Poetry Slam Carries Black History Month Forward

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“My poem is a radical take on what Black History Month is and how it should be represented,” said [Missouri student Sequoyah] Moore, whose first-place work in the original poem category challenged the merit of having a specific month known as Black History Month. “Black history is weaved throughout American history and shouldn’t be confined to just one month or a few figures.”

Reference: Protest Poetry Slam winners use verse to delve into black experience.

Black History Month, like other theme months in the US, is likely to remain as such: a month celebration.  But to Moore's point, I hope that the lessons, the experiences, and the spirit of the month ought to carry well beyond a month.  I gather that for her, poetry slam is one of those creative means for emblazoning meaningful things in people's lives.

Slam Poetry as Life Affirming

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[Lawrence student Tierra] Masupha further elaborates on the difference between slam poetry and regular poetry: “Reading a poem doesn’t have the same expression, life and originality. But performing a poem has expression, life and originality. Slam poetry can’t be written by anyone but you. It’s your thoughts, words, ideas and emotions and no one else’s. Slam poetry gives the inner voice volume.”

Reference: Newly established Slam Poetry Club hosts first open mic event.

I love that slam poetry crops up among university students.  There are all sorts of creative ways and avenues for young people to voice their souls, allay their fears, and empower themselves.  As long as these ways and avenues are life-affirming, even if brutal and raw, then the sky is the limit.  Among them, slam poetry keeps young people on the right side of the tracks.

That's Poetry Slam

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Every time that guy with faux-Wayfare sunglasses and a black beret in your ConWest recites “The Raven” in class, a slam poet gets his wings. Slam poetry combines classical verse, hip-hop swagger, theater performance, and a festival atmosphere. It’s become a international art form, recognized by everyone from the Olympic Committee and the Canadian Government to Russell Simmons’ hip-hop empire.

Reference: NYC Tip: Poetry Slam Venues In Our Backyard.

Poetry slam isn't quite my style of reciting poetry, but I like its personally spirited and socially conscious nature.  As is the title of this blog - Poetry in Multimedia - I envision poetry that rises from the page and comes to life, in all walks of life, for everyone.  It is poetry that is meant to be read and seen, recited and performed, and woven into the fabric of how we are.  That's poetry slam.
 

The Last Wave of Immigrants, by Sergei Lavrov

Sergei Lavrov

It takes a thick skinned man to serve as Vladimir Putin’s ambassador to the world for a term, let alone for almost two decades, but it seems Moscow’s most senior foreign official, hailed as “the formidable face” of Putin’s foreign policy has a softer side.

Russian foreign minister Sergei Lavrov, who has headed the ministry since 2004 after spending the decade prior as Russia’s ambassador in the UN, has published a series of beat poems in today’s issue of the Russian arts magazine Russkiy Pioner (Russian Pioneer).

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ЭМИГРАНТЫ ПОСЛЕДНЕЙ ВОЛНЫ

Нет, ничто в этом мире не ново,
Лишь все слаще Отечества дым.
Эмигранты — не русское слово,
Но каким оно стало родным.
Две могучих волны в полстолетья
Уходили к чужим берегам.
Подгоняла их Родина плетью,
Чтоб чужим не молились богам.
Сколько судеб в своей круговерти
Две волны погубили, спасли.
Но уже поднимается третья
С неуемной российской земли.
Пересохли святые колодцы,
И обходят волхвы стороной,
А Россия — опять ей неймется —
Поднимает волну за волной.
И судьба улыбается ведьмой,
И утраты не чует страна.
Ну а что, если станет последней
Эта страшная третья волна?
Брызги гущи кофейной на блюдце.
Угадай, где мосты сожжены?
Угадай, где мосты, чтоб вернуться
Эмигрантам последней волны?

Январь 1995 года

Reference: Эмигранты — не русское слово.

Google Translate

The Last Wave of Emigrants, by Sergei Lavrov

No, nothing in this world is not new,
Only sweeter Fatherland smoke.
Emigrants - not a Russian word,
But as it was the mother.
Two powerful wave in half a century
Went to foreign shores.
Customized their homeland whip
To a stranger did not pray to the gods.
How many destinies in their whirlwind
Two waves destroyed saved.
But rising third
With boundless Russian land.
Holy wells have dried up,
And bypasses the Magi party
And Russia - again she was itching to do -
Picks up wave after wave.
And the fate of a smiling witch
And does not feel the loss of the country.
Well, what if it becomes final
This terrible third wave?
Spray grounds coffee on a saucer.
Guess where the bridges are burned?
Guess where the bridge to return
The latest wave of immigrants?

