanging out together, touching each other’s vibes and feeling at one with other souls who spend solitary hours hammering out words and metaphors because we don’t know any other way to release the demons.
Halifax poets high-five Calgary artists, Saskatoon writers sling an arm around a London, Ontario, newbie. For as long as the CFSW has been staged, the fest has had open arms. Poets might get fierce and aggressive onstage, but once they jump out of that spotlight, they embrace every new friend they come across.
Some think of slam as a stylized gong show since poets get knocked out of the competition and their art ranked by numbers. But veteran poets develop a thick skin and see the whole affair mainly as a chance to be in the presence of fellow word-slingers.
What is it about this community that breeds the warm fuzzies? It’s something I’ve noticed while running Toronto Poetry Slam at the Drake every month. I believe it’s the art form itself inspiring practitioners to go beyond the stage to make connections. There’s something about being naked in front a microphone – no band, no beats, no props – that invites affinity.
A performance poet bares her soul about a tragedy, a revelation, an original take on the human experience. It’s fearless and frightening at once. Call it a powerful cocktail few people can drink. At poetry slams or spoken word happenings, I’ve seen how this honesty forges a bond between audience and poet, 160 people suddenly befriending a performer they’ve never met before.
So tonight, I’m watching Ottawa poets in a duet piece about the arms race in Africa, and they’re packaging the poem in such an entertaining and sincere manner, it’s hard not to want to hug the guys after they’re done. In fact, most do, because Ottawa ends up winning the CFSW (fitting, perhaps, since they are hosting the 2010 festival in October).
But as the night wraps up and the poets filter into the soggy Victoria night, I’m watching other duets take place – a dreadlocked fan congratulates a Montreal poet and two long-?distance friends from Toronto and Vancouver share a cigarette.
Unlike larger scenes such as indie music and theatre, spoken word is the little guy trying to talk over the big players. We know we’re underground and barely noticed, but when we’re heard, watch out.
Maybe it’s just me and how I try to find poetry in these moments, but I’m starting to form stanzas in my head as I scan the throng.
It’ll be a poem about finally finding a home after searching for years. There will be little metaphor instead I’ll let you know exactly how this congregation of like-minded artists gives me reason to devote my life to performance poetry.
Unable to hold back my rising joy, I’ll be smiling the whole time. After all, it will be a small prayer to whatever god instills these glorious humans with a talent few people share. I might end it with a breathless panorama view of all these poets bumping fists under the Victoria night.
And I’d likely exit stage-left with a quiet but precious “Amen.”
news@nowtoronto.com
