Not on the upper wing, but down in the belly of the Members Room of the Mitchell Wing of the State Library still and the gathering is swilling their blue tongue. Poetry Slam Finals for the state and wide. And a little wide is that of Melbourne, one entry from that south of the border state.
Vee from SL U35 is checking off the names and it's a big list. The notice on the table is that the event is sold out. No wandering fools to pleasure, just those pre-booked. Second year and this thing is getting big.
Corner dwelling is the spot as a band of drinkers form a barrier to the viewing. No room to move, far less to throw around empty plastic goblets into the non-existent overhanging fans.
Miles Merrill once again the host with the most of the toasting and the roasting of the hair. A straight up deception to the reception and the welcoming is all in the air. Interesting times with the move next year of the Poetry Slam, moving beyond the city, beyond the state and fielding far across Australia wide.
Bravo Child, winner supreme of last year is this year's sacrificial lamb. An ever as always energetic script and wit into the spit that occupies the time he shoots wide eyed off the centre stage.
One and from there the poetic competitors battle it out. First up on the microphone shouting crazy like the men out late on the night, broken beer bottles in hand. Serving up the end is nothing and the shouting never ends. Until the end of the first two minutes.
Names of the players are foreign, and the refreshing spectacle of it all is more than a fickle flair of the night. Cruel spate of differences making their names forgettable in the rush, their execution and elocution all the sparks that need light up the night.
No books, no books, no books, all books around and round the walls of the venue. Reeks of books and the hooks of turning the next page makes wait for the next battling poet a hard fought fate.
Colonel Funtastico is a sheer delight with the tale of his life in the strife of nineteen dirty fork. Jenny Fitzgerald swings the saddleback of a hillbilly tone to pick up as the runner up. Doherty on the PC works too many of the cliches and it's a Victor from Broken Hill that props it up on his tommy gun tongue. Alana Hicks stares right through to make the second last and it's eery watching the watched watch back at the watchers.
Messages are clear and the beef of the reef is that the entire reason of being is to impart some knowledge, in a way, in a style, that best befits the ones with the gift of the tongue. Up down into the sad frown of refrain noticeably and thankfully gone for the jumping and the raving and the freestyling out from the front.
No front to affront, the mettle of the battle is done and gone. Clear for the year, Geoff Lemon all the way hailing from down there in Melbourne to don the winner's medal.
Before the winner's name, Bracket Creep, a boy band of poetry, perform two stunning skits with all the yes and no's now all definitely maybes. A history lesson on the poetic form trumps the night with a haiku to boot.
Friday, 8 December 2006 - 06:59
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