DUP FINGER JAM - Spoken Word Poetry

Magdalena said:I posted in here somewhere about making audio and video that I wrote up a while back  I use "Audacity" since, to record.  I will send you what I wrote back last year.

Thank you, Magdalena for your help and for finding the thread.

For anybody who is interested in entering the comp, but doesn't know how to make their thingy-me-bob record a what-zee-called.... here's what you need to have a shot at winning this comp!!!

http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/poetry/read/5230/

Yeah, I use Audacity / Hokusai too. If anybody is stuck with recording / YouTube issues I'm only a PM away.

Thanks for the help everyone!  Would it be easiest if I recorded the thing and just emailed the file to one or both of you, Case and Atakti?  That way you can do whatever needs doing with it--right now I'm seeing this as a one time thing and not much chance for a career in spoken word poetry.  LOL  Toss me a pm with an email address if that works for you! :D

Link to the poem containing the spoken word: http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/154219-purgatory/

Direct YouTube video link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CjhIEYv6tXg&feature=youtu.be

The pitch: I try to write in a way that makes the reader feel uncomfortable. A good poem should stick in your throat. I want my spoken word to do the same thing and strive to drag people through hell with me, to face brimstone without the bullshit.

Purgatory

When I still drank good liquor
two things would enter my head.

The first was usually pitiful,
a 'please love me'
in the small hours of Friday
followed by six hours
of remorse and Led Zeppelin.

The second was less melancholic;
I'd wonder if I was dead,
if my skin was just
yellowing sheet music
ready to be played

in a decaying bandstand
with a New Orleans trumpeter
blowing out my life
in joyful sounds,
always more celebratory

than me.

Then I'd look for evidence:
my nose, wisdom teeth
the grey hair I offensively found
nestling amongst the blonde
that didn't make the cut

the scars I owned,
the tapestry on my left arm
painted pastel pigments
until the artists came
and interpreted it all.

How I feared that I was dead.

That the last tissue
would be the death of me,
that I'd die in a pool of puke
with carpet burns on knees
and they'd sit and wonder why

for I believe Hell is
what you carry with you

not somewhere you go
when you die.

(DU Link)
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/90117-smoldering-embers/


(Audio)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2dmu1FvJM4


(The Pitch)
My aim is to amplify the encompassed emotions and make it haunting on a profound level.  Elicit the readers/listeners own experience to those feelings.  I want to reach deep inside and create a rumbling storm until the rain falls.  All of it internal, while the sun is shinning outside.



(Poem)
Smoldering Embers~

Emotion
like a shift in wind direction
a silent flutter
through the layers of pain
dancing
on the smoldering embers
amongst a bed of ashes
 
 
petulant upon my frayed edges
here
on the rocks
our time has landed
slick as I slip losing my grasp
becoming lax
in my effort to even try
 
 
morning
leaves nicotine prints
on disappearing aromas
attempting to impersonate
my sorrow
the sun dazzling my eyes
mocking me
 
 
In strict silence
I strip the order of woe
scorn it with my mind blade
in stealthy determination
surreptitiously
I  cut  it  out
 
 
a mob of sparrows
perch in my view
cheery
in there distracting hearty troll
as if paradise
is halfway across
my bleeding heart
 
 
extortion fresh
in the palm of my hands
luminosity fading
fast from my space
I bury my face
in my bedraggle pillow
where fresh tears play out a story

Missy & Magdalena, thank you both for your entries... DU poets, this what we're talking about, lets see what you got!!!!!!

DUP LINK

http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/122811-preen/

YOUTUBE LINK
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzuwUwxbLgw

THE PITCH
Poetry isn't always pretty but it should always be passionate. Love it or hate it you should always feel IT. Like Glenn Close says in Fatal Attraction, " I will not be ignored."

THE POEM

Preen

Carlos Danger
didn't have nothing on me.
Slicker than shit on porcelain,
once the scent of my seed
hit the street women gawked
as they walked into walls,
dropping their fake Gucci
bags while unhooking their bras
unleashing brickhouse boobies
with their bodacious bodies
going limp in longing
as I sauntered cock sure
down Fashion Avenue
finer than any matinee idol
flavor of the month.
Rob Lowe, Sly or Billy Dee,
none of these dudes
had more game than me.
Even bitches in heat turned tail
scratching and sniffing and digging
the bones that I be.

