slam poetry
Slam poetry: that magical mix of rhythm and rhyme.
Burn, Baby, Burn
Introduction That's it, all the current Vocal Challenges have been entered now, this is the place where I burn them all. I got a Top Story for one of my entries, thanks to a recommendation by Caitlin Charlton, so this has been a successful set of Vocal Challenges for me.
By Mike Singleton đź’ś Mikeydred 4 months ago in Poets
The Heart of Humanity: How Poetry Connects Us All
On a quiet Sunday morning in a city that never quite stopped moving, something unusual was happening in Central Park. Beneath the wide branches of an old oak tree, a small crowd had gathered—not for a concert, a protest, or a marathon, but for poetry. ‎ ‎There was no stage, no microphone, no tickets. Just a circle of people—young and old, from different parts of the city and beyond—reading poems aloud, listening, and sharing. Some brought classics from Rumi, Tagore, and Maya Angelou. Others read their own verses, voices shaking slightly, hearts laid bare. ‎ ‎At the center of the circle sat Elena, a retired schoolteacher who had started this informal gathering during the lockdowns. “I wanted to keep people connected when we were all feeling so apart,” she said. “I thought maybe a few friends would come. Now, three years later, we’re here every week—and there’s always someone new.” ‎ ‎Poetry, often considered a quiet and solitary art, was doing something remarkable. It was reaching people. Not just in quiet parks, but online, in schools, in cafes, on social media—everywhere. Hashtags like #PoetryHeals and #VersesForChange had millions of views. Teenagers were sharing haikus on TikTok. Elders were reciting old poems on YouTube. Refugees were writing verses in camps. Prison inmates were expressing dreams through stanzas. And readers—millions of them—were listening. ‎ ‎Why poetry? Why now? ‎ ‎According to Dr. Amina Bell, a literature professor and social psychologist, the answer lies in poetry’s simplicity—and its depth. “In just a few lines, poetry can capture what entire books cannot,” she explains. “It gives people a way to process their emotions, to feel seen, and to connect with others. Especially in times of uncertainty, poetry feels like a lifeline.” ‎ ‎Indeed, the world in recent years has faced profound challenges—pandemics, wars, climate change, isolation. In these moments, people turn inward. They search for meaning. They look for words that don’t just explain, but feel. ‎ ‎And poetry is feeling, distilled. ‎ ‎Consider the story of Rafiq, a young man who fled conflict in Syria and resettled in Sweden. At a refugee center, he began writing poems in Arabic about his journey, grief, and hope. Volunteers helped translate his work, and soon his poems were published in a small anthology. One of his verses reads: ‎ ‎"I carried my home in my chest / like a bird keeps a sky / folded inside its wings." ‎ ‎That one line touched thousands, reminding readers not just of Rafiq’s story, but of their own longing—for safety, belonging, and beauty. ‎ ‎Then there’s Ava, a teenager in Brazil who struggled with anxiety during the lockdowns. She started writing short poems on her phone and posting them online. To her surprise, people responded with kindness and resonance. “It was like I wasn’t alone anymore,” she said. “And neither were they.” ‎ ‎Poetry today isn’t just found in dusty books or academic journals. It’s on subway walls, in Instagram captions, printed on coffee cups, and spoken at open mics. It’s becoming a language of the people—accessible, personal, and healing. ‎ ‎Governments and educators are taking note. Schools in Finland, India, and Canada have introduced daily “poetry minutes” where students read or write a short verse to begin the day. Hospitals in several countries now employ "poet therapists" who use poetry to help patients process trauma. Even corporations are exploring poetry as a tool for empathy and communication. ‎ ‎But perhaps the most powerful impact of poetry is the human one—the simple, sacred act of sharing words. ‎ ‎Back under the oak tree in Central Park, Elena listens as a boy of about ten reads a poem he wrote about his dog. His voice is soft, but steady. When he finishes, the group claps warmly. ‎ ‎“That was beautiful,” Elena tells him. “Thank you for sharing your heart.” ‎ ‎Later, she reflects: “We live in a noisy world. Poetry helps us listen—to each other, to ourselves, to the silence between the words.” ‎ ‎As the sun dips behind the buildings, casting long shadows on the grass, the group slowly disperses. Some stay to talk. Others head home, carrying poems in their pockets or tucked into their memory. ‎ ‎Poetry may not solve every problem. But it reminds us who we are. It brings light to the dark, gives voice to the voiceless, and reminds us that even in silence, we are not alone. ‎ ‎And perhaps that is why more and more people are reading, writing, and living poetry—not just as art, but as a way of being.
