Category: Poem Of The Day

Arizona Poem of the Day from AZPoetry.com

Alas Poor Yorick poem by The Klute featuring hyperrealistic jester at ren fair | AZpoetry.com

‘Alas Poor Yorick’ by The Klute

October 4, 2025

Alas, Poor Yorick

I regard the sad little man
As I stand in line at Ye Olde Churro Hut
With equal measures of pity and hatred
He wears a tri-cornered, tri-colored hat that is by design
Three sizes too large for his head
Upon each corner rests a single bell that jingles
With each act of prehistoric vaudeville that he performs
Mistaking the expression on my face as an invitation
He’s coming my way
Little does he know, I hate jesters
I hate them with the white-hot intensity of an Inquisitor’s branding iron
Jesters provoke within me a desire to transcend the Renaissance
And go back to the Stone Age
Where it would be perfectly acceptable to take a large rock
And smash his proto-mime skull in
But this is the modern era
While I’m certain that no jury in America
Would convict me for killing a jester
I stay my hand
Because this is not his fault
He doesn’t want to be a jester
No one does.
No one wants to don a pair of tights,
Paint their faces in the tradition of Emmett Kelly
And prance about like a magnificent poof
If God had granted him the stature he would have chosen to be a knight
Or at least a page
Had he been born with rakish good looks and a way with the ladies,
He could have been a rogue
And if he had been in possession of musical talent
He could have been a minstrel
(although I hate minstrels too)
But his thin, short, and sexless reality
Has collided with the Dungeons and Dragons fantasies of his youth
And the result continues his happy ambling gait
Towards my place in line at Ye Olde Churro Hut
I desperately scan the crowd for a broadsword
To cleave this clown in twain
But finding none,
I steel myself for the upcoming barrage of stale quips, bad puns, and friendly jibes
“Prithee my lord, wouldst thou like to hear the tale of Punch and Judy?”
I grab him by his massive lapels and pull him to my face

No.
No I wouldn’t.

There’s a reason why Punch and Judy didn’t make it out of the Middle Ages alive.
People are fonder of the Black Death than they are of Punch and Judy.
Now I know this isn’t your fault.
All I want is some fried dough
And I’ll leave.

The awkward silence is broken by the shout of “Huzzah! Another twenty pounds for the King!”
I release him and he scurries off to the friendly couple from Sun City
That seem quite willing to put up with his capering.
I collect my Churro and sit under a shade tree
Of all the things arcane that this Renaissance Fair had to conjure up

Alas poor Yorick.
I knew him Horatio.

About the poem “Alas Poor Yorick” by The Klute

Alas Poor Yorick was written by The Klute in 2002, originally intended for a chapbook entitled “Damn the Torpedoes”. The Klute was a popular Arizona slam poet for nearly 25 years, and this poem captures his satirical voice. Also known as Bernard Schober, The Klute often used humor to introduce new ideas into the Arizona culture. At the time, this poem was performed for mostly conservative audiences that dominated Arizona from the 1950s until the state began to flip politically in 2020.

Summary of “Alas, Poor Yorick” by The Klute

In “Alas, Poor Yorick,” The Klute offers a darkly comic and sharply observational monologue set in the most mundane of absurd modern arenas: a Renaissance Fair churro stand. The speaker, waiting in line at “Ye Olde Churro Hut,” encounters a jester — a small, pitiful man dressed in an oversized tri-cornered hat with jingling bells. The sight ignites within the narrator an almost comically violent hatred, one rooted less in the man himself and more in what he represents: forced mirth, historical reenactment gone wrong, and the discomfort of artificial joy.

As the speaker imagines crushing the “proto-mime skull” of this self-styled fool, he acknowledges the absurdity of his own reaction — “this is not his fault,” he admits — and begins to psychoanalyze the jester’s predicament. No one, he claims, wants to be a jester. Instead, life and circumstance have whittled the man into this tragicomic role, doomed to caper for others’ amusement while suppressing his dignity.

The narrative crescendos when the jester approaches, performing with “stale quips, bad puns, and friendly jibes.” The speaker’s fantasy and frustration boil over in a moment of confrontation. He grabs the man’s lapels and delivers a scathing retort: a demand for silence and a rejection of the hollow spectacle around him. The poem closes with the speaker’s self-aware echo of Hamlet’s most famous line — “Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio.” — transforming Shakespeare’s meditation on mortality into a contemporary satire on performance, identity, and modern disillusionment.

Analysis: The Jester, the Poet, and the Human Condition

Beneath its humor, “Alas, Poor Yorick” is a deeply layered piece about frustration with artifice and longing for authenticity. The Klute’s speaker projects his existential exhaustion onto the jester — a figure both ridiculous and tragic — who serves as a mirror of humanity’s own clownish struggle to find purpose. The setting at a Renaissance Fair, a space of contrived nostalgia, underscores the tension between the past we romanticize and the hollow performance of that nostalgia in the present.

The poem’s voice blends satire and confession, a hallmark of The Klute’s performance style. His hyperbolic hatred (“the white-hot intensity of an Inquisitor’s branding iron”) collapses into reluctant empathy. The jester becomes an avatar of lost dreams and failed self-transformation — the “thin, short, and sexless reality” colliding with the “Dungeons & Dragons fantasies of his youth.” Through humor and mock aggression, the speaker grapples with his own place in a society addicted to spectacle and performance, where even rebellion feels choreographed.

Language, Rhythm, and Tone

The poem reads like a rant-turned-revelation, fusing the theatricality of Shakespearean soliloquy with the comic rhythm of spoken word poetry. The Klute’s diction moves effortlessly between the archaic (“Prithee my lord”) and the contemporary (“I desperately scan the crowd for a broadsword”), creating a tension that mirrors the absurd coexistence of medieval pageantry and modern consumer culture.

The mock-heroic tone — elevating a churro-stand encounter into an epic battle — allows The Klute to explore the futility of righteous anger in an age of trivial distractions. Even the speaker’s imagined violence serves no purpose beyond catharsis; his rebellion ends, fittingly, in snack-time apathy beneath a “shade tree.” The final line’s allusion to Hamlet reframes this moment of quiet surrender as both humorous and mournful: in trying to reject artifice, the speaker realizes he is part of it.

Themes: Performance, Identity, and Disillusionment

Performance as Survival: The jester, forced to entertain, becomes a metaphor for anyone trapped in performative social roles — whether artist, worker, or consumer.
Hatred as Projection: The speaker’s loathing reveals more about his own disillusionment than the jester’s flaws. His anger masks the fear that he too might be a performer without meaning.
The Death of Authenticity: By referencing Hamlet’s Yorick — a literal skull of a dead fool — The Klute implies that sincerity itself is dead, buried beneath layers of irony and spectacle.

