Poetry Slam Slam

My poem has no title, but you are free to make one up after you hear it.
Listen carefully. *tap ears* These words come from one who has watched three years of poets pass through here. This is my fourth year of watching.

This competition is a misnomer, as far as I'm concerned.
Perhaps a better phrase of words is "Performance Slam," "Speech Slam," "Song Slam," "Rap Slam."
Anything but "Poetry Slam" because it is not the medium judged today.

We are not rated on the excellence of the poems we make and struggle with. *hold up a piece of paper*
Our carefully crafted art from the depths of our souls is not even considered or heard. You have turned a blind eye to content and poetic excellence.
In your eye instead, is the performance of our presentation.

But that assigns a little too much credit.
Perhaps it is only the novelty you see, when you hear something you can "jam" to *do a little dance* or makes you laugh.
I dare you to consider something new for once.

*run over to other students* There are people who are sitting in this audience right now.
They've written masterpieces of the human mind. *hold up a poem on paper* Words strung together in ultimate emotional beauty.
They are submitting themselves for your approval. You will not notice them.

They will pour their hearts out. *hand motions for heart pouring* They will write morbidly or originally.
They might be original. They might do what has NEVER been done before. They might be the new artists of the 21st century.
*crescendo of indignation and rage* I have seen them LAUGHED at before, when laughter was not called for, and there was nothing humorous in their words. They were RIDICULED! And you did NOTHING to stop it. And you found no MERIT in their courage.

I submit that you find no merit in poetry--our poetry--or in the human soul at all--our souls.
I further assert you find no merit in our performance either, for I have seen you miss the art inherent in performance too.
It's so much more complicated than a Speech Competition RUBRIC. *hold up rubric*

*tear up the rubric* LISTEN! HEAR what the poem is! HEAR what it's about!
LOOK! Watch them be timid when they talk about a poem of loneliness and social withdrawal!
When their poem is sad, watch their voice waver! That's intentional, you noobs!

You dismiss them for their lack of intensity.
Perhaps you have missed the point. Emily Dickinson, had she performed here, would have failed miserably.
She was a timid *bring arms to chest as if timid* soul in public, actually.

I submit this competition as a debauchery of the soul, and a mocking of all poets.
This is an unhallowed place of unmeticulous consideration, and it stands as an abhorrent abomination in my mind.
*said with extreme disgust* I do not want your words, or a score. In fact, I don't want to hear from you at all.

You have forgotten the power in our art. You have forgotten what art is.
This place holds no respect: for me, for the student body, for the humanities, for art. There is no esteem.
And I return the favor.

*with waning intensity* I welcome all of you to the sixth bowge and eighth circle of hell. Home to Ciaphas and the Poetry Slam.
*as if all lines before had not been read* Good luck to all of you, thank you for your attention, and good night.