Craft vs. Passion (More NPS Thoughts)
Lynne and I used to argue all the time about craft vs. passion when it came to acknowledging the potential of a new writer, she preferring the former while I preferred the latter. The ideal, obviously, is to have both, but with newer writers especially, you usually get more of one or the other. Ironically, Lynne and I became close early on despite my having a hell of a lot more passion than craft, so she’s not really quite as hardline about the debate as she seems. 😛
This year’s National Poetry Slam got me thinking again about the differences between craft and passion, as well as metaphor and realism, and how one’s preferences largely dictate which poems they might like or not like, no matter how objectively “good” or “bad” they might be. I got into a long discussion yesterday with someone (not Lynne) about one poem in particular, the “Wizard of Oz” piece from one of the Charlotte slammers — anyone know his name? — Charlotte’s Carlos Robson that seems to have generated the most disdain in some quarters, at least partly because it was the poem that effectively nailed the Finals for them, even though Queen Sheba did what she could in the final round to keep louderARTS and Killeen in striking distance with a typically trite piece that I tuned out within the first 30 seconds.
(Yeah, I’m hating, but not because they won.)
The “Wizard of Oz” piece was about his uncle, a Vietnam vet who returned with a case of PTSD that manifested itself via references to the Wizard of Oz (in the poem, at least; I’m not sure it wasn’t a bit of fiction in the first person, which, in retrospect, wouldn’t change my opinion as much as it might have in the past), and wrapped up with a call to “bring our troops home”. It was an emotionally manipulative piece of anti-war propaganda that felt a bit more sincere than usual and probably affected me more as a result of several coincidental circumstances than its own merits, not the least of which being that two of our entourage were first-timers at NPS, one currently serving and recently returned from a tour in Iraq, the other my ex-girlfriend from my own Army days (ETA: who a few years later married a soldier and knows the ups and down of military life). As a former enlistee, I have my own conflicted feelings about the military and recruiting policies and the War in Iraq(TM), but I’m not the least bit conflicted about thinking every single one of our soldiers who has died over there did so under false pretenses and that Bush, Cheney, et al, should be impeached and tried for manslaughter, at the least.
So, yeah, mission accomplished: the piece choked me up and I understood the high score it got, even as I realized that at that moment it meant louderARTS would once again lose to an undeniably inferior team.
Was it an example of a perfectly crafted poem with the same emotional resonance of Rachel’s “Mother’s Day” poem? Hell no, and of course not! Not many are, and like I said the other day, that’s okay because that’s not really what slam is about. Rachel is an exception to the rule of slam. But credit where due, the guy from Charlotte Carlos moved the crowd with his piece and he did so without the usual shucking and jiving most veteran slammers have come to expect from — and sadly, many of them still bring to — Nationals. (“Paging 90% of group pieces. Please report to the Xerox machine!”) He did his thing with passion and I will take a passionate poet over a crafty one every day of the week because you can teach craft.
And therein lies the reason why I no longer get upset about the long-time slammers who compete year after year. The good ones, I mean; the ones I’ve always thought should have moved on to bigger and better by now. Because, really, there isn’t a “bigger and better” for most of them. Generally speaking, publishing a book isn’t a bigger deal than making the NPS Finals, not anymore at least, because on that night alone you’re reaching more people than will ever pick up the average book of poetry. Being on that stage not only puts you in a better position to publish a book, if that’s your thing, it ensures a built-in NATIONAL audience will know who the hell you are when it is published, to little or no acclaim, marketing support or sales.
It is for that reason that I’ve come to appreciate the Rogers and Rachels and several others — even the Taylors, though his hyper-competitive ass is now retired — going back year after year, because it ensures there’s some quality writing and seasoned performing (please, please, please slammasters, teach your poets to stop screaming into the f**king mic!) presented to the audience in the midst of, let’s be honest, a whole lot of amateurish second drafts that any decent editor (or slammaster or coach) would rip apart and help put back together. If every slammaster/coach put half the effort into encouraging their teams’ writing skills as they do their performances, Nationals would improve by leaps and bounds.
Ever since 1999, when we (a little bit louder, aka louderARTS, aka Bar 13) made the Finals in our first year and lost on a time penalty, we’ve always been recognized for the focus we put on the writing and we’ve always been strong competitors despite strategic decisions that always put our respect for the audience and the moment above potential scores that might result in us officially being declared the winner on a Saturday night in August. (I say officially because I’ll be damned if anyone says we didn’t win every year we made the Finals, no matter what the scores said. The victory comes from seizing the opportunity, not the final score.) The number of people who tell us how much they respect that, year after year, is both flattering and annoying, the latter because all these years later, there’s still so much fluff out there. So many ridiculous group pieces that don’t say anything; that don’t aspire to anything more than being fleeting entertainment. So many individual poets who sell themselves short, opting for easy street, saving their real poems for after-hours cyphers and, maybe, slipping one or two into a feature set. Slammasters who get caught up in the competition and forget how unimportant it ultimately is.
And now I’m rambling and what was supposed to be a quick post about the Wizard of Oz poem has become something else entirely that I’m not even sure how to conclude. Fucking poetry slam! I thought I’d quit you!
On a loosely related note, regarding metaphor and realism, there were more than a few highly acclaimed poems at Nationals that were so unnecessarily overwritten, with metaphor on top of metaphor on top of metaphor on top of metaphor, that their appeal was somewhat muted for me. While I can appreciate the craft and passion behind them, they were so amorphous, often lacking any grounding in reality beyond their title or preface, that they never fully took life in my heart or brain. (I’m a Leo, so courage isn’t an issue!) You don’t need catchy hooklines or pop culture references to make a poem work, but you do need a resting place or two for the brain to fully process what you’re communicating; an occasional pause that allows the heart to skip a beat. It’s another case of the need for an actual editor as opposed to just another cheerleader.
And…I’m spent. If you read this far, you’re a better person than I am! But thanks. Please feel free to share your thoughts here or over on LiveJournal.
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