This duality of humor and despair runs throughout The Klute’s work, reflecting his gothic-punk aesthetic and his philosophical fascination with mortality, absurdity, and social commentary.

The Klute’s Arizona Legacy and Performance Style

As a leading voice in Arizona’s spoken word and performance poetry scene, The Klute (Bernard Schober) has become known for fusing theatrical flair with biting satire. His performances at venues like Lawn Gnome Publishing, Caffeine Corridor, and events like The Poe Show channel the dark wit of Edgar Allan Poe through a distinctly modern, sardonic lens.

In “Alas, Poor Yorick,” his humor masks a critique of both cultural escapism and personal alienation — themes that resonate deeply with audiences across Arizona’s desert stages, where performance poetry thrives as both art and social commentary.

Learn More About The Klute

To explore more of The Klute’s work, performances, and influence on Arizona’s modern poetry scene, visit his full poet bio on AZPoetry.com.

Discover how his gothic wit, philosophical edge, and dark humor continue to shape the voice of Arizona poetry.

Haiku from Seventeen Syllables by Hisaye Yamamoto

August 20, 2025

“Haiku from Seventeen Syllables” by Hisaye Yamamoto

it was so much easier to say yes, yes, even when one meant no.

About the author Hisaye Yamamoto

Haiku, Silence, and Struggle in Seventeen Syllables

In Hisaye Yamamoto’s short story Seventeen Syllables, a deceptively simple English-language haiku emerges as a subtle but powerful symbol of emotional restraint, generational divide, and the burden of cultural expectations. The phrase, “It is so much easier to say yes, yes, even if one meant no,” carries deep thematic weight as it encapsulates the central conflict between a Nisei daughter, Rosie, and her Issei mother, Tome, who finds expression and fleeting joy through composing Japanese haiku. The line may appear offhand at first, but under close examination, it becomes a poignant reflection of silent resistance, suppressed identity, and a quiet plea for understanding.

Yamamoto’s Arizona Connection: Writing Through Internment

Before we explore this line further, it’s important to understand the author behind it. Hisaye Yamamoto, a pioneering Japanese-American writer, was imprisoned at the Poston War Relocation Center in Arizona during World War II. Like many others of Japanese descent, Yamamoto and her family were forcibly removed from their home and detained for years behind barbed wire in the Arizona desert. While interned, she wrote for the Poston Chronicle, the camp newspaper, and began cultivating the voice that would later distinguish her fiction.

Yamamoto’s stories, particularly Seventeen Syllables, are deeply informed by this trauma of incarceration, but they also explore the quieter, more intimate struggles within Japanese-American families—especially between mothers and daughters navigating language, identity, and survival in a divided America.

Summary: A Mother’s Voice, A Daughter’s Silence

The story Seventeen Syllables centers on the relationship between Tome, an Issei mother who writes haiku, and Rosie, her teenage Nisei daughter who is more concerned with her budding romantic interest in a boy named Jesus Carrasco. As the mother becomes increasingly consumed with her poetry, winning recognition in a local Japanese-language paper, her American-born daughter remains emotionally and linguistically distant, unable to comprehend her mother’s devotion or sorrow.

Throughout the story, Tome reads her poems aloud to Rosie, seeking connection and affirmation. Rosie, however, can only offer polite nods and automatic approval. She finds it easier to say “yes, yes” rather than confront her confusion or disinterest—hiding her emotional detachment with passive affirmation. The story culminates in a powerful, emotional outburst in which Tome reveals her traumatic history and pleads with Rosie to promise she will never marry. Rosie, once again, quietly complies.

Analysis: Haiku as a Symbol of Disconnection and Survival

The casual haiku—“It is so much easier to say yes, yes, even if one meant no”—functions on multiple levels. On the surface, it reflects Rosie’s immediate emotional coping mechanism: to avoid tension, she offers approval she doesn’t feel. But more deeply, the line encapsulates the silent endurance of women—especially immigrant women like Tome—who suffer emotional pain without protest, navigating cultural and familial expectations with quiet acquiescence.

Haiku, a Japanese poetic form built on brevity (the length is confined to seventeen syllables) and layered imagery, becomes a central symbol in the story. Tome’s haiku practice represents her attempt to reclaim identity, artistry, and emotional agency in a life dominated by domestic labor and an emotionally abusive husband. Yet, her daughter’s inability to fully engage with the meaning of haiku, or the Japanese language itself, mirrors the growing gap between generations—between cultural roots and American assimilation.

Rosie’s “yes, yes” is not just about politeness. It is about powerlessness, about the learned behavior of suppressing dissent for the sake of harmony. It’s a mantra of compliance passed down to daughters, a gesture of love wrapped in silence. The haiku’s meaning reaches beyond the mother-daughter dynamic to touch on a broader experience of marginalized women, who often find themselves silenced not just by language, but by society.

The Lingering Legacy of Internment and Inheritance

Yamamoto’s life and work embody the complicated layers of trauma, identity, and survival for Japanese Americans during and after World War II. Her time at the Poston internment camp in Arizona was not only a formative personal experience but also a defining influence on her literary career. The quiet, restrained beauty of her stories—much like haiku itself—hides deep reservoirs of pain, longing, and resistance.

Discover More About Hisaye Yamamoto

To learn more about Hisaye Yamamoto’s life, her literary achievements, and her connection to Arizona through her internment at the Poston camp, visit her AZPoetry.com poet bio page.

Explore how this remarkable writer gave voice to generations of women, immigrants, and the quietly resilient.

Green & Red by Ashley Naftule

July 30, 2025

“Green & Red” by Ashley Naftule

When I was six,
my favorite part about eating watermelon
was harvesting the black seeds.

My parents would cut off the green skin
so I could slip my tongue into ruby flesh
and pluck out the seeds.

I’d store them in my cheeks,
piling up one black teardrop after another
until I had enough ammunition stocked up
to machinegun my sister’s friends.

My parents would always tell me
to stop shooting them.
I said I wasn’t:
I was trying to kiss them with
my seeds.

I tripped over a curb
the day before my seventh birthday.
On the ground, my head near the concrete,
I cried as my knee oozed watermelon red.

I stuck my fingers through the cracked shell,
feeling for the seeds in my legs.
Imagine my horror when I found nothing there.

About the poetry Ashley Naftule

“Green & Red” was originally published on FormerCactus on September 2018.

“Green & Red” by Ashley Naftule: Poem Summary & Analysis

Ashley Naftule’s poem “Green & Red” is a tender, surreal reflection on childhood innocence, memory, and the body’s transformation over time. What begins as a nostalgic recollection of summer watermelon rituals gradually evolves into an introspective meditation on loss, physical pain, and the imagination of a child confronting a world that doesn’t always align with fantasy.

