To Feel the Poem Dance: A Report from the First International Poetry Olympics

Dateline: 11/24/98

An email interview with Gary Glazner, individual champion at the First International Poetry Olympics held in Stockholm, Sweden last month:

Bob: Mr. Glazner, sir, so good of you to be with us from your 'round-the-world perch!

Gary: Hello, Bob! I´m here in Barcelona accessing the bits you wired from New York as questions. I´m a slow key-stroker -- let me print you out so we can conduct the Net-erview at a little tapas dive just off Las Ramblas. Come on in, the chorizo is hot and the house red is 100 pesetas a glass (3 cents). Last night this plaza was filled with a rally, to extradite Pinochet to Spain and castrate him for the atrocities he inflicted during his reign in Chile.

What fire the people have! The speaker got them chanting. They broke into a rhythmic clapping like a flamenco dance, calling out, waving “clip the devil´s horns” signs. Not your rent-a-protester whine-in like in the States, but shoes-shined middle-aged folks and buzz-cut clean college kids lisping for justice.

Here we are in the Tapaporium. How about a plate of octopus with olives? Smell the chorizo? What’s this in Time? Ted Hughes is dead. I was just reading Birthday Letters,* strong poems. What made me want to meet Hughes, sit down and share toothpicks like we´re doing, was his book in which he took Shakespeare´s plays and stripped out sections showing how they work as poems on their own (The Essential Shakespeare*). How he ended up with two wives committing suicide, who knows? I´ll miss never chatting Shakespeare with him. Uno mas vino, por favor -- this one’s for Ted.

OK, Bob, let’s visit the Poetry Olympics!

First, a hearty CONGRATULATIONS! You are the very First International Poetry Olympics Champeen. How does it feel?

The date of the POlympics final was October 17, 1998, eight years to the day from the first National Poetry Slam held in Frisco. I spent most of that afternoon in 1990 making the trophy, a woman´s high-heeled boot on a stack of poetry books painted gold. So it was very sweet to receive the Swedish version, a sandal on books, including sock, with the paint still wet! Of course none of this poetry competition would work if the poets didn’t care about winning, honing their performances. It was exciting to connect with the audience, feel the poem dance, galloping to the wire, nose sniffing laurel.

What was the format in Stockholm? What teams were there?

Bulgaria, Croatia, Estonia, Finland, Moldavia, Sweden, and USA were represented. Only Bulgaria and Sweden had the full four-poet teams. The events:

• Individual
• Team
• Poetry in Motion
• Triathlon

The format was the same as the US slam: three-minute limit, no props, no music -- except for the Triathlon, where the teams were made up of a poet, a dancer, and a musician. Since most of the poets were new to the format we had some wonderful, rule-bending moments: a poet removing his shoe to represent his father, and another poet announcing that the poem would begin when she emerged from behind the curtain, only to disappear for a few minutes.

What languages were the poems in? Translations? What were the highlights? Did any of the poets use music or exotic performance techniques?

The poems were mostly in Swedish and English. Poems were also read in Bulgarian, French, Moldavian, and Russian, and Erkki Lappalainen read in the language of Silence. Of the translations, Moldavian into French was especially musical. One poem was read in French to the cadence of Poe´s “The Raven.” I won the individual event; the other series were won by the Swedish poets. It was clear from the Swedes’ domination that, in the future, having written translations into the language where the POlympics are being held would help the audience and the judging of the event. In fairness to the hosts, they were spot-on; their poems really shined.

For me, the real highlight was watching how the poets’ idea of performing grew over the week. Most of the Swedish poets had been to the US Nationals, but for the other poets slamming was new. Their performances rapidly improved. The Bulgarians had a hilarious piece the final night that spoofed the atmosphere of the bar scene in Stockholm, with the poet being drowned out by people talking, so the poem became the background conversation, with the poet silently gesturing.

Another highlight was the Croatian Triathlon team which was made up of a mother/poet with her son/flutist and daughter/dancer. They did a piece about leaving their country that left some of the audience in tears.

The Poetry in Motion event went from simply moving through the audience to salsa dancing. The Swedish Triathlon team used gongs and chimes with stylized dance reminiscent of Merce Cunningham.

Outside of the events there was one night we all hung around a big pot of soup, singing songs from our countries. Meeting the poets is the best reason for slams!

What is the future of International Slamming? Do the US Nationals relate to the Olympics at all?

Bulgaria is hot for next year. The POlympics is organized by the IOPP, International Organization of Performing Poets. Erkki Lappalainen is the President, with Michael Brown as Secretary. So it comes right out of the National Poetry Slam, an unofficial sister thing. For ‘99 I look for a US team chosen out of the Nationals.

Erkki made everyone feel at home and set a strong foundation for growth of the POlympics.

Could you read us your winning poem? Oh, and btw, what did you win?

1000 Swedish Kroner, just enough to mail home the lovely golden sandal trophy. Here´s the poem:

The Oracle of Delphi

The only ones left to answer any questions
are the rocks.
They know the yellow of the sun´s sour heat.
What trees drink. How the empty seats of the theater
clamor for an audience.
The immovable rocks are spewing forth their nonsense
so I´ll interpret.
They are disgusted by the lack of air.
They await the rebirth of breath.
They look down to the sea,
to Byron´s grave, his heart buried far
from his body.
The rocks fill the empty cavity of his chest.
Sounding voices
of the nations of the world.
They understand every tongue.
Answer with the years of the earth.
The rocks care not for nations.
They speak the silence between languages.
The Oracle is gone.
She has left the rocks as prophets.
To tell us what is blood.
What is this flow, this beat inside.
Daring us to come out, to
feel the sun´s warm knowledge.
Tell me your secret, is it the fire of stars?
Tell me your story, how quiet is stone?
Do the mountains know how much you
want to sleep with them?
Sweeping away the dirt from your grave,
I touch the stone above your bones.
I smell the orange scent of
death rising from your tomb flowers.
In the valley above Delphi,
you came back to die.
You loved the fabric of this land.
Made your own cloth of light.
Wove the myths to hold beauty.
To hold love.
Have a bite of this pomegranate.
You are not the Oracle,
although your seed is buried with her.
I have so many questions,
if I started to ask, I would
also lie down forever.
Live as these rocks live.
See the future they see.

That’s a tenner in anybody’s book, Gary!

Love to all, all over, and out.

Gary Mex Glazner has spent 1998 traveling around the world meeting poets and writing poems. He is working on a book about his escape from the cage of retail sales into the world of poetry. His report from China appeared here in September.

What do you think about international, multilingual poetry competition? Exchange? The problem of translation? Come on over to our Poetry Bulletin Board & let's talk.

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