So that was the way
for maybe one fine day
thirty something years ago
after a fifty dollar haircut
with a gallon of mousse
on my dark chocolate mane,
Sergio Valente jeans certified
my butt bona fide prime choice cut.
A new job selling televisions
at Crazy Eddie's for five bucks
an hour, stolen cassettes and spiffs.
Hot damn my rod was as stiff
as rigor mortis on roadkill.

But ain't nothing as fickle as time is
with its vulnerability to economics
of voodoo and the influence
of the ugly things men do
and before I could say “recession,”
my hair receded going the way
of the wooly mammoth,
my butt busted denim
finding refuge in baggy sweats,
Crazy Eddie really was insane
dumping me on the dole till my dream
job of selling second hand
mattresses from the bed
of a beat up pick up truck
got me enough seed money
for an investment in tricked weed
to sell to suburban shit heads
with deep pockets and shallow sense.
Business been so slow since a pair
of one to threes, I can't even afford
a dime to get a blue pill
hard on no more.

I looked in the bathroom mirror
at the Citgo I use to disinfect
and I swear if I get me
some coin today I will strip
to my tighty whiteys and swagger
my ass off till the shit money can buy
wears off her sheen and I tap again
into the hustler's gene to keep current
on the devil's lien cause this motherfucker
was born to preen.  


Written by Tony Pena (Quill-in-Heart)

Link to the poem http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/137901-aurora/

Link to youtube http://youtu.be/o5vz6GAviI4


The pitch: We all have that moment in the night between wake and dreams where we seek the warmth of that love who may be a fingertip or miles away but we feel the connection floating weightless in a world of our own.
That's Aurora and he is all that there is!


Aurora


The tantalizing waves of zephyr
flitter sultry under the honeysuckle vine
gently swaying the blushed petals
awakening senses amidst tendrils
chasing diminutive dreams
into shadows of the night

my eyelashes
ladened with stardust
ignite
from the meteor showers
of rapture

your warm breath
a soft caress on my bare shoulders
an afterthought for kisses
lingering in trapped crevices  
enveloping me
from the cool of the night
filtering from the obscure screen

I tremble
seeking your warmth
just a finger      tip
away  

within the realm of your face
sinful thoughts submerge
beneath the enigmatic moonlight
in dormant tranquility
concealing flames of fire and passion
in veiled eyelids

the urgency of infinite loop
looping
us to the present

my thoughts invade your dreams
lecherously ploughing
your dewed flesh
arousing perpetual rhythms
of moon spun titillation
over infinite constellations

sundering  dark and light
into abstractions
of euphoric detentions

you stir gently
meeting my stare
holding me
in an eternal mirage

and

I see my reflection
in your eyes
the dawn of light
in your gaze

...

In my previous post I mentioned another prize... here's the announcement.

The Magic Finger Prize will be awarded to a runner up with no prior spoken word experience or an entry that the judges think shows potential thru their poetry or their reading. The comp is all about promoting spoken word and encouraging more poets to explore the possibilities of poetry used with multi media, so this is the reason for The Magic Finger accolade. I want more entries!!!!

Poets, you've only got a week left in this DUP FINGER JAM comp [I may extend it if you ask nicely], so lets get your poems read, recorded and posted!!!

"Stockholm Syndrome"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R6smgUi9awU

Stockholm Syndrome

Two generations from now...a son of a father who failed him,
will address his brothers not as men--but as the children of giants who never woke.
The sons of forgotten liberty...
We've got fistfuls of misery.. Pistols and split-skulls, insults to injury,      
Our history was bullshit.. Blissful ignorance, sinful synergy,      
So criminal.. How this shit's pulled is a mystery.. Actually, it's not,      
Minimal imagery and tragedy took casualties to plot..      
Actively, it watches us.. Integral to victory, the faculty was shocked,      
Went from miserable to sympathy, then rapidly.. it stopped..      
No coverage on the news, or this supplemental government,      
A fundamental covenant is troublesome to some,      
But for others, not so cumbersome a punishment to come..      
It only proves just how troubled we've become..      
If the short of it's God failed, break ties and call it off,      
Ordering cocktails.. Make mine a Molotov..      
All is lost, I take it the lines have all been crossed,      
Take your time.. I'm just saving mine for the holocaust,      
Co-conspirators.. Civil disobedience,      
Shifted our focus here, because a system's only lenience,      
Is living astray.. It's our right to assemble,      
But our right to free-speech was given away—
for a life on rental.. Fight to keep peace from hitting the fray,      
You'll be the envy of kings.. Any means justifies the end,      
But our legacy is everything, it must defy a trend-      
Setting emptiness, a tendency we trust and try to mend,      
Never lending a thing.. Anything so cut and dry will undermine again,      
By my calculation.. Amalgamation of my decisions,      
Having palpitations, the validation of my existence sent me to sing..      
I've just never had the voice.. Tried to reach you anyway, I've never had a choice,      
'Til The populace acknowledges it's got no victims..      
What it's got is hostages with Stockholm Syndrome.      
     
