Poems by Henry Kanabus
THE SCYTHE
The wind accounted for all
it had shattered
(night-dancing
in lace prints of bone)
We confuse its wisdom
with the anger of cats . both
lay large upon the wheat
We realize the urgency and notify
the heliotrope
Its is waving its arms
in a thousand different parodies.
Slam: The Death of Poetry
One evening in Chicago I received an invitation from Al Simmons to be a "referee" at the first "Poetry Bout."I said "What the hell is that."
He said he would build a boxing ring in TUT, a popular club across from Berlin, both neo-hip watering holes at the Northern edge of Chicago's New Town.
"A boxing ring?"
"Yeah," he answered. "We'll put two poets in together and let them read one poem a piece and let the audience choose the winner."
I was not in a good mood (rarely am) and said "That's fucking crazy, man. Poetry is not a competition." I was rather naive then...
"It'll be a Hit." he said
"That's not the fucking point." I said. "If Brother Theodore and Emily Dickinson read; who do you think would win? And who is the better poet?''
"But it'll make money.''
"Count me out," I said, and hung up the phone
Years later, Poetry Readings had to be re-named Spoken Word - To distinguish themselves
from the mob-trashing of Literature called Slam poetry.
>>> more fron Henry.
