I went to a slam poetry session last night on Gent’s Burgstraat.  Thirteen poets were vying for the five spots available for the next level of the competition.  The picture is from the Internet.

I didn’t know what “slam” meant.  What came to mind was watching WWE wrestling on TV in Canada.  One guy would  pick up his opponent and slam him down to the mat.  I was pretty sure that wouldn’t be happening last night.

What I eventually got is that the power of the poet and the poem “slams” into the audience.  Impact.  And that’s what happened.

The first thing to say is that I didn’t understand any of the poems.  I knew certain words in Dutch but I couldn’t follow the lines of poetry.  But I did get what unfolded before my eyes.

I watched the eyes onstage.  Some were full of wonder, some fierce, some soft.

Hands often painted pictures of the poem, sometimes tenderly.

There were pauses in the narrative, ones that let we the audience drink in the majesty of the moment.

Some poets varied the speed and volume of their offering, to great effect.

Some cast their eyes widely, since the room had a far left side, a far right side, and a centre.  These ones reached us.

Most of them clearly loved their creations … and yearned for us to love them too.

My favourite moment was when a woman stopped during her recitation, and put a hand to her heart.  And then again.  I didn’t know whether it was part of her performance or whether she’d forgotten the words.  Each time she began again and flowed to the end.  At intermission she told me she had indeed forgotten and improvised for the rest.  Brilliant!  Courageous.  Full of life.

About five of the thirteen read their poems from a notebook or phone.  That took their eyes away from us … and they didn’t touch me as deeply.

We audience members got to vote for the poets who moved us the most.  Our votes determined who would go on to the next level.  Each poet came back to the stage for their voting.  Some closed their eyes, some turned their backs to us, and some faced the many or few raised hands.

I loved the celebration of verse

I loved the courage of the poets

I loved