Back down at Subrosa - so schlimm wir auch sind
Wie kann ich überhaupt über einen Slam schreiben wo ich selber mitgemacht habe? Na ja, es war aber doch kein Slam, sondern ein Jam. Und wenn ich nicht drüber schreiben darf, wer sollte überhaupt entscheiden?
On Monday I was back in Subrosa, by the docks, the small riverdocks of Dortmund. This time I finally understood the difference between a Poetry Slam and a Poetry Jam. Big difference. You see, last time I had participated it was just at the moment of the selection for the slam championship, so the competition was feroscious. The first time I didn't participate nor even completely understand what was going on, although there was Annika Blanke. Her poetry is the most gorgeous experience I've had with life readings.
This time around, anyways, I wasn't half as late as I expected, and so I could sign up propperly and sit along with other newcommers and some more experienced poets and performers.
"Hier ist es eigentlich kein Wetbewerb" said a guy fellow who had turned ou to be my classmade, though I'd thought I had met him there before.
"Is auch besser so" answered another poet.
"Wenn es ein Wetbewerb ist, fühlt man sich doch gezwungen etwas zu machen, das gefällt" added a third one, a fellow from Bochum, and I thought the same.
"Mir ist es egal" replied the second poet, "Ich lees was ich will, auch wenn ich in der ersten Runde bleibe"
Er las wahrhaftig, was er wollte. Er zeigte wirklich, das es ihm egal war. Auf der Bühne redete er über lyrische und erotische unverständliche Kontraktionen: "Ich liebe diese Hure" - und die Mädchen die neben mir saßen fingen automatisch an zu spotten, und ihm ist es total egal, er kommt einfach zurück und erzählt, wir er sich nackt auszieht, ja, aber um sich in Wörtern zu durchwühlen und den Duden zu inhalieren. Applaus gab es kaum, gerade weil es Lyrik war.
Beim Publikum kamen diese Nacht viel besser die Geschichten vom wütenden Pony und der Streit mit Gott damit er das Wasser zu einem Transformer macht. Funktioniert immer.
Dann war auch ein gewisser Pöne da, der irgendein ungerades, wundersames aber unverständliches Reden praktiziert hat. Und Rainer Holl, natürlich, der ist immer da, aber nie zuvor mit solch einem starken Rap-Rhythmus voller Beats. Nur so um ein Paar mehr zu nennen, von den vielen die wir da waren.
And then there were that other couple of guys, probably beginners. I hope they are at least half as noobs as me, really. People laughed, eventually, not about their jokes, but about them and their awkward situation. There was really no right way to react to that. For them, also, it was better for this not to be a contest, not a Jam but a Slam.
And then, there was I. I can't put myself in any of the above groups, again, the very fact that I am writing about a reading I participated already makes all of my judgements invalid. Who was to judge me then? The public? They just made long faces, looked anoyed by my depressive topics. And yeah, then I got nervous and fucked it all up again. A few contemptfull claps as I crouch down from the stage and try to find a shadow where somebody hasn't been looking at me with unsatisfied faces.
And yet, I know my poems are great. I know all of the people around me eventually missed the train, too, and felt stranded in space though they would not admit it. And I love my potatoe. Good for me this wasn't a contest. Good for the guys before me, too. What makes us any different? Is it just about not caring? Do I believe any more in my poetry than they believe in theirs? A true dork who follows the motivational lemma and never gives up, and deeply believes in himself, well, he's a real danger! And yet, no-one else can tell us who we are either.
On Monday I was back in Subrosa, by the docks, the small riverdocks of Dortmund. This time I finally understood the difference between a Poetry Slam and a Poetry Jam. Big difference. You see, last time I had participated it was just at the moment of the selection for the slam championship, so the competition was feroscious. The first time I didn't participate nor even completely understand what was going on, although there was Annika Blanke. Her poetry is the most gorgeous experience I've had with life readings.
This time around, anyways, I wasn't half as late as I expected, and so I could sign up propperly and sit along with other newcommers and some more experienced poets and performers.
"Hier ist es eigentlich kein Wetbewerb" said a guy fellow who had turned ou to be my classmade, though I'd thought I had met him there before.
"Is auch besser so" answered another poet.
"Wenn es ein Wetbewerb ist, fühlt man sich doch gezwungen etwas zu machen, das gefällt" added a third one, a fellow from Bochum, and I thought the same.
"Mir ist es egal" replied the second poet, "Ich lees was ich will, auch wenn ich in der ersten Runde bleibe"
Er las wahrhaftig, was er wollte. Er zeigte wirklich, das es ihm egal war. Auf der Bühne redete er über lyrische und erotische unverständliche Kontraktionen: "Ich liebe diese Hure" - und die Mädchen die neben mir saßen fingen automatisch an zu spotten, und ihm ist es total egal, er kommt einfach zurück und erzählt, wir er sich nackt auszieht, ja, aber um sich in Wörtern zu durchwühlen und den Duden zu inhalieren. Applaus gab es kaum, gerade weil es Lyrik war.
Beim Publikum kamen diese Nacht viel besser die Geschichten vom wütenden Pony und der Streit mit Gott damit er das Wasser zu einem Transformer macht. Funktioniert immer.
Dann war auch ein gewisser Pöne da, der irgendein ungerades, wundersames aber unverständliches Reden praktiziert hat. Und Rainer Holl, natürlich, der ist immer da, aber nie zuvor mit solch einem starken Rap-Rhythmus voller Beats. Nur so um ein Paar mehr zu nennen, von den vielen die wir da waren.
And then there were that other couple of guys, probably beginners. I hope they are at least half as noobs as me, really. People laughed, eventually, not about their jokes, but about them and their awkward situation. There was really no right way to react to that. For them, also, it was better for this not to be a contest, not a Jam but a Slam.
And then, there was I. I can't put myself in any of the above groups, again, the very fact that I am writing about a reading I participated already makes all of my judgements invalid. Who was to judge me then? The public? They just made long faces, looked anoyed by my depressive topics. And yeah, then I got nervous and fucked it all up again. A few contemptfull claps as I crouch down from the stage and try to find a shadow where somebody hasn't been looking at me with unsatisfied faces.
And yet, I know my poems are great. I know all of the people around me eventually missed the train, too, and felt stranded in space though they would not admit it. And I love my potatoe. Good for me this wasn't a contest. Good for the guys before me, too. What makes us any different? Is it just about not caring? Do I believe any more in my poetry than they believe in theirs? A true dork who follows the motivational lemma and never gives up, and deeply believes in himself, well, he's a real danger! And yet, no-one else can tell us who we are either.
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