“There is nothing more human than pain,
Nothing more human than pain,
Except that we help each other through it.” – Bilal Moon, from ‘I Too (Just Like You)’
Poetry has existed, as a general form, for longer than some may expect. Written forms of the Iliad- an epic by Homer which some refer to as the first spoken word poem in existence- can be dated as far back as 8 century B.C. Purposeful words and the emotions they foster have survived time because they matter, but what could have led to such a survival that it allowed the birth of modern-day spoken word? The existence of space.
Poetry grants space. Spoken word poetry, specifically, allows you to grasp onto that space
with your two good hands, shake out the folds in the rug that lies in the centre with ease, and explain not only in your words, but in your own voice the truths that others cannot take away from you.
Looking at him through a screen (where he stands in a red t-shirt and open button up, hands gesticulating, mic inches from his face) I am incredibly aware that there are many prejudiced who would believe that Bilal Moon- author of the piece quoted above- does not necessarily seem like a poet, or sound like one, either; his voice is soft and his sentences unmetered, and his skin- lit by the efforts of the stagehands who made
the recording possible, no doubt- is brown, like my own. None of this is a sin- in the literary world or otherwise- but there are many who would force it to be so (many who would, were his words solely on a page, have forced his truth into their own forms with judgement born from a single glance at the subject of his work, or a glimpse of his picture on the page, due to their own privileged and racist sensibilities). The fact that Moon can be seen standing and performing and excelling, anyways? It matters. It is the very point of the form: to let the stories that no one would have allowed to be heard before be listened to, and the experiences- often centred around mental health, disability, sexuality, gender, and race- that others would shame us for to be shared with agency that is otherwise (too often and too easily) taken away.
That opportunity (to not only be seen, but to be seen and for that to matter) demonstrated by poets like Moon is exactly what drew me, and many other poets (like Ewan Osborne, Carmel Gibbons, and Khizar Akbar, all of whom I interviewed for the purposes of this article), to spoken word.
Osborne, poet and author of ‘Oblivion: a collection of existential poems’ (published June,
2024) tells me that one of the reasons he performs is to “show those that are struggling with mental health problems, as I have, that these can’t get in the way of being our genuine self.” It is an admirable reason, and one that I believe that many would share.
Gibbons, when asked what she believes differs spoken word from other poetic forms, writes
that it allows you to “say so much with few words.” As I consider her answer in turn and my thoughts towards it, I think of the poets- like Rudy Francisco, Denice Frohman and Bilal
Moon- I spent years admiring through a screen, and the way they owned the room with not
just their voices, but their silences, too. My conclusion of agreement, then, is clear.
Akbar, a clear advocate for the community that is born, answers my final question (about his thoughts on the future of this form of poetry) with words that I am now stuck with: “The love, passion, and respect people have with spoken word is unreal,” he tells me, “I just hope that more people push one another to explore spoken word as I think it’s an art form that exists in every single being.”
Though they were differently conveyed, I believe that any creative would agree completely
with the idea running through all answers: that struggling as you create, or needing to be
brave to do so, takes away nothing from art.
I’m reminded, as I think on these ideas and these poets I’ve had the privilege of speaking to, of myself. I recall the first time I read my own work in front of a crowd (barely fifteen years old and dressed in black, save for the stark red beanie- twenty one pilots label on its front, and I’m not quite ashamed to admit that- slouched on my head). All brown skin, brown eyes, and nerves evident enough in the stims of my hands that a stranger, older by maybe ten or fifteen years, took it upon herself to sit by me, and spent the hour before I performed gently offering her reassurance. When I finished doing so, the room- full of maybe forty or fifty people- applauded like they did for everyone before me, and the older student sat in front of me turned to offer both a fist bump and a decisive nod that made me feel very proud, and very cool.
I was scared, before I took to the makeshift stage, but the spoken word poets I revered, and something about the truth they allowed themselves to share, had lent me bravery enough to be. It’s why I did it then, and it’s exactly why I do it still; baring my self and my truths in front of a crowd remains a terrifying ordeal, but to be permitted to be, with all my truth, and to have that being understood? It is an experience that I believe I and my fellow poets- amateur or otherwise- will never tire of.
