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The finest poet.
10 April 2002—You may have seen that I had a ten-minute play run in Berkeley during weekends this past March. Some of you even came to see it, for which I am endlessly grateful. Here is the script, with a few changes from the original production. The Finest Poet The Finest Poet was originally produced by Impact Theatre in its production Impact Briefs 5, which played at La Val’s Subterranean in Berkeley, California. It ran March 1-30, 2002. Impact Briefs 5 was directed by Sarah O’Connell and starred David Ballog, Pete Caslavka, Jessica Hird, Joseph Midyett, and Eleanor Scott. Characters (all meant to be 20s/early 30s): Setting: The basement of a pizza parlor, as used for a poetry slam. A platform against the upstage/stage right walls is the slam’s stage. There is a microphone on the stage. Arthur and Ruth are sitting in the front row of the audience, as if they’re among a crowd that has come to the slam. Poets 1 & 2 can be sitting next to audience members as they wait for their scenes. Poet 1 has a small pizza, kept on her lap after her scene. A note about the blackouts: They should be very quick, just long enough for the person on the stage to get off and the next poet to get on. They shouldn’t be complete blackouts, just a bit dimmer to suggest time passing. If the director has a better way of showing time passing, by all means, go for it.
SCENE 1 Lights up. Dante is on the stage. DANTE: (jumping up and down) Woo! Yeah! What an awesome turnout! Thank you all so much for coming! OK, first off, welcome to Slamterranean, the most underground poetry slam in the Bay Area! Yeah! Props to La Val’s Pizza for lettin’ us do our thing here in their basement every third Tuesday of the month. I see a ton of talent here tonight–we are gonna be throwin’ down mad rhymes tonight… (voice fades to silent but he’s still talking to the audience as if he’s still giving his introduction) ARTHUR: (to Ruth, more kvetchy than bitter) I can’t believe I let you drag me to another one of these things. RUTH: Oh, come on–how often do you go out to hear live poetry? ARTHUR: Poetry? Mmmm, I don’t know. Wait, what’s that term? Spoken word. Yeah. Words. Spoken. Spoken word. Damn, here come the clipboards. Dante now has a pile of three clipboards in his hands, with magic markers attached by strings. These are the scoreboards. DANTE: For those of you who haven’t been to a slam before, this is how it works: we’re gonna judge the poets. Just like in the Olympics, or, you know, Star Search. Except we basically just pick judges at random and ply them with a lot of beer. So OK, then! Who wants to sit in judgment? Ruth and the two poets raise their hands. Dante, appropriately excited, gives them each a clipboard. ARTHUR: Are you serious? You really want to be a judge for this thing? RUTH: Hell, yeah–it’s fun! DANTE: (to the audience) All right, are you ready? (waits for tepid audience reaction) I said, are you ready? Let’s start the Slamterranean! Black out.
SCENE 2 Lights up. A poet is on the stage, reciting a poem. The poet’s voice stops and starts a lot, hanging phrases in the air with pretentious emphasis. POET 1: I call this one "Pinching a Dingo." Youuuuu…perfect ellip–tickle oracllllle…staring back…at…meeeee…. Iiiiiii…need your elusive wisdommmm…my sweet belly…buttonnnnn… (voice fades out but poet continues silently emoting) ARTHUR: Oh my God, that is the third poem like that tonight, and the slam isn’t even half over yet! Seriously, why do people recite their poems like that? Daaaaahhhh, dah dahhhhhhhh. Iiiiiii’mmmm… gonna killlll… myselllllllf… if it doesn’t ennnnnnd… sooooooonnnnn. RUTH: Shhh! ARTHUR: I can’t believe that other person got like a 28.9 or something! POET 1: (finishing her poem) Flush... flush... flush... flush... flushhhhh... RUTH: (as if she’s marking her board) I’m going to give this one a perfect ten, just for you. ARTHUR: (laughing) Don’t you dare! Black out.
SCENE 3 Lights up. Poet 2 is on the stage, reciting a poem. His voice is simply loud and forceful, if vaguely in the tradition of the Beats, but perhaps more like in the tradition of drunk frat boys. POET 2: SAN PABLO AVENUE! AT THE ALBATROSS WITH MY BOYS! THROWIN’ DARTS AT THE BIRD! THEN I COME OUTSIDE...AND I SEE YOU. DO I WANT A DATE? WHO’S YOUR DADDY? AIN’T ME, SISTER! I’M YOUR BROTHER, I’M YOUR MOTHER! I WANT TO SAVE YOU, WHORE! BROKEN-WINGED YOUNG THING, I WANT TO HEAL YOU! (voice fades out but poet continues silently emoting) RUTH: Ok, now that’s just wrong. ARTHUR: Is he being serious? Jesus Christ! And another thing: would somebody please tell me why every single one of these poems is in the first person? Black out.