Summary of “Green & Red”

The poem opens in a summer memory: a six-year-old’s delight in eating watermelon not for the fruit itself, but for the small, black seeds embedded in its flesh. The child meticulously gathers the seeds in their cheeks, transforming them into playful “ammunition” for spitting at their sister’s friends—an act described with both mischief and innocence. When their parents scold them, the child insists they’re not being aggressive, but affectionate: they are “trying to kiss them with my seeds.”

The mood shifts abruptly as the speaker recalls falling the day before their seventh birthday. With their head against the concrete and knee bloodied, the child’s imagination seeks comfort in metaphor: the red of the injury mirrors watermelon flesh. In a quietly devastating moment, they reach into the wound expecting to find seeds—symbols of playfulness and continuity—but instead, they find “nothing there.”

Analysis: The Imagination of Injury and the Loss of Innocence

A Child’s Imaginative World

The poem brilliantly captures the tactile and sensory experience of being a child. Naftule uses vivid imagery: “slip my tongue into ruby flesh,” “black teardrop,” “knee oozed watermelon red”—each phrase evokes not just the memory of a fruit, but the immersive physicality of childhood. Watermelon becomes more than a summer treat—it becomes a medium of love, war, and language.

Seeds as Symbols of Growth and Emotion

The seeds function symbolically throughout the poem. In the early stanzas, they are tangible tokens of affection and fun. Their black color and teardrop shape hint at deeper emotional resonances—grief, memory, desire—that come into focus later. The seeds, once stored in the cheeks and used playfully, become a metaphor for expression and emotional release.

The Shocking Absence

When the speaker falls and bleeds, their instinct is to look inside for those same seeds—as if their very being was made of fruit and joy. But the stark realization that “there [was] nothing there” marks a turning point: a moment of disillusionment and embodied reality. The absence of seeds is not just a physical lack, but a loss of innocence. It’s a subtle and moving depiction of the first time a child realizes their internal world may not match the real one.

Ashley Naftule’s Voice and Style

Naftule’s writing often navigates the boundary between the surreal and the personal, the whimsical and the tragic. In “Green & Red,” their poetic voice captures a moment both ordinary and profound: a scraped knee that becomes an existential crisis in a child’s mind. Their ability to ground surreal emotion in physical imagery is what makes this poem resonate long after the final line.

Discover More Work by Ashley Naftule

Ashley Naftule is a playwright, poet, and journalist based in Phoenix, Arizona. Their poetry often blends speculative themes, queer identity, and emotionally vivid storytelling. To explore more about their work, visit Ashley Naftule’s poet bio page on AZpoetry.com.

Ain't I An American by Jeremiah Blue Poem AZpoetry.com

And Ain’t I An American by Jeremiah Blue

July 4, 2025

“And Ain’t I An American” by Jeremiah Blue

I do appreciate the eagle
but not enough to call it American
and tattoo it on my arm with banners
of “God Bless the USA”

Because I am hoping that the US will be
just one amongst others blessed by God

And ain’t I an American?

I am trying to free Tibet with the bumper of my car
rather than replacing it with an American flag

I think that free-trade zones aren’t often all that free

I wrote a poem about my national pride
and it didn’t say anything about keeping the Mexicans out

Being a small minority of the world’s population
while consuming nearly half its resources
sounds like a comfortable enough position
to not be all that well threatened by immigrants
sending paychecks home to impoverished families

And ain’t I an American?

I took classes in non-violent resistance
rather than studying my enemy for weaknesses
because ‘fighting for peace’ is like
‘fucking for virginity’
Sounds like a pretty reasonable argument to me?

And ain’t I an American?

Fox: not my primary source of news.

Reality TV doesn’t look anything like my reality.

I left my Top Gun jacket and mullet
in the era they came our and perished in

I am drinking Guinness over Bud Light every time

I prefer salsa and flamenco to Garth Brooks

I think hot dogs are immoral

and I haven’t been to a baseball game
since Baby Ruth named its candy bar after that one guy

And ain’t I an American?

I don’t think you need to be a lesbian
or a woman that is mad to be a feminist

I feel it is a more productive move away from institutionalized racism
to not fill our prisons with a majority of our black and brown men

I am starting to think that it has been just a little too long
since we have had a non-male or non-religious president

There are times when the thought crosses my mind
that the American Dream is just something
that those who have been handed it
dreamed up to keep
everyone else dreamin’

And America does not, at all times,
make me proud to be an American

And ain’t I an American?

About the poet Jeremiah Blue

Exploring National Identity in Jeremiah Blue’s “And Ain’t I An American”

Jeremiah Blue’s poem “And Ain’t I An American”, originally published in 2012, offers a thought-provoking examination of American identity, challenging conventional symbols and notions of patriotism. Through a series of introspective reflections, Blue invites readers to reconsider what it truly means to be an American in today’s diverse society.

Summary of “And Ain’t I An American”

The poem begins with the speaker acknowledging traditional emblems of American patriotism, such as the eagle and the phrase “God Bless the USA.” However, the speaker expresses a desire for inclusivity, hoping that divine blessings extend beyond the United States to encompass all nations. This sentiment sets the tone for the poem’s exploration of broader, more inclusive definitions of national pride.

Throughout the poem, the speaker reflects on various personal choices and beliefs that diverge from mainstream American norms:

Opting for a “Free Tibet” bumper sticker over an American flag decal.
Questioning the fairness of free-trade zones.
Writing about national pride without advocating for restrictive immigration policies.
Highlighting the disproportionate consumption of global resources by a small segment of the world’s population.
Choosing non-violent resistance over aggressive tactics.
Expressing skepticism toward mainstream media and reality television.
Preferring cultural elements from other countries, such as Guinness over Bud Light and salsa over country music.

The poem culminates with the speaker contemplating systemic issues within American society, including institutionalized racism, gender inequality in political leadership, and the elusive nature of the American Dream. Despite these critiques, the recurring refrain, “And ain’t I an American?” underscores the speaker’s assertion of their American identity, suggesting that questioning and critical reflection are integral components of true patriotism.

Analysis of Themes and Techniques

Jeremiah Blue employs several literary devices to convey the poem’s central themes:

Refrain: The repeated question, “And ain’t I an American?” serves as a powerful refrain, emphasizing the speaker’s challenge to narrow definitions of American identity and highlighting the diversity of experiences and beliefs that constitute the nation.
Irony and Satire: By juxtaposing traditional symbols of patriotism with personal choices that deviate from the norm, the poem utilizes irony to question the authenticity of conventional expressions of national pride.
Cultural Critique: The poem addresses various societal issues, including consumerism, media influence, systemic racism, and gender inequality, prompting readers to reflect on the complexities and contradictions inherent in American society.
Personal Reflection: Through the speaker’s candid sharing of personal preferences and beliefs, the poem underscores the importance of individual agency in defining one’s own sense of patriotism and belonging.

