blueprints

the seCond throat
Poetry Slam
patricia smith
In August 1999, the tenth anniversary National Poetry Slam was held in
Chicago. Depending on whom you talked to, the slam either strode back
home sporting a cocky grin and a glittering lopsided crown or she limped
in from a back alley, jittery and bruised, avoiding direct eye contact and
reluctantly showing her age.
By the time the celebrated and vilified poetry competition reached
double digits, everyone in the poetry community and many beyond it had
an opinion. The slam was necessary breath, a rousing kick in the rear for an
art form that wheezed dust and structure. Or it was a death knell for the
genre, a brash and quirky theater complete with scorecards; unruly poetics
by common, untenured folk; and “judges” who were actually prized for
their lack of qualifications.
But no matter how you felt about her, the ole girl had certainly grown
up. And everyone agreed that she couldn’t have been born anywhere else.
My hometown is the land of blatant politicking, Vienna hot dogs at five
in the morning, and the city as mean but efficient machine. It’s Mayor
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