Lawrence Ferlinghetti said, “… I am awaiting, perpetually and forever, a renaissance of wonder.”
Given the depressing state of American culture, it’s going to be a long wait. But those of us riding with Ferlinghetti in that slow boat can’t afford to lose faith. As maddened and confused as the world is today, a strain of human being still exists that burdens itself with such unwelcome themes as the depth of human sentience, piety and the “meaning of life.”
Competition began Saturday, Sept. 28, at Foolscap Books at 780 Blair Blvd. for four seats representing Eugene in the National Poetry Slam, to be held in August 2003. Anyone with a soul and $3 to $5 is encouraged to attend the slams, scheduled for the third Saturday of every month. The ninth and final slam will take place in May 2003.
Poet sign-in began at 7:30 p.m., and the list was full within several minutes. At 8 p.m., all the kooks, crazies and some who might be bothered by such crass appellations shepherded themselves into the small, dimly-lit room.
The emcee selected volunteer judges randomly from a hat, and of course, the crowd received the judging like it would a leper at an orgy. Whether this is the best method of judge selection is a moot issue. Sometimes it’s best to just gouge the eyes of hindsight and let things be things.
Competitive poetry makes about as much sense as oarlocks on a bathtub. Maybe it brought out the best in the poets; maybe the real winner is off crying in a whiskey-stained shirt in some gutter — we’ll never know for sure, but this impressed judge tried desperately to catch the readers’ many nuggets of beauty.
Afterward, at a new watering hole in square, moderne downtown, I sat with a few participants. As I listened behind a distant stare, someone mentioned the presence of “hope” in some of the poetry.
Hope. While the president dances in front of cameras — chanting war cries in a loincloth with a dagger between his teeth, a meat hook in one hand and a skull on a stick in the other; Eugene recovers from a youthful waste of useful energy in the form of a “riot” that looked more like some mindless scene on MTV; and the very terra crumbles beneath our feet, it’s reassuring to know that there are a few weirdos who still hang on to hope.