Overall, “And Ain’t I An American” invites readers to engage in a nuanced exploration of national identity, encouraging a more inclusive and critical understanding of what it means to be American.

Discover More About Jeremiah Blue

To learn more about Jeremiah Blue’s work and contributions to contemporary poetry, visit his poet bio page on AZpoetry.com.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH BEING HUMAN poem by Josh Rathkamp

May 31, 2025

“WHAT’S WRONG WITH BEING HUMAN” by Josh Rathkamp

I lived two houses down a dead end street.
When the river ran rough
we checked our basements.
We called to each other to help.
We hauled boxes up
from the dark like large fish.

When Mary or Mark or Helen died,
little by little,
we all did. We sent flowers.
The street took to looking
like a Cadillac. It grew bolder.
It grew rosy cheeks.

When Jack repainted, John
repainted, and the painters
ate lunch on the roof.

We said “it looks nice,”
nodding at our mailboxes.
We waved while shoveling snow
off the walkway no one walked
but the dogs and our manic-depressive mailman.

When we wanted an egg or a glass
of milk we drove to the store.
We stared out our windows.
Our children grew without parents.
We grew into speaking without words.

We thought our reflections
in the lamplight were only there
out of loyalty, and, if given
a chance, would run
like Mrs. Eddie’s dead son
naked, through trees.

About the poet Josh Rathkamp

The Vegetarian’s Nightmare poem by Baxter Black

May 27, 2025

“The Vegetarian’s Nightmare” a cowboy poem by Baxter Black

parsley power ladies and diner and make
you a shameful degrading confession a
deed of disgrace in the name of good
taste though I did it I meant no
aggression I had planted a garden last
April and lovingly sang it to Ballad but
later in June beneath the full moon
forgive me I wanted to salad so I I
slipped out and fondled a carrot
caressing its feather at all but the
first of a brute died power out the root
and the competent came with a pup and
laying my hand on a radish a jerk and it
left a small crater then with the blade
of my true value spade I exhumed a
slumbering Taylor
seller had pucked I twisted the squash
tomatoes were wincing in fear I choked
the romaine screamed out in pain their
anguish was filling my ears I finally
came to the latest as it cringed at the
top of the road with one wicked slice
there beheaded to twice as it rise I
dealt a death blow i butchered the
onions and parsley so my whole was all
covered with gore I chopped and I walked
without looking back then I stealthily
slipped in the door my bounty lay naked
dying so I drowned them to snuff out
their life I sliced and I peeled as they
thrashed and they reeled on the cutting
board under my knife I violated Tomatoes
so their innards could never survive I
grated and grounded they made not a
sound then I thought of the Tator alive
and then I took the small broken pieces
and tortured and killed with my hands
and touched them together heedless of
whether they suffered or made their
demands I ate them forgive me I’m sorry
but hear me no I’m a beginner of those
plants feel pain so it’s hard to explain
to someone who eats them for dinner and
tend to begin a crusade for plants
rights including chickpeas and the ACLU
will be helping me too in the meantime
please pass the blue cheese

Transcribed from “A Vegetarian’s Nightmare” by OddballVQ on YouTube.

Watch “The Vegetarian’s Nightmare” performed by the cowboy poet Baxter Black on YouTube.

About the poet Baxter Black

A Cowboy’s Darkly Hilarious Ode to Salad Suffering

In A Vegetarian’s Nightmare, legendary cowboy poet Baxter Black delivers a gut-busting, rhyme-heavy monologue that flips the ethical script on vegetarianism. This satirical performance poem opens as a self-confession, revealing the narrator’s horrifying crimes—against vegetables. What follows is a mock-epic of culinary violence, complete with carrots “fondled,” radishes “jerked,” lettuce that “screamed out in pain,” and romaine “beheaded” under moonlight.

With classic cowboy flair, Black uses elevated poetic diction mixed with gritty humor to describe the emotional and physical trauma inflicted upon his unsuspecting garden. His knife is no kitchen utensil—it’s a weapon of mass destruction. Through personification, vivid imagery, and his signature Western cadence, he paints the harvest as a battlefield. Tomatoes are violated, onions butchered, and potatoes tortured until they meet their end—only to be drowned in blue cheese.

Satire with a Sharp Edge

Black’s poem works brilliantly as a parody, skewering the moral high ground often claimed by vegetarians. Rather than arguing logically, he humorously leans into absurdity: if plants can feel pain, then aren’t vegetarians just as guilty of violence as meat eaters?

The poem plays with the reader’s expectations, starting off sounding like a sincere ethical admission, but quickly descending into over-the-top (yet skillfully rhymed) carnage. Black’s message isn’t to launch an actual crusade for “plant rights,” but rather to poke fun at the hypocrisy or blind spots in moral dietary choices. It’s an exaggerated cowboy logic: if you’re going to kill to eat, might as well own it.

Performance Roots and Cowboy Poetics

Like many of Baxter Black’s works, A Vegetarian’s Nightmare is best experienced aloud. The poem thrives on rhythm, timing, and dramatic delivery—a natural fit for Black’s background in performance poetry and radio. His voice—equal parts campfire storyteller and satirical commentator—makes the gruesome humor land with levity, not malice.

It also exemplifies a classic hallmark of cowboy poetry: transforming everyday ranching life (or in this case, eating salad) into a mythic, moral, and often hilarious tale. Black’s poem, while playful, also asks us to reconsider our assumptions with a wink and a laugh.

Discover More About Cowboy Poet Baxter Black

“A Vegetarian’s Nightmare” is just one example of Baxter Black’s unforgettable ability to mix wit, Western wisdom, and poetic technique. To learn more about the life, legacy, and literary contributions of this iconic Arizona cowboy poet, visit his full biography on AZpoetry.com.

itll take the edge off they say natasha murdock poem artwork pregnancy

it’ll take the edge off they say by Natasha Murdock

May 9, 2025

“it’ll take the edge off they say” by Natasha Murdock

but I am made of edges
edges of elbows & guilt & feet & baby
edges staring me in the face—pain
managed through natural techniques—
as if these edges that rip up my spine
& ribs & lungs are natural
as if disappointment isn’t just
another edge to jump off
as if lifting one thing doesn’t
expose one other thing to pain
as if preparing to be split into two
is as easy as scribbling down
a wish to be whole

About the poet Natasha Murdock

In her visceral and introspective poem “it’ll take the edge off they say,” Natasha Murdock confronts the complexities of womanhood, pain, and the contradictory expectations surrounding childbirth and the female body. The poem is part of her powerful collection sign on the dotted line to release the record, a 2017 National Poetry Series winner that investigates the terrain of motherhood, sexuality, and identity with both lyrical precision and unflinching honesty.