Copyright © 2013 Travis J Gibbs, The Ant1-Her0 Project

link to the poem: http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/147959-in-the-drawing-the-lights-1/

link at youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0VuP6eKnwo

the pitch:

magnetic lights..in drawing
in varying intensities, hues, luminosities
even darkness pitches in
to render overtures
of memories, of freedom, of sensations,
of love, of him, of her..of them!

as I try to paint light-entrapped heart,
she blooms like a sunbud!

a poem of varifold intersections
unfolding unto a mystical lotus.



poem :

In the drawing...the LIGHTS#1

1.
In the dancing kerosene lamp's aura  
he juggles around  
shuffling dry pulses in tin boxes  
those dense hitting sonorous pitches  
reminds with an infinitesimal think-lag  
the Sunday tribal street beats
Of the monkey showmen's  

a mish-mashing fusion smothers nose  
masculine smoky benzenes with thin surprises  
of silken steamy groundnut flavours  

2.
Half-hiding secrets in descending
draws larger than bulging lights
mercurial yellow face magnifies to be closer
with clotty clouds in tying knots  
conspires to dissolve in evenness
of converses on the wistful gateway
wilderness path holding them
   in untellable distances  

3.
Surrendering senses
a petal floats faintly counting its scents  
 hymning air envelopes severing orthodoxical piths  
flutters around forgetful of its mother tongue  
falling floral heart follows path of its call
need not now any bounds of a language
 
4.
Visible luminosities
dim to thicken in smoggy haziness  
infinite tiny tailed bubbles  
spotless glassy to mirroring silvery tadpoles  
flow in lashing circles around frozen eyes
drain towards a farther pull
afloat wide-open in dreamy parallel space
breaks not abrupt to open back in a jerk




p.s:  completely a novice at spoken poetry...juz an eager try, with all my inbuilt Indian accents:)

Uma, MadameLavender and Nikki thank you for honouring this comp with your spoken word entries.



Mr Tony Pena, you know how stoked I am about you taking part in this comp, please strip your entry back to the audio and I'll be very happy.



Mr Travis J Gibbs, I'm pleased a slam poet has got the balls to enter the DUP FINGER JAM... you certainly slammed the fuck out of that verse. It'd be cool if you could firstly check out the link below....

Here's DUP FINGER JAM: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iI0lXTK82b8



Now, Mr Travis J Gibbs, please read the rules to the comp and reenter your spoken word entry... stripped back.

Here's the comp rules: http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/6740/



Here's the fine print: Finger Jam is about capturing the emotion weaved in the words of poetry by giving your poem a voice. This comp is about promoting the original form of spoken word and encouraging more DU poets to record and post their poetry readings. This is not a slam poetry comp, but I encourage slam poets to forget about everything they know about the rigid slam format, rhythm, delivery and start from scratch. This is a stripped back [no videos, no music, no hand grenades]spoken word reading of your kick-ass poem expressed the way the poem was meant to be delivered.

I read the rules, it just translated to me as "if it's above average and entertaining--make it boring, or be disqualified."

I don't really dial-down anything I do. I wasn't interested in winning, there just isn't any other recorded poetry competitions. I wanted to show what I was capable of, and see what others can do. Poets should be encouraged to learn how to take control of a room if they want to really be heard. That's just my opinion, and the opinion of most audiences at open mics...I do find it interesting that a lot of really soft-spoken poets who read off paper tend to criticize "slam poets" as not being real poets--or rappers, even. The only difference between us is we understand our obligation to engage an audience in order to be really heard. We outshine the rest of you, because we understand the audience's simple demand to be entertained. If you're not moving, they're looking at their watches, ordering drinks or edging toward the door.