By Sunday night, the hotel staff at the Providence Holiday Inn returned the display case of expensive watches back to the front of the lobby -- safe to do now that all the poets were gone. It was over. Nearly 250 competing poets and an entourage of hundreds of others descended on Providence for Nationals for the week, making the downtown streets look a lot busier than they otherwise would have. There were many things to love about Providence --­ one trip to Thayer Street was good enough for me --­ but at many daytime moments last week, I had the creepy feeling that I was in the middle of a Truman Show-styled movie set with not nearly enough extras. Where the throngs of poetry fans came from for the four nights of competition, I'm not quite sure. But they came, and they saw, and they witnessed an outstanding poetry show.

As a volunteer and host working closely with the organizers for the length of the week, I got to see the wizard behind the curtain on numerous occasions. I was one of the wizards behind the curtain two years before, and all the expressions on the Providence 2000 staff's faces were familiar to me: the exhaustion, the fight-or-flight moments as Primal Man Brain eclipses Well-Rested Brain, the joy and relief when segments of the week are signed, sealed, and successful. By the end of the week, you no longer fear death. This year's hosts were admirable in their attention to detail and their constant expenditure of energy. Problems, what few there were, were attended to on the spot, and not let go of until they were completely fixed. Diligence, dedication and a lack of sleep: the Providence crew gave to the poets. They should be applauded.

I've competed in four out of the five last Nationals, and the year I wasn't competing, I co-directed. So this year, merely hosting, I thought I'd see a lot of great stuff. And I did. But of course, there were many things I missed, not yet having the ability to astrally project myself from venue to venue. But here are some of my personal highlights:

The Texas factor. Every two years since '96, a Texas team has made the finals, and although none of them have just gone on and won the damn thing outright, they've always been memorable and inspiring in their Saturday showcases. San Antonio followed in the tradition of Austin and Dallas before them, coming closer than any Texas team before them -- within a tenth of a point of tying for first and two-tenths of a point of winning it outright. What the Boston disqualification meant for San Antonio was, after two harrowing hours of waiting for the most difficult decision in Nationals history, the team knew only twenty minutes before the team finals commenced that they were in for sure. They came through with the fire, poise, and earnest delivery they'd shown audiences all week. As an observer who's seen the team grow and develop over the last year, I knew they were good. I just didn't know they'd be quite this stellar, or get to shine on this level for the poetry nation.

Shappy in the individual semi-finals. Much of the work in the indie semis, although outstanding, dealt with identity politics and was delivered with a sharp, political edge -- and in the midst of that, Chicago's Shappy provided work from an entirely different world. Shappy is the most purely comic poet in the scene, and when he broke out “Does She Like Me?” in the first round, with a manic, sing-song, repeated “Doesshelikeme, doesshelikeme,” it took everything I had to keep from falling onto the venue's cold, concrete floor in laughter. His second piece, from the perspective of a malevolent cat, was genius as well. It was the first time any poet in the history of Nationals, as far as I know, broke out the word “dingleberries” . . . the first time any poet in the history of Nationals, as far as I know, captured coughing up a hairball quite that effectively. Shappy has a posse, and I'm right in the middle of it.

The youth slam. Two poems particularly stand out here. One poem, I believe from a Grand Rapids poet, featured the most brilliant opener I'd seen all week, in which the poet, after maniacally surveying the audience and gesturing toward them, proclaimed, “This is the freak show!” The other, from Connecticut's Dan Houston, was a perfect poem about being Catholic: no guilt, no apologies, delivered in such a way that you understood his connection to his faith without being preached at. It was beautiful, well-paced, and immaculately crafted. Lots to look forward to in the future.

The return of the group piece. Not only were two group pieces featured in the finals, as opposed to only a clearing piece by Albuquerque last year, but many fantastic group poems got their own Friday afternoon showcase. As co-host of the event, I was delighted to see the poems get a public viewing of their own. Hours upon hours of work go into the three-minute collaborative poem, and the work teams do on these pieces tells the individuals more about their cohesion as team members than any other endeavor they will undertake in a slam season. I applaud all the teams who made the commitment to group work.

The hip-hop showcase. Bristling work in a packed venue from a sizeable group of wordslingers and beatboxers.

Men in skirts. I haven't worn skirts since my goth days twelve years ago, and it took the stylin' New York contingent and Hollywood's Ben Porter Lewis to make me realize they were back. (Not many sarongs being worn in Texas, you know.) Even Chico's Big Poppa E got into the act by Friday, contemplating whether or not he would, um, liberate his testicles from the indignity of underwear for the evening's festivities. Vancouver's Ms. Spelt, who has been wearing skirts to Nationals for years, was immensely proud.

Shane Koyczan. Our first-ever international indie champion, Shane came through with poetry -- pure, unabashed, unapologetic poetry. He was beautiful in performance and graceful in victory. It took an emergency fundraiser to get Shane into Providence. For those who helped get Shane to us: thank you.

AS-220. As hot as it was -- a hot that reminded me of Austin's Electric Lounge and San Antonio's El Toro -- it was the best venue of Nationals, due to its alert staff and kindness to poets. I was lucky enough to host there two of my three nights, and the crowds it drew were extremely responsive.

And now, for the miscellaneous superlatives:

• Best shirt: Dawn Gabriel's “I Love Dorks” T-shirt, worn at the semi-finals.
• Best whirling dervish: Staceyann Chin in the team finals.
• Best tease: The Friday morning posting of semis matchups, which told us Austin and Dallas would be heading into the semis for the fourth straight year. As it turns out, there was a scoring error which changed a few positions up near the top, and so it was San Antonio, not Dallas, joining both Chicago teams in the lovefest. Apparently, Austin not running into another Texas team in the semi-finals is a sign of the apocalypse.
• Safest cheer in the Austin/San Antonio/Chicago-Green Mill/Chicago-Mad Bar bout: “I-35 rules!”
• Best battle of the titans: Boston against Oakland in the semis. Controversy aside, both teams had phenomenal pieces, and both teams left everything they had on the stage.
• Best karaoke performance: Chico's Bear turned in a tour de force performance of “Stairway to Heaven” that mixed singing with freestyle poetry. Even better than the production number that “Bohemian Rhapsody” became. (Note: I heard more “Stairway to Heaven” in Providence than I have in years, even those years when I devotedly listened to metal stations.)
• Most improved: Chico.
• Best-kept secret (but not for long): Kalamazoo. Along with San Antonio, the buzz team of the tournament.
• Best line in the Opening Ceremonies intro pieces: From John in Chico, during a piece in which they talk about how badly they'd do: “Do they score every poem?”
• Best Opening Ceremonies intro piece: Cape Cod. The Ethel Merman take was huge.
• Best pretend-to-be-mad-at-the-host-and-then-tell-him-how-wonderful-things-are moment: Winston-Salem's Lynn Felder, to Bill MacMillan, at the Friday brunch.
• Best MC: Hands down, Danny Solis. He ran things efficiently and pumped up the room in a way that helped all the poets.
• Best line of the tournament: So I show my bias here -- “Hey Charlton! You ain't Moses!” from San Antonio's T-Bone in the finals night duet.
• Best regal entrance: Patricia Smith taking the stage for indie semis.
• Tournament MVPs: John Powers and Bill MacMillan. They ran the farthest, they answered the most questions, they got the least amount of sleep, they gave and gave and gave so we could take in a week of outstanding work. Bill “relaxed” by going to Worcester the next day for an EC meeting followed by hosting an open-mike and feature event which highlighted nearly 30 poets over the course of 3½ hours. That's dedication.

--Phil West

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