Summary

The speaker begins by identifying herself not as a cohesive whole but as “made of edges”—physical, emotional, maternal, and psychological. These edges include elbows, feet, guilt, and the omnipresent baby. From the outset, Murdock positions her body and experience within a framework of fragmentation and pain. The poem takes aim at the idea that pain can be managed with “natural techniques,” exposing the absurdity of pretending that such suffering is easily soothed or inherently noble.

She interrogates the romanticization of “natural” pain and questions societal platitudes about endurance and sacrifice. The poem’s imagery is sharp and layered: edges “rip up” the spine and ribs, and disappointment is just “another edge to jump off.” The final lines crystallize the central tension—how the act of preparing to be “split into two” during childbirth is anything but natural, or easy. The wish to be whole stands in stark contrast to the reality of being divided, physically and emotionally.

Analysis

Murdock’s use of enjambment and line breaks creates a sense of breathlessness and fragmentation, echoing the speaker’s bodily and psychological experience. The repeated invocation of “edges” reflects both the literal sensations of pain and the metaphorical contours of a life being reshaped by motherhood. Each edge carries weight—some cutting, some unavoidable, some anticipated but still overwhelming.

The poem critiques the cultural narrative that positions maternal suffering as noble or desirable. In doing so, it pushes back against both traditional and modern expectations placed on women: to endure, to perform, to manage pain gracefully, and to emerge from childbirth somehow stronger or fulfilled. Murdock turns the medical and cultural jargon of childbirth—“natural techniques,” “pain management”—into sources of irony and critique, revealing how language itself can obscure the brutal truths of embodied experience.

There’s a quiet rage beneath the surface of this poem, a defiant refusal to accept pain as virtue or silence as strength. And yet, the final line—“a wish to be whole”—offers a glimmer of longing, if not hope. It’s a wish that resonates with anyone who has felt the world’s expectations carve into their identity.

Murdock’s poetic voice is sharp, intimate, and undeniably essential in the contemporary conversation on gender, motherhood, and bodily autonomy.

Want to learn more about Natasha Murdock’s work and poetic journey?
Click here to visit her poet bio page on AZPoetry.com »

My 20th Birthday Haiku by Joseph Nieves

May 2, 2025

“My 20th Birthday Haiku” by Joseph Nieves

When I was a boy
I dreamed of being Batman
Now? Even more so.

About the poet Joseph Nieves

With the Phoenix Fan Fusion Nerd Poetry Slam hosted by Lauren Perry coming around the corner, AZpoetry.com introduces our readers with some nerdy poetry! Joseph Nieves’ “My 20th Birthday Haiku” is a deceptively simple, humorous, and deeply reflective three-line poem that captures the persistence of childhood dreams into adulthood. Written in the traditional 5-7-5 syllabic structure of a haiku, the poem offers a glimpse into the poet’s internal dialogue on the cusp of adulthood. The first two lines acknowledge a familiar rite of passage — a childhood fantasy of heroism and identity. The final line, punctuated by the sharp pivot of “Now? Even more so,” surprises the reader with a mature, self-aware reaffirmation of that boyhood dream.

Analysis

At first glance, Nieves’ haiku might seem like a lighthearted ode to Batman fandom. But beneath the surface, the poem taps into a deeper commentary on idealism, transformation, and the emotional terrain of growing older.

The first line — “When I was a boy” — evokes nostalgia, placing the speaker firmly in a reflective mode. It sets up an expectation of lost innocence or abandoned fantasies. Instead, the second line — “I dreamed of being Batman” — grounds that nostalgia in a specific pop culture icon, one that represents justice, strength, mystery, and moral complexity.

The twist comes in the third line: “Now? Even more so.” This punchline-like turn recasts the entire poem. Rather than outgrowing his dream, the speaker finds it more relevant with age. The tone is both humorous and poignant — perhaps adult life has shown him just how much the world needs a Batman, or how much he still yearns for control, courage, and transformation. The haiku suggests that maturity doesn’t always mean letting go of youthful desires; sometimes it means doubling down on them.

This clever use of haiku structure shows Nieves’ gift for economy of language. In just 17 syllables, he constructs a coming-of-age moment, a cultural reference, and a subtle emotional shift.

Cultural and Emotional Resonance

By invoking Batman — a hero born of trauma, who transforms pain into purpose — Nieves touches on the quiet yearning many feel as they enter their twenties. The pressure to find identity, direction, and control can feel overwhelming. In that context, the desire to be Batman becomes a metaphor for resilience and the hope of doing good in a chaotic world.

The poem also plays with the idea of authenticity. In a world where adult life often asks us to conform or abandon dreams, this haiku asserts the importance of staying true to what inspires us. Nieves’ subtle humor — rooted in comic book love and poetic restraint — makes the message all the more powerful.

Learn More About Joseph Nieves

From comic book shops to poetry slam stages, Joseph Nieves has always brought storytelling to life with heart and humor. His poetry fuses pop culture, introspection, and narrative craft. To read more about Joseph and his contributions to Arizona’s poetry scene, visit his full poet bio page on AZPoetry.com.

14 Lines from Love Letters or Suicide Notes Doc Luben Poem Artwork

14 Lines From Love Letters Or Suicide Notes by Doc Luben

April 24, 2025

“14 Lines From Love Letters Or Suicide Notes” by Doc Luben

I
Don’t freak out

II
We both know this has been coming for a long time.

III
I’ve been staying awake at night, wondering if I should tell you.

IV
I bought the kind of crackers you can eat, they are in the hall cupboard.

V
Now that we have watched all the episodes of True Blood, I do not know what else to do next.

VI
I always imagined this would happen without warning and like suddenly on an ocean cliff side
But this is the kind of thing where waiting for the time to be right, would just mean waiting forever.

VII
I’ve just been too afraid for too long.

VIII
I came home on Tuesday and found all of the chairs that I owned stacked in a tower in the center of my kitchen.
I don’t know how long they have been like that,
but it can only be me that did it.
It’s the kind of thing a ghost might do to prove to the living that he is still there.
I am haunting my own apartment.

VIIII
My grandmother was still alive when I was five years old and she asked me to check and see
if the iron was hot enough yet. So I pressed my hand against it and it was red
and screaming for hours.
Twenty-five years later she would still sometimes
apologize, in the middle of conversations,
“I feel so bad about making you touch the iron” she’d say, as though it had just happened.
I cannot imagine how we forgive ourselves for all the things we didn’t say until it was too late.
But how else do you tell if something is hot but to touch it?

X
I keep imagining my furniture in your
apartment.

XI
I wonder how many likes this will get on Facebook.