SCENE 4 Lights up. Dante is on the stage, reciting a poem in a kind of hip-hop freestyling rhythm. DANTE: When I recite, you’d best hold tight. I may delight, I may ignite! I glow like I’m surrounded by a blacklight! I’ll come down on you like a stalactite! I’ll bring the pain like Dracula! My spectacula vernacula will tackle ya! (He jumps up and down, pleased with his performance.) ARTHUR: Dammmnnn, the host too? And he’ll probably get tens for this one. The crowd just eats these up. RUTH: Hey, at least he’s making rhymes on three syllables. That’s gotta count for something. Ruth starts marking her score. ARTHUR: OK, I suppose so, but the rhymes...oh, man! He might as well have said, "You’re a hole in the wall, and I’m gonna spackle ya with a spatula!" RUTH: You should suggest that to him. You might make a new friend. Ruth and the other poets hold up their scoreboards. Dante reacts positively, then goes over to one of the other poets and the two of them chat silently. ARTHUR: Seriously, Ruthie, what is it that you like about going to these things? RUTH: Look at the energy everyone brings to it–they’ve got something they have to say, and they get up and say it. ARTHUR: I can sympathize with that–I mean, good for them that they’re coming into their voice and all that, I’m proud of them, but shit, most of this stuff is like public therapy or something. RUTH: I don’t expect brilliance all night–if I hear even one great poem, I consider it an evening well-spent. What about the guy with the poem he wrote for his wife? Made me wish I had hazel eyes. ARTHUR: Yeah, see? That was a good one, but his scores sucked. Sevens and eights? They should have been nines, maybe even a ten! RUTH: Scores mean nothing. ARTHUR: They say that, but they don’t really mean it. They don’t give the cash prizes to the people who get sixes and sevens. RUTH: It takes some nerve to get up there and show what you’ve got. You think you can do better? ARTHUR: Do I think I could do better than these people? Probably. I’d just have to get the crowd on my side, and it would be a snap. I can’t really do the freestyling thing, but I can do the dah-dah-dahhhh thing pretty well. Lefty politics go over nicely. It can’t hurt to throw a third eye reference in there somewhere–that always seems to work out well. And you can never go wrong with sex. RUTH: OK, then. Dante reenters the stage. DANTE: All right, we are down to the final poet of the night. If I’m not mistaken, it’s his first time on our stage, so please welcome…Arthur! ARTHUR: What? RUTH: (points at Arthur) Here he is! DANTE: Come on up, man! ARTHUR: Wait a second, I didn’t sign up! I don’t have anything to read! Ruth giggles. DANTE: Sounds like someone needs a little encouragement… (he gets the audience to give an encouraging round of applause) ARTHUR: (to Ruth) Oh, I see: you signed me up, huh? OK, I can do this. You just watch and see how easy this is. Arthur goes up to the stage and adjusts the microphone. He’s nervous but trying to hide it. He pauses while he’s trying to think something up. OK, I call this one, uh, "Daily Special." (His voice takes on the sing-song tone of the first poet) The Berkeleyyyyyy…Pizzaaaaaa…organic–orGASmic–tomato sauuuuuce, SOY….cheeeese…KA-LA-MA-TA olllliiiivessss…in the shape of a…peace…symbolllll…I’m so hungryyy…forget my mouth it is making my THIRD EYE waterrrr…just say HEY MANNNN…gimme a piece…of that peace…pizzzzz…aaaaaaa. Peace. He steps down and goes back to his seat. DANTE: (sort of embarrassed for Arthur) Arthur, everybody! OK, let’s see what the judges have to say. Hold ’em up high, please! Poet 1 gives Arthur a score of 2.8. Poet 3 gives an 8.5. Ruth gives a 7.0. Let’s see, we’ve got a 7.0, a 2.8, and an... Poet 3 makes a big show of putting a negative sign in front of his 8.5. a negative 8.5. Ouch! Don’t worry, Arthur, we drop the lowest and the highest! Arthur looks to see what Ruth’s score is. RUTH: Hey, at least mine was above zero! Black out.
SCENE 5 Lights up. Dante is on the stage with the two poets, each of whom brandish some amount of cash. DANTE: So that’s it for the top poets of the night. But we ain’t done yet! In the fine tradition of the slam, we have one more prize. This goes to the poet who is so free of the desire to please the crowd, whose sole desire is to challenge us with a...difficult...poem, that their work receives the lowest score of the night. And tonight, with a grand total–a new record low–of 2.8, the finest poet of the night is...Arthur! Come on up, Arthur! Arthur, kind of excited and embarrassed at the same time, walks meekly up to the stage. Now, there’s no cash award, because cash means nothing to real poets such as yourself, but we will send you home...with this fabulous Bon Jovi keyring! (Dante hands Arthur the keyring with some sort of exaggerated flourish) Do you have any words of wisdom for us? ARTHUR: Um, I don’t know what to say. DANTE: Well I do! Artha! You’ve gone fartha than Siddhartha! You’re the finest poet! And that’s it for the Slamterranean, folks! Thanks for coming! See you next time! Goodnight! Black out. The end.
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