By Muhammad Saad 4 months ago in Poets
The Harmony of Truth: Where Poetry Meets Knowledge
In a quiet village nestled between the arms of two gentle hills, there lived an old woman named Elira who was known not for her age, but for the way she spoke. Every word she uttered seemed to dance, as if the wind itself waited to carry her voice across the valley. She was a weaver — not of cloth, but of truths, carefully threaded into verses, rhymes, and stories. People called her “The Poet of Knowledge.” ‎ ‎What made Elira unique was not just the beauty of her words, but the precision of her meaning. She believed that truth was not only something to be known — it was something to be felt. In a world filled with noise, she made knowledge sing. ‎ ‎Children often gathered beneath the old sycamore tree where she sat, quill in hand, notebook resting on her lap like a bird’s nest. One day, a curious boy named Lior asked, “Why do you always rhyme your facts? Isn’t science just science and poetry just poetry?” ‎ ‎Elira smiled. Her eyes sparkled like moonlight on river water. “Ah,” she said, “that is the question, isn’t it?” ‎ ‎She closed her notebook gently and leaned forward. “Do you know how honey is made?” ‎ ‎Lior nodded. “Bees collect nectar, bring it to the hive, pass it around to each other, and eventually it becomes honey.” ‎ ‎Elira clapped her hands. “Very good! Now, listen to this: ‎ ‎Golden wings in summer air, ‎Whispers sweet beyond compare. ‎From flower’s kiss to hive’s embrace, ‎The nectar turns with patient grace.” ‎ ‎The children giggled, enchanted. ‎ ‎“But it’s the same thing!” Lior said. “Just prettier.” ‎ ‎Elira nodded. “Yes, but you remembered both, didn’t you?” ‎ ‎That was her secret: she wove scientific truths into poetic frames, allowing the heart to remember what the mind might forget. Her stories were more than beautiful — they were accurate, researched, and crafted with care. For her, poetry wasn’t a mask for facts; it was their lantern. ‎ ‎Word of her gift spread beyond the village. Scholars came, skeptical at first, expecting riddles and romance. Instead, they found verses rich with information: poetic explanations of plant cycles, starlight, ecosystems, and even emotional intelligence. And in every line, the facts held strong — like roots beneath the petals. ‎ ‎One professor asked her, “Why go through all the trouble? Isn’t prose more… efficient?” ‎ ‎Elira replied, “Yes. But efficiency isn’t always remembrance. Poetry lives longer. A fact heard once might be forgotten, but a line that moves your heart? That stays.” ‎ ‎She recalled how ancient civilizations passed knowledge through verse: the Vedas of India, Homer’s epics, the griots of West Africa. Before paper and pixels, poetry preserved the truths of the world — astronomy, medicine, ethics, and law — not because it was flowery, but because it was unforgettable. ‎ ‎As the seasons turned, Elira began teaching others her method: how to root poems in research, how to respect the integrity of information while allowing emotion to breathe through metaphor. Her motto was simple: “Beauty and truth are not opposites; they are partners.” ‎ ‎Lior, now a young man, became her apprentice. He was quick with facts, curious by nature, and slowly learned to let those facts sing. He wrote: ‎ ‎In ocean's heart, the currents turn, ‎A silent path the moon does learn. ‎Gravity’s pull and winds in play, ‎Guide every tide, both night and day. ‎ ‎When he recited this in a classroom years later, even the quietest students lifted their heads. Something in the rhythm reached them before they even understood the physics. ‎ ‎Elira passed peacefully one winter morning, a smile still on her lips. Her notebook — filled with verses on everything from cellular biology to the importance of kindness — was passed down, copied, and studied. ‎ ‎Today, in schools, libraries, and even scientific journals, you can find echoes of her work. Not all facts need rhyme, of course. But in a world overwhelmed by data, the soft light of poetic information reminds us: truth isn’t just to be known — it’s to be remembered, to be shared, and, when possible, to be felt. ‎ ‎Because when knowledge speaks in poetry, we don’t just hear — we listen. ‎
By Muhammad Saad 4 months ago in Poets
September
9/2/25 9:55pm I’m cross-legged on the sidewalk and there’s a cloud that looks like my elementary school, they upgraded the busses on the north side so it matches your funeral-inspired eggplant drapes and I can’t tell anyone about it because it doesn’t make sense to someone with living relatives, my legs are getting stiff on the concrete and elementary cloud turned into something like a salsa rendition with goats as butlers, the drapes look a lot worse than you thought they would but it was that or the electric bill so we’re eating dinner in the dark until you find the courage to pack it up and bring it to Whole Foods, we’re doing everything in the dark until someone digs their hands into the couch and finds the lyrics to that tune we wrote last year, you said it had notes of autumn’s song and I laughed at you then but now it makes sense because my family is getting smaller and the leaves don’t sound as crunchy anymore, my legs don’t feel as strong as anymore, my ceiling-fan lights don’t seem as necessary as before, and my windows don’t do anything but mock the solitude in our house that does nothing but pay homage to every grave next door.