XII
My dad always used to tell the same joke, but I can’t remember the punchline.

XIII
I was eight years old and it took three weeks, three eight-year-old weeks, imagine! To gather
everything that I would need to be Batman.
Rope.
Boomerangs.
A Mardi Gras mask with the beads cut off.
I couldn’t find a cave near my house,
so I buried them all in a bundle under the ivy.
For years after, I tried to find that spot again.
The ivy grew too fast.
I searched in so many spots it seemed impossible that I had missed one, but I never found it.
How can something be there and then not be there?
How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become?

XIV
I never had the courage to buy bright green sheets.
I wanted them but thought they were too brash, even with no one but me to see them.
I bought a set yesterday and put them on the bed.
I knew that you would like them.

Transcribed from the video 14 Lines From Love Letters Or Suicide Notes by Button Poetry and Doc Luben.

Watch Doc Luben perform “14 Lines From Love Letters Or Suicide Notes” at the 2014 Individual World Poetry Slam in Phoenix, AZ

About the poet Doc Luben

Doc Luben’s poem “14 Lines from Love Letters or Suicide Notes” is a poignant exploration of the blurred lines between affection and despair, capturing the complexities of human emotion in a series of evocative statements. Each line stands alone yet contributes to a cohesive narrative that delves into themes of love, loss, mental health, and self-reflection.

Summary of “14 Lines From Love Letters Or Suicide Notes”

The poem is structured as fourteen standalone lines, each resembling a sentence that could be found in either a love letter or a suicide note. This duality creates a powerful tension, as readers are invited to interpret each line through the lens of both deep affection and profound despair.

Some lines convey mundane details, such as, “I bought the kind of crackers you like. They are in the hall cupboard,” while others delve into more introspective territory, like, “I cannot imagine how we forgive ourselves for all of the things we didn’t say until it was too late.” This juxtaposition highlights the coexistence of everyday life and inner turmoil.

Analysis: Navigating the Intersection of Love and Despair

Luben’s poem masterfully captures the ambiguity and complexity of human emotions. By presenting lines that could belong to either a love letter or a suicide note, he underscores how expressions of love and cries for help can often be indistinguishable.

The poem also touches on the theme of memory and the passage of time. Lines referencing childhood experiences and forgotten jokes suggest a longing for connection and understanding. The final line, “I bought a set yesterday and put them on the bed. I knew that you would like them,” implies a gesture of love that may also be a farewell.

Overall, “14 Lines From Love Letters Or Suicide Notes” challenges readers to consider the nuances of communication and the importance of empathy, especially in recognizing the signs of mental health struggles.

Discover More About Doc Luben

Doc Luben is a renowned poet and performer known for his emotionally charged and thought-provoking work. His poetry often explores themes of love, identity, and mental health, resonating with audiences across the country. To learn more about Doc Luben’s life, career, and contributions to the world of poetry, visit his poet bio page on AZPoetry.com.

Your Poem Is Not That Good Because by Christopher Fox Graham

Your Poem Is Not That Good Because (A Response) by Christopher Fox Graham

April 22, 2025

“Your Poem Is Not That Good Because (A Response)” by Christopher Fox Graham

Our poems were never that good
no one’s were
or the world we talked about
the revolution we prophesied
would have arrived by now
but it didn’t
and it isn’t
and it won’t
because poetry can’t change a world
drunk on its own power
deaf to so many voices
poetry is only the captured sincerity of a moment
we were the moment

So we kept writing
and slamming poems
and sparring on stages
spitting word graffiti against the walls we faced
or the walls we broke down

The good ol’ days of poetry slam
weren’t always as good as we remember
Though some days were better than we thought at the time,
remembering now and waxing nostalgic

The bastard son of jazz and Beats
born at Get Me High
and the Green Mill
where Capone could cover the exits
we spit to barflies and java junkies
book buyers and gallery goers
we had our holy places
Nuyorican, Cantab, Starry Plough
Red Sea, MAD Linguist, the Merc
Bowery and Lizard Lounge
Blind Lemon in Deep Ellum
in the heart of Texas
and Da Poetry Lounge
the hook there in the name
and a thousand temples
with a hot mic
a willing owner
and a free night

We crowd-walked like Jesus
called out and heard responses
used microphones and mic stands
as the props we were forbidden to bear
climbed on bars to be better heard
wrote poems for duos, trios, foursomes
to amplify our solo limitations
turned one-person plays into touchstones
persuasive essays into epics
street protests into soliloquies
cyphered in circles
telling tales about our adventures

Our grandfathers and grandmothers
did the same
when the cosmos was our companion
the stars our only stage lights
And civilization was just a campfire

Our skin or status
age, accent or origin
was wiped clean
we had three minutes and a ticking clock
to change the world
and ten seconds of grace
because we lost track of time
channeling the universe

We had arch rivals and forever allies
to push us forward
Titans and Olympians
who we worshiped
for crushing stages
like city walls
or opening hearts and minds
to other ways of thinking
or living
or loving

We had kings and goddesses
who blessed the microphones
in whispers and decrees
telling us to love ourselves
in spite of ourselves
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
“you, right now,
hearing this, reading this
YOU,
you are good enough
you are perfect”

We had heels and cads we loved to hate
hanging on every verse
waiting for a stolen stanza
a lifted lyric
a reference to clothing they wore
a cheater who judged them too knowingly
an untruth wrapped in beautiful fiction
we could later disprove
and turn into sin

Audiences didn’t care to know our strife
in the old days of poetry slam
they hung on the shimmering words
played out stanzas in their minds
heard old poems new to them
uttered at their first hearing
they left changed, bettered and brighter
the points were never the point
they were the gimmick
to get them in the door

We asked them to judge us
sans background, affiliation or inclination
no doctorate or bibliography required
their scores, our epitaphs
8.2, even on page
6.9 because it was a sex poem
9.7 worth the bus ride home
5.8, a punch to the gut
7.1 after we dropped a line
9.3 when we picked it up
a perfect 10 with tear-filled eyes
or guts sore with laughter
or hearing their story told through our lips

They judged our game
our struts and frets
in three minutes upon the stage
they were part of the show
they, the reason we spit:
Vox populi,
vox deus,
judicat poeta

We had demigods and divas
devils and demons
and sometimes,
perhaps too often,
we were they

