My first guest blogger. Curtis X. Meyer wrote this review of Wordstock.
First
things first – I entered Wordstock miserable, on account of horrendous
directions given out by Mapquest. While my information did mention dirt roads,
it also said the journey would take no more than an hour and 15 minutes. Yeah,
about that. I left my house in Winter Park, Florida around 8:30AM, and
definitely arrived on the premises slightly past 11AM. When I finally found the
dirt road I was supposed to turn on off the highway, it was marked by a series
of plywood signs with the word “FESTIVAL” in all caps, pointing in the
direction of what I could assume was the only, if not, at least most important
festival event in town.
When
I followed the last sign through the gates circling the property, I only knew I
had arrived at the proper location because I recognized the familiar faces of
some poets I knew, manning the front. I half-expected to be greeted by the
theme music from Jurassic Park.
And
grouchy though I was after my three-hour tour, I have to say, the spot chosen
to host Wordstock was capital–G Gorgeous:
A lush, green valley overlooked by a boathouse into an algae-thick lake; two
stages for acoustic and spoken word performers; a pair of fire pits ready for
drum circles by night; booths where vendors sold jewelry and told fortunes; an
outside kitchen that served fruits, danish, granola bars, and lunch-wrap
sandwiches by donation -- it looked like a camp for poets. Which is to say, for
this poet, it was pretty much Valhalla.
Now,
as happy as I was to be back on solid ground, my gelled hair, khakis, and GQ
sunglasses made me feel a tad overdressed in the company of so many jeans and
t-shirts. It certainly didn’t help that black button shirt was helping to melt
me into a pile of wax beneath the Florida sun. Still, the shade, complimentary
bottled water, and abundance of smiles provided by the staff were quick to make
me feel at home.
But
then, someone tells me I’m hosting a writing workshop at 1PM.
What.
Apparently
they know something I don’t.
It
is now 11:30AM. Thankfully, I have my notebooks in my car to pull something
quickly out of the ether, but I have only an hour-and-a-half to do it. While
there was talk of me hosting a workshop before today, I definitely received no
email, phone call, et cetera telling me I have officially been appointed such
duties. No worries. I’ll wing it.
I
spend the next 120 minutes putting together slips for my prompt. Typically, I
write the names of various poetry forms – sonnet, sestina, ballad, pantoum, limerick,
ghazal, et cetera – on slips of paper and put those slip in a sandwich bag.
Then, I get those in my workshop to write down three to five ideas or things
they think would be interesting topics for poems on slips of their own paper,
and have them put these slips in a second sandwich bag. At the end of my
lesson, I have everyone pick three slips from each, effectively choosing
prompts for one another. “Ghazal” and “cupcakes” becomes a challenge for the
recipient to write a ghazal about, in the voice of, or featuring cupcakes.
“Sonnet” and “muscle cars” is meant to likewise inspire a similar poem, and so
on and so forth.
I
frantically cut slips with the names of poem forms from the pages of my
notebook as The 1,000 Poets For Change open mic takes place onstage within
earshot. In the absence of sandwich bags, I substitute with two plastic grocery
bags from Wal*Greens I was fortunate to have in my car. No sooner do I finish
my last page of slips, cut with a pair of scissors I was also lucky enough to have
in my vehicle, than I hear that the workshop is about to go on – and be hosted by Elaine Person.
Elaine
is a good friend, and a fine poet. But after hitting the ground running, and
rushing to get a writing prompt together, I am more than a little curious as to
what the plan is.
Elaine
and I agree to host the workshop together. I begin by having everyone
contribute five poetry topics to the empty bag. Elaine hosts her portion of the
workshop, inspiring our peers to write rough poems inspired by a series of old
t-shirts she has brought with her. I follow up with a brief lesson on elocution
and the presentation of poetry as a live art-form. The conversation is lively,
full of raised hands and enthusiastic questions. I wrap up with everyone picking
three prompts and poetry forms from each bags, hoping everyone goes home with
concepts for poems stewing their creative juices.
And
then the slam. Friend and fellow Orlando poet Tod Caviness. According to the flyer/brochure and online
information for Wordstock, two slams are scheduled, one for “Spoken Word” at
4PM and another for “Traditional Coffeehouse Style” at 7PM. No one, self included,
knows what the difference is. (And I’ve been performing in poetry slams and
open mics for almost a decade.)
twenty
poets sign up for the first slam, with 12 to move on to the second round, and 5
in the final round. Deep in my brain, I think this is murder. A typical slam
held at a pub or coffeehouse, should be capped at 12 poets, so as not to incur
the wrath of the venue staff, who no doubt would want to clean up the spot and
go home. I have no idea if we started on time, but when I looked at my cell
phone to see the time, it was 6:30PM and
the first round was only halfway through. Keep in mind, the second slam was
to start at 7pm.
In
the end, Maxine Hamilton, after beating me in the first round, took 3rd
place overall, beneath myself and Peter Gordan, in 1st and 2nd
place, respectively. The second slam, and a slam finals that was to occur the
next morning never took place, though everyone got to see one monumental show,
featuring many poets who had never graced the stage before in a competitive
format. I for one, was lucky enough to be exposed to poets I had been
previously unfamiliar with including Peter and Maxine, managing in the process
to make not only new friends, but find new poetic influences practically in my
own backyard.
And
while The 1st Annual Wordstock Festival proved to be a bumpy ride,
between walking away $100 richer and ending my night with a stellar bowl of
chili and cornbread from the kitchen, as I watched the sun go down, I could not
help but think it could only get bigger and better.
Perhaps next
year more locals could be persuaded to come out, and guest poets from out-of-town
could present feature sets and workshops in addition to a pair of (shorter)
slams. Maybe, even a head-to-head haiku battle. Whatever lies on the horizon
for Wordstock, this event proved only the beginning of things to come.
