Abseiling Down the Cliff Face of a Poetry Slam!

Patrons squeeze and joust for prime position in the packed Phoenix pub. Amber ale flows as poets sign up hoping to wow the crowd with their words. Then the spirited audience quiets as two men appear on stage, one who is sporting a short sharp hair style and trimmed goatee, the other man is taller and has a shaggy black hair and beard.

The man with the shaggy black hair and beard then steps up to the microphone, “Welcome to BAD!SLAM!NO!BISCUIT!”. The crowd responds with a deafening array of claps, yawps and woos.

He goes on to explain the rules of the night. Through his explanation, participating poets nervously finger their poems, while others listen to the scoring system and the most important rule of the night. Which is if someone’s poem goes for more than two minutes and thirty seconds the crowd must yell BAD! SLAM! NO! BISCUIT!” until the poet leaves the stage.

“BAD!SLAM! was my first real foray into poetry slams. It encourages all kinds of poetry, without being precious about any of it. It’s scary-fun to be a poet at BAD!SLAM!, kind of like abseiling down a cliff face with your own words, hoping against hope that someone in the audience is holding on to your belay rope, and someone always is,” explains poet Zoe.

Next, the man with the short hair style and goatee stretches his arms out wide and says, “I’m the Master of Conflict you can all make noise now”. The next second the pub is again filled with clapping and woos. He then set’s a challenge for the participating poets. Whoever can draw him the best-looking duck will also win first prize.

The sacrificial poet is then called to the stage. A smaller man, wearing glasses and a brown suit strides on to the stage. Without a second thought he grabs the microphone and is ready to warm up the crowd and to take the place of the dreaded first poet position. His Kevin Rudd poem is met with laughter and applause. The random judges, picked from the crowd earlier in the night, express their feelings with numbers ranging from minus infinite to ten. He exits, it was a job well done.

The competition then officially begins and an array of poets share their words; one talks about their lamenting experience with love, another about his workplace and how the toilet area is not really that clean. Judges then score and critique as the crazy night rolls on.

“In one evening you’ll hear a number of completely different journeys, which people have embarked on and then come to share. It’s a whirlwind through humanity, art, despair, love, passion, and toilet humour. And that’s just the poetry,” says Mark, an excited audience participant.

As the halfway mark hits, the feature act brings their musical talents to the night, where both poets and audience members enjoy a bit of a dance. But as soon as the music stops, the night turns back to the poets. A tall man with long brown dreadlocks gets up on stage and delivers a poem that goes for more than two minutes and thirty seconds, like vultures circling prey, the audience starts the chant.

“BAD! SLAM! NO! BISCUIT!, BAD! SLAM! NO! BISCUIT! BAD! SLAM! NO! BISCUIT!”

The poet, knowing this was going to happen, cheekily goes on, but the crowd unrelenting with their chant, sees him walk off stage with a smirk. The horde happily applaud.

Long-time participating poet Charles describes BAD!SLAM!NO!BISCUIT! as “a place where the polite poetic reverence is replaced with volume and profanity and the crowd is enthusiastically disobedient”.

Charles goes on to say, “I’ve learnt a lot from BAD!SLAM!, and that it’s bigger than any of the people involved. I’ve learnt having fun is key to loving what you do, and that it’s more important to love what you do than be perfect at it”.

As the night draws to an end, a myriad of first prizes are handed out, ranging from cereal packs and fruit to a measly loaf of bread. The fun of the night does not end here though. There is still much drinking to do and in his ending spiel, the Master of Conflict reminds everyone that “poetry is the real winner”.