We were “Beauty Ba Bo” perfectly translated

We had wingless seraphim
their halos lost in stage lights
Fallen angels seeking absolution
Mortals mid-apotheosis
We knew our saints by heart
could speak their names in mononyms
Shibboleths sans surname:
Marc,
Patricia,
Saul,
Beau, Reggie, Taylor, Buddy, Gary, Roger, Bob, Wammo, Marty, Shappy, Klute,
Sekou, Shihan, Ed, Derrick, Talib, Shane, Barbara, Miguel, Mahogany, Rachel, Sarah, Phil, Pat, MuMs, Jared, Henry, Mike, Scott, Suzi, Christopher, Hanif, Dayvid, Andy, Jack, Staceyann, Ken, Alvin, Corinna, Jaylee, Baz, Blair, Bao, Betsy, Sonya, Rives, Anis, Lauren, Bill, Patrick, Holly, Theresa, Billy, Jugga, Ragan, Steve, Sean, Suheir, Sou, Simone, Sully, Celena, Zork, Omar, Olivia, Oz, Iyeoka, Isaac, Corbet, Ebony, Eboni, Janean, Jamie, Jive, Jeremiah, Jasmine, Jerry, Cristin, Kenn, Eitan, Daphne, Danez, Donnie, Delrica, Duncan, De, Denise, Desiree, Darrell, Amelia, Xero, Mack, Paul, Stefan, Angela, Karen, Midnight, Erik, Sierra, Hakim, Adriana, Frannie, Ebo, Jesse, Matthew, Doc, Lindsay, Mickie, Maya, Laura, Emi, Nathan, Mikel, Mojdeh, Tank, Thadra, Robbie, Omari, Gypsee, Tristan, DaShade, Blue, Blythe, Tony, Rudy, Andrea, Ayinde, Abigail, Alex, Akua, Adam, Taalam, Rowie, Claire, Gabbi, Gabrielle, Genevieve, Goad, Taneka, Cass, Frank, Ryan, Valence, Evan, Josh, Nodalone, Neil, Briana, Brenna, Brit, Randy, Lydia, Jess, Naughtya, Eddie, Amy, Angelica, Caleb, Dylan, Dwain, Hakim, Lacey, Natasha, Zack, Panika, Amir, Chrysanthemum, Imani, Glori, Gigi, Tui, Jerri, Omni, Emanuelee, Ekabhumi, Javon, Jomar, George, Joyce, Joaquin, Mercedez, Mindy, Morris, Mckendy, Mayday, Matt, Esme, Brett, Dahled, Sam, Sevan, Suzee, Sabrina, Soul, Cheryl, Logan, Myrlin, James, Taz, Twain, Tova, Thomas, Crystal, Christa, Guante, Angelique, Colin, Theo, Jozer, Kealoha, Keith, Katie, Kat, Khary, Kataalyst, Bryan, Nazelah, Porsha, Daryl, Ian, Jon, Jay, Jeremyah, Jordan, Duke, FreeQuency, Flowmentalz, MrHumanity, Candy, Rage, Diamond, Nova, Tempest, Verbal, Vogue, Tapestry, Rooster, Toaster, Whoopeecat
Don, Damian and Danny, the Trinity of ABQ
AJ, RJ, RC, CR, GNO, IN-Q when initials were enough
Bowerbird just happy to be there
Mona turning spoken word into silent speech
Jeanne and Jim, no distance too far
Stephen and Julia with a Tattler
Arrian with a camera,
Inkera with a “welcome”
Clebo shirtless and rarefied
and Mighty Mike McGee, whose three names are always spoken as one

And after,
always after,
always underground
where only poets could enter
if you knew the password
the secret location
was Harlym125
the crownless king
holding court
for the best of us
to duel in the round
until last poet standing
but no cameras in the courtroom
no secrets from the sepulcher
no record made in this arena,
our Holy of Holies

Some of us were broken people
writing to survive
Some of us didn’t
some cut short by our own hands
some by fate we railed against
some by time, that takes us all
they all died too young
even the old ones
especially the old ones

Some of us never healed
some only healed through slam
because of the poems
because of the scores
because of the praise
because of the failures
because we got up again, and again and again
because we could banish our monsters
cast them back into darkness with wordmagic
because we would expose our sins
And find absolution by the last line
or because some stranger
we could not see under stage lights
said later in the lobby
or at the bar
or the afterparty,
“I loved that poem…
… you made me cry”
sometimes that alone was enough
perhaps too often,
it was enough
which is why we’re still here, still living
save one
and save the world entire
their tears saving us
from drowning ourselves

If not for the old days of poetry slam
we would not know each other
not have lived the stories in other skins
served in three-minute epics
or afterparties or hotel lobbies
we would not have a safe sofa,
a paying gig and eager crowd
in 50 cities and 500 small towns
a welcome smile from a host we’d never met
but who knew us intimately
from that poem,
you know the one
the one never that good
whose ending you tweaked
100 times trying to get right
but to someone, tonight,
it will be perfect
exactly what they needed to hear
“your poems are not good because”
you say over and over to yourself —
they’re not good —
to you —
swallowed in self-doubt and self-criticism,
but to someone,
tonight,
they are a masterpiece
wordmagic from a microphone
slammed by a wingless seraphim
halo lost in stage lights
chasing their monsters into the dark

The points weren’t the point
the point was poetry
we knew that, we knew the math:
1,590 teams went to nationals
only 118 touched finals stage
we went to lose
at nationals,
lose across states,
lose across town
hundreds of hours practicing
thousands of miles traveled
to be statistically eliminated on night one
to be cut from round two
to go over minute three
but we went to share
to become family
stay family
mourn lost family
you stopped caring about the scores
about winning
about fleeting victories
you cared about family
about impressing them with a poem
trying something new
and winning because
“your poems are good”
because you became the captured sincerity of a moment
the points weren’t the point
the point was we wiped clean
skin and status
age, accent and origin
to become stories in skinsuits
we were words walking
the bards, bhats, griots, skalds, seanchaithe,
of our slam scenes back home
and a family wherever we were
we knew that
in the “old days of poetry slam”

We forget now
the churning civil war inside ourselves
“The revolution will not be televised”
we believed wholeheartedly
poets may start revolutions,
but we don’t lead them
without an army, armed and funded
no one fights them
airwaves aren’t free
raised fists don’t rake in ratings
empty seats at finals add up over time
But we refused to be bought
we refused to cash in
we refused to sell out
even when bankruptcy came knocking

Our poems were never that good
but we believed our own bios
in the old days of poetry slam
Gaslit by our own press releases
we knew the money would come
the chapbooks would one day be bound
TV gigs and book deals were around the corner
bars would become Broadway
book thrift shops would lead to theaters
finals night would be standing-room only
MFAs were as good as MBAs
success would fall off the shelf
if this poem was perfect
this line was just right
if this hook had teeth
if we unfurled our dreams into a ship’s sail
we could make it to Avalon or Valinor
Penguin, Simon & Schuster,
Random House, HarperCollins
PBS or HBO’s Def Poets
presidential inaugurations,
UN floor speeches
White House dinners
Olympic openings
like the other poets who did

But we forgot
no one reads poetry anymore
no one reads print anymore
we pay to be published
selling books at slams
to make it to the next gig
and we’re left with
bookshelves of others’ words from
The old days of poetry slam

It was never enough to be brilliant
you have to do the work to prove it
sometimes you have to break into Harvard
and put your poetry book on the Woodberry shelf
for it to be found there

Now we count our scars and remember
the sins and stages, the dream teams
the host hotels and victory poems
hip-hop battles and haiku head-to-heads
nerd quizzes and fifth-wheel features
group pieces and late-night erotica
a trophy we once tore in half
the beautiful bouts 0.1 points apart
with the whim of a judge —
some college kid on a date
some mom from the suburbs
some closet writer with her journal at home
some wannabe rapper
some grizzled retiree reliving his youth
or sweet grandma seeing what the kids are doing now —
deciding between prize money and parting gift

We were Kings of Kings, shouting:
“Look on my words, ye Mighty, and despair!