January 1995

In Lavrov’s third poem, written in 1995, he narrates the voyage of “the two waves of immigrants in the last century”, where he laments on how the word immigrant “is not Russian but it has become such” and prophecies of a tragic outcome for the “third wave of immigrants” who will have to “guess where the bridge for their return lies”.

Reference: Russian Foreign Minister Publishes New York-Inspired Beat Poetry.

The algorithms for Google Translate have much room for improvement, but which, along with the Newsweek article, give us a sense for the poetry.  I love hearing about poetry coming out from someone, whom we do not expect to have poetry in him.

One for the Road (2) by Sergei Lavrov

Sergei Lavrov

It takes a thick skinned man to serve as Vladimir Putin’s ambassador to the world for a term, let alone for almost two decades, but it seems Moscow’s most senior foreign official, hailed as “the formidable face” of Putin’s foreign policy has a softer side.

Russian foreign minister Sergei Lavrov, who has headed the ministry since 2004 after spending the decade prior as Russia’s ambassador in the UN, has published a series of beat poems in today’s issue of the Russian arts magazine Russkiy Pioner (Russian Pioneer).

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 КАК БУДТО ВЧЕРА (ПОСОШОК-2)

Как будто вчера, это было как будто вчера:
Такси во дворе и крутой посошок вспоминаю…
А шесть этих лет мимолетною искрой костра
Уже промелькнули — быстрее, чем та стременная.
Как будто вчера без рубля начиналась игра,
Взялись покорять город шумный, столичный, надменный.
Как будто вчера — за душой ни кола ни двора,
Как будто вчера — и любовь в первый раз, и измена.
Как будто вчера не чехлили гитар до утра,
Стараясь подняться на вечно высокие ноты.
Как будто вчера козырная поперла игра,
Втянула в другие дела и другие заботы.
Как будто вчера это было на первых плотах,
Когда обрели наконец понимание сути.
Как будто вчера отыскали дорогу впотьмах,
Как будто вчера очутились опять на распутье.
Как будто вчера от добра не искали добра,
Гордились страной, что всегда за спиною стояла.
Как будто вчера всю страну разметали ветра.
Уж нету страны, но вот гордость зачем-то осталась.
Как будто вчера, это было как будто вчера:
Такси у ворот, чемоданы в ремнях сыромятных…
Измерила срок мимолетная искра костра,
И вновь посошок — но уже на дорогу обратно.
Как будто вчера — то веселье, то горечь подряд,
То голод — не тетка, то пьяная сытость по горло.
Дорога вперед — лишь начало дороги назад,
А сколько уже посошков в тех дорогах истерлось.
Как будто вчера жизнь летела сплошной кутерьмой,
А вспомнишь сейчас — и ничто не покажется зряшным.
И нынешний миг — посошок на дорогу домой —
Назавтра останется в памяти нашей вчерашней.

Февраль 1996 года

Reference: Эмигранты — не русское слово.

Google Translate

Like Yesterday (One for the Road-2), by Sergei Lavrov

Like yesterday, it was like it was yesterday:
Taxis in the yard and one for the road steep remember ...
And these six years fleeting spark of fire
Already flashed - faster than the stirrup.
Like yesterday without the ruble game starts,
Undertook to conquer the city of bustling, metropolitan, haughty.
Like yesterday - for the soul neither house nor home,
Like yesterday - and love for the first time, and betrayal.
As if yesterday Covers guitars until the morning,
Trying to climb ever higher notes.
Like yesterday flooded trump game
Sucked into other things and other concerns.
Like yesterday it was on the first rafts,
When finally gained an understanding of nature.
Like yesterday to find my way in the dark,
Like yesterday again found themselves at a crossroads.
Like yesterday from the good were not looking good,
Proud of a country that has always stood behind their backs.
Like yesterday the country swept the wind.
Oh, no country, but pride for some reason remained.
Like yesterday, it was like it was yesterday:
Taxi at the gate, suitcases in rawhide straps ...
By measuring the period of fleeting spark of fire,
And one for the road again - but on the way back.
Like yesterday - something fun, something bitter row,
That hunger - not my aunt, the drunken satiety by the throat.
The road ahead - just the beginning of the road back
And how many of those already in Pososhkov roads Easterly.
As if life yesterday flew continuous commotion,
And remember now - and nothing seems zryashnoe.
And the present moment - one for the road on the way home -
The next day will be remembered by our yesterday's.

