Poetry Wednesday: A Few of My Favorite Slams

It’s been so long since I did a Poetry Wednesday around here. I miss it, sometimes, especially when my poetry folder falls off the printer and a cascade of metaphors flutter everywhere and cover the cat.

Another folder that’s becoming unwieldy is the one in my browser, which is full of articles, lyrics, and possibly three-fourths of The Poetry Foundation website.

And videos. Because I love slam poetry, too.

In an effort to rescue some of those amazing performed works that are at risk of moving so far down the list that they can never be retrieved, I thought I’d share a few of the ones that spoke most strongly to me at this time and in this place.

Like Jesse Parent’s advice, which turns out not only to be for those who want to date his daughter, but who want to know how to raise one of their own:

I found several by Taylor Mali—he of the fabulous “I’ll Fight You For the Library” which I adore more than is probably healthy—but chose this one because we are all teachers and we should all teach like this, even and especially starting at 2:52:

And then this one left me wondering if Mark Grist is single—I’m not, but I have many, many friends who might like to meet a man with tastes like his and it’s wonderful to know that they exist:

And because it’s been one of those weeks and Ms. Ferro made me laugh so hard I cried, out of recognition and hope and because it’s #$@!ing hilarious:

So . . . what spoke to you this week?


I’d already compiled this when I found out that John Shaw,
amazing poet and good friend, has a poem in the Front Porch Review
but I didn’t want to wait.

It’s called “Periodicity“,
and as I told him, it made me feel all the warmth of being young on a summer day,
which is a most welcome miracle.

Go read it.

Poetry Wednesday cancelled due to viral interference

unexpected hitch
The virus I thought I’d faced down last Monday had an older brother, who held me down while Pestilence smacked me upside the head with his polo mallet.*

In a further stroke of irony—see what I did there?—I’m gonna miss my ‘flu shot today.

My brain has melted and is draining through my sinuses, leaving nothing but an empty, hurting space. So, if I commented on your blog today, I apologize for whatever it is I probably said. And  also for the spelling, which is usually the first canary to fall off the perch in the Mine of Malaise.

On the plus side, all this coughing is working my abs and obliques something fierce.  Ow.

Watson suggested—from a safe distance—that I hold a Snot Poem writing contest in lieu of content, but I’m afraid y’all will try it.

Instead, I’m going to direct you to another blog.  John S, who comments here sometimes, recently posted a poem of his, “Whetting,” that immediately fired up my imagination, as good poetry is wont to do.

Please go read it.  And while you’re at it, take a look at his other poems and posts, too.  Good stuff.

Meanwhile, I’m going back to bed with a fresh box of tissues and a mug of hot tea.


*What else would an expert Horseman use?