All statutes crumble
All empires fall
All languages change over time
or die on lips of the last speaker

“The old days of poetry slam”
are the “old days” for a reason
and the reasons were legion,
but sometimes
but perhaps too often,
we were they

III

But words never die
not once uttered and amplified
they echo endlessly across eternity
or get swallowed back into the throat
for a new voice to speak

The new slam isn’t the old slam
it’s better, it’s worse,
it doesn’t follow the rules
that we belabored and bickered over at slammasters meetings
ensconced in scripture we printed before Nationals
but it’s here and it’s now
and it’s asking us to dance
the steps are new
the new music is different
but we learned the last time
and danced waltzes across stages

“Your poems are not good …”
we shout on social media
with a million reasons why
some don’t read other poets
some don’t read better poets
some shun critique or criticism
some forget it’s a gimmick not godhood
some outshine their mentors
some have no mentors to follow
some first drafts stay final drafts
some value victories over craft
notching one-night slams into headboards
like some of us did

time will cull or cure
like it did us —
we forgotten heroes uncelebrated
we word barons stripped of fiefdoms
we veterans with razorblade tongues

Our poems were never that good
but they were good enough
and the proof is new slam is here
in the echo of the old

They love slam like we did
because we taught them to
the high schooler in the back out past curfew
the fan who bought our chapbook with $1s
the one-time judge, drunk on our fire
the mourner who saw us grieve in public
watching a man cry without sin or shame,
the teen who added 100 to your view count
didn’t you see them?
were the stage lights too bright
in “the old days of poetry slam”?
When we gave up
when the old slam became old
when we euthanized it at 34
in the city where it was born
at a meeting of 200 who loved slam so much
we had to cut its throat
when we took ”kill your darlings” too literally
they rose up
where our words had sowed them
and built temples
with the blueprints we burned
enriching their soil with our echoes

A legacy isn’t a carbon copy
it’s not a clone or a rerun
children may have our names
but they are only half-us
half-someone else
wholly themselves
something new built on the old

they read our poems in school
in chapbooks, on websites
shared our voices, videos and clips
In mixtapes, LiveJournal, MySpace,
YouTube, Instagram, Facebook,
Tumblr, TikTok, TedX,
Button, Write About Now
They heard us say
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
like we were taught
and they believed us
even when we didn’t believe ourselves
they still believe us
because our poems were that good
they outlived their makers
words still speaking
“Poetry is Necessary”
like food, shelter, water, poetry is necessary

No cataclysm can kill poetry
manmade or otherwise,
not really, not forever,
it’ll rise from the corpses, the ashes,
the broken bones and fallen towers
emerge from the flood waters
that could kill,
but not drown
Team SNO taught us that

We martyred ourselves in suffering
on stages or pages
but not in vain
and not in silence
and someone was listening
even if we didn’t hear it

They heard about a thing called slam
how it could change the world some day
if the poem was perfect
the line was just right
if the hook had teeth
and when the old slam became old
they made it new again

The new slam isn’t the old slam
it’ll wander and conquer and collapse
and get back up, like we did
they will learn by doing, like we did.
they will learn by failing, like we did.
they will learn but getting up again and again and again
they will anoint new saints in new styles
they will take the ghost from our rebel skeleton
and outshine their ancestors
it is out legacy even if our name is absent

We were candles in the dark
but one can light another
and still burn brightly
our words remain to light the way
even if we don’t,
some new poets will become furnaces,
others bonfires,
some just brief matches and flashes in the pan
some will come in like a fireball,
burn into explosion and fade away into the dark
like some of us did
sometimes it’s enough
just to light the flame

Our poems were never that good
they didn’t have to be
but they were enough
to someone, somewhere
and sometimes,
perhaps too often,
that someone
was me

New slam is here
there are first-timers on stage
new voices in old skins
old voices with new poems
legends in renaissance
prodigies proving themselves
and audiences oblivious to the difference
but they heard about a thing called slam

because they’re here
our poems were good enough
they’re ready to listen to wingless seraphim
see halos in stage lights
show them the glory
of the old days
in the new temples
leave them changed, bettered and brighter
like in “the old days of poetry slam”

There’s a sign up list
and a hot mic
if you have a poem to share
or an open seat for tonight
if you want to lend your ears

They just want to be heard
like we did
want to say to us —
but more so to themselves —
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”
“you are good enough”

and hear us answer
sincerely
simply,
with hope
and with thunderous applause

Reclaiming the Stage: A Slam Poet’s Retrospective

Christopher Fox Graham’s poem, “Your Poems Are Not That Good Because (A Response),” serves as a heartfelt homage to the evolution of slam poetry. Through vivid recollections, Graham chronicles the journey from the early days of slam—marked by raw energy and communal passion—to its present state, reflecting on the art form’s challenges and triumphs.

The Pulse of Slam: Community, Competition, and Catharsis

Graham delves into the essence of slam poetry, highlighting its role as a platform for marginalized voices and a catalyst for personal and collective transformation. He emphasizes the communal bonds forged through shared experiences on stage, where poets confront personal demons and societal issues alike, seeking solace and solidarity in the rhythm of spoken word.

Legacy and Renewal: The Ever-Evolving Art of Slam

Acknowledging the inevitable changes within the slam community, Graham reflects on the new generation of poets who carry the torch forward. He underscores the importance of mentorship and the enduring impact of past performances, asserting that while styles may evolve, the core mission of slam—to give voice to the voiceless—remains steadfast.

Discover More About Christopher Fox Graham

Christopher Fox Graham is a prominent figure in the Arizona poetry scene, known for his dynamic performances and contributions to the slam community. With a career spanning over two decades, he has represented Flagstaff and Sedona on multiple National Poetry Slam teams and continues to mentor emerging poets.

To explore more about Graham’s work and his impact on the poetry world, visit his official biography.