Word: poem
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...recent years, the distinct art forms of "poetry slamming" and "spoken-word" have moved out of coffee houses and into the mainstream, heralding a convergence of poetry with performance. Unfortunately, those who explore poetry through visual media always run the risk of yielding a result at odds with the poem's intended message; or, even worse, one that reflects badly on the poem itself. A casual viewing of the films exhibited in the Museum of Fine Arts October 16 program, "Poetry on Film and in Performance," indicated that a fine line still exists in the video arts world between visualizing...
...with steeling himself against the gore, the blood and the tragedy in order to reconstruct the destroyed face and "exploded head" of the victim, so his mother's "dreams of her baby / in tuxedoed satin" can be fulfilled. Libert and Parker intersperse video of Smith's recitation of the poem with shadowy figures, discreet images of hands molding flesh onto the skull underneath and childhood playground scenes almost ominous in their innocence...
Smith's own experience as a seasoned "slam" artist is evident: her delivery of her own piece is remarkable. The viewer quite literally gets chills watching Smith's fury overtake her face during the most powerful part of the poem, when the undertaker fights off an urge to "take [the mother] down / to the chilly room, open the bag" and confront her with the remains of her son, so she can grasp the reality of his death, "wither finally, and move...
Lukoma recited a poem entitled "Congo," inspired by Professor of History Leroy Vail's course, Historical Studies A-21: "Modern Africa from...
...scenes on which it depends can hardly command a modicum of even vague interest from readers. True, the novel's pages bleed together, but Bleeding London is a wounded creature. A writer once said of Ezra Pound, "he is a great poet who has never written a great poem." In the world of lyric prose, Nicholson neither leads nor follows. Rather, he occupies that awkward region in between--usually above reproach, seldom awe-inspiring--where many decent writers languish in anonymity. Bleeding London is, well, bloody awful...