By Olivia Dodge4 months ago in Poets
The Power of Long Poetry: A Journey Through Words and Wonder
In a quiet corner of a sun-drenched park, Maya unfolded a soft leather notebook that had accompanied her for years. The pages were worn at the edges, filled with looping ink and carefully measured lines. She had been writing poetry since childhood, but today, something different stirred in her spirit — a desire to write not just a poem, but a journey. ‎ ‎Long poetry was often misunderstood. In a world that valued speed, skimming, and soundbites, the idea of a poem stretching across pages seemed, to some, like an indulgence or an outdated relic. But Maya knew better. She had felt the way a long poem unfolded like a slow sunrise — not hurried, not forced — but full of promise. ‎ ‎She remembered the first time she read a long poem that truly moved her. It was T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. Though complex and at times mysterious, it invited her into a layered world of emotion, history, and thought. Each stanza revealed something new. Each shift in voice or tone was a doorway. The length didn’t make it harder to love — it made the love deeper. ‎ ‎And that was the quiet power of long poetry. It asked for time, and in return, it gave transformation. ‎ ‎Maya began to write, her pen gliding across the paper: ‎ ‎> This is not a tale to fit in a breath, ‎Nor a thought meant to end at the first sigh. ‎It stretches like a road beneath the moon, ‎Waiting for feet brave enough to try. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎As the verses grew, so did her world. The poem explored a young girl’s journey through grief, healing, and hope — themes too complex for a single stanza or neat four-line rhyme. She wove metaphors like rivers, let memories echo through repeated lines, and allowed space for silence between sections. There was room to breathe, to reflect, to feel. ‎ ‎Long poetry, Maya realized, is an invitation — not just for the writer, but for the reader. It invites you to slow down, to dwell in meaning, to walk beside the poet through valleys and up hills. Unlike shorter forms, which sometimes offer a sharp punch or a quick moment of beauty, longer poems hold space for evolution. They can begin in sorrow and end in joy. They can shift perspectives, grow characters, or carry a conversation across continents of thought. ‎ ‎Throughout literary history, long poems have shaped cultures and echoed across generations. Homer’s Odyssey, Dante’s Divine Comedy, Milton’s Paradise Lost — each a towering work that speaks to the power of sustained poetic thought. In more recent times, long poems have become a form of protest, reflection, and healing. Poets like Derek Walcott, Anne Carson, and Adrienne Rich have used the form to unpack identity, memory, and the truths often too tangled for brief verse. ‎ ‎But even outside of academia and literary fame, long poetry lives in everyday writers like Maya. For her, it was a personal practice — one that helped her process life’s complexity. It didn’t need to be published or perfect. It simply needed to be written. ‎ ‎As she reached the end of her poem, Maya smiled. ‎ ‎> And now I close this book, but not the road, ‎For every word I’ve sown will bloom again. ‎A poem may end, but the truth it holds ‎Will echo long beyond its final line. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She closed her notebook with care, feeling a quiet satisfaction. Not just from finishing a piece of work, but from honoring the depth of her thoughts, the fullness of her heart. ‎ ‎In a world rushing toward the next notification, the next distraction, the next task — long poetry is a rebellion. A beautiful, gentle rebellion that says: ‎“Wait. Linger. Feel this fully.” ‎ ‎It’s not about being long for the sake of length, but about allowing the soul of a poem the room it needs to speak. Sometimes, the most important truths take time to unfold. ‎ ‎As Maya walked away from the bench, the sun casting golden shadows behind her, she felt lighter. Her story — not just the one on the page, but the one in her heart — had found its voice. ‎ ‎And in that moment, she knew: long poetry wasn’t just something she loved. ‎It was something the world still needed.
By Muhammad Saad 4 months ago in Poets
