I’ve only written one piece whose voice was totally in “slam”. It was easily 4 or 5 years ago but I remember that as I was writing, and for sure when I was finished, I could hear with my mind ears that distinctive, I will not be ignored, “cadence”.
In fact, I could not read the words straight. As if by poetic possession, my inner voice would only perform this piece as apparently it was intended. Some sort of badass bard voice…slam. That’s my word for it. I don’t know what it is really. Dub poetry? Close? Not quite.
In a milisecond of that moment, my body knew. I felt it. Just felt it. Poe-slammetry. Know what I mean? In my head, the voice was perfect. In my head, the inflection was perfect. Yet not translateable. Outloud. I was hearing my piece perfectly, internally. In my cranium only, was this cerebellic surrealty. Of performance art.
Where did it come from? This stylistic hijacking. I hadn’t listened to the Last Poets in years. Hadn’t tuned into anything that would have planted a seed of insurrection or feelings of “political” oppression lol. So why this intense, insistent, very specific expression of my words. Where did this come from? This spoken word.
I have not written anything like it since. Not a single group of words since has insisted on being voiced so specifically. There was no playing with them for effect. No arbitrary interpretation. One way, the only way, would give them life. It was through deliberate, emotionally urgent, intentionally intonated expression that set them free.
Coincidence the title of this piece was “Life”? At this moment, I think not. My body produced the words. My body interpreted the words. My body spoke for my brain, spoke for my mind that which was going unattended. Life.
I wanted to do a proper Ten Things of Thankful post this weekend. This came out instead. It’s pretty awesome to think I still can link up at this very cool hop. Where, if only for 48 hours, I can feel I am among birds of a feather. Joining 2-gether. Flock of one. Never undone.
Thank you. Mr. Jackson.