February 1996

His sequel to One for the Road, creatively titled One for the Road - 2 was written nearly 10 years later in 1996 and largely consists of the line “as it was yesterday”, repeated no less than 16 times, on every other line.

“As it was yesterday there is no house nor home for the soul, as it was yesterday - both first love and betrayal, as it was yesterday we didn’t put the guitar away until the morning,” goes one Kerouac-esque verse.

The poem also contains other cryptic gems such as “this hunger is no babe of mine, this drunk satiety in my throat, the road ahead - only the start of the road back”.

Reference: Russian Foreign Minister Publishes New York-Inspired Beat Poetry.

The algorithms for Google Translate have much room for improvement, but which, along with the Newsweek article, nevertheless give us a sense for the poetry.  I love hearing about poetry coming out from someone, whom we do not expect to have poetry in him.

One for the Road, by Sergei Lavrov

Sergei Lavrov

It takes a thick skinned man to serve as Vladimir Putin’s ambassador to the world for a term, let alone for almost two decades, but it seems Moscow’s most senior foreign official, hailed as “the formidable face” of Putin’s foreign policy has a softer side.

Russian foreign minister Sergei Lavrov, who has headed the ministry since 2004 after spending the decade prior as Russia’s ambassador in the UN, has published a series of beat poems in today’s issue of the Russian arts magazine Russkiy Pioner (Russian Pioneer).

ПОСОШОК

Ну вот и подана карета,
И похмелились кучера.
И в дымке нового рассвета —
Огни вчерашнего костра.
Гнедых коней впрягли надежных,
И столбовой свободен тракт,
И шпага вынута из ножен,
Как будто нет пути назад.
Пришиты новые погоны,
И вылит на душу бальзам.
Святые отданы поклоны
Родным могилам и крестам.
Уж бьют копытами гнедые,
И пыль стряхнули с вензелей,
Долги погашены былые
Ценою новых векселей.
Со скрипом тронулась карета,
Просевши низко на осях.
И кучер правит на Манхэттен,
Кнут над гнедыми занося.
Вот, набирая обороты,
Колеса замесили грязь,
Но словно сзади держит кто-то,
Не отпускает, навалясь.
Все тяжелей ступая в глину,
На шаг гнедые перешли.
Не пересилить пуповину,
Что протянулась из земли.
Так и себя не пересилить,
Хоть кажется — почти сумел.
За нашу слабость. За Россию.
За наш удел и наш предел.

Март 1989 года

Reference: Эмигранты — не русское слово.

Google Translate

One for the road, Sergei Lavrov

Well, that's filed coach,
And the hangover coachman.
And in the haze of a new dawn -
Lights the fire yesterday.
Bay horses harnessed reliable,
And the pillar free path,
And the sword unsheathed,
As if there is no turning back.
New straps are sewn,
And poured balm on the soul.
The Saints are given bows
Family graves and crosses.
Already beat hoofs bay,
And dust is shaken with monograms,
Old debts repaid
At the cost of new bills.
Creaking carriage moved on,
Sagging low on the axes.
And the driver is ruled to Manhattan
Whip over the bay holding up.
Here is gaining momentum,
Wheels kneaded mud,
But if the back is holding someone
Do not let go, in bulk.
All lumbered into the clay,
Step bay crossed.
Do not overpower the umbilical cord,
That stretches from the ground.
And myself do not overpower,
Though it seems - almost failed.
For our weakness. For Russia.
For our destiny and our limit.

March 1989

Lavrov’s first poem, written in 1989 as his term as Russia’s ambassador the UN’s New York headquarters had come to an end, is entitled One for the Road and it draws inspiration from a Manhattan horse carriage ride bordering on profundity with such illuminating turns of phrase such as the line: “How the hooves pound at the bay, and shake off the dusty inscriptions, old debts were duly paid, but at the expense of brand new bills.”

At the end of the poetic tour de force Lavrov’s narrator emerges from the carriage and remarks: “Ever-heavy I step into the clay, with a single step I cross the bay, I must not strain the umbilical cord, that stretches far across the land.”

Reference: Russian Foreign Minister Publishes New York-Inspired Beat Poetry.

The algorithms for Google Translate have much room for improvement, but which, along with the Newsweek article, nevertheless give us a sense for the poetry.  I love hearing about poetry coming out from someone, whom we do not expect to have poetry in him.