I have always felt that a funny stand up comic is one who's monologue comes out of his mouth like poetry.

A book of Richard Hugo's poetry always sits on my nightstand. He is my favorite poet by far.

Very good!

Edgar Allan Poe wrote "The Raven" in the Poe house which is owned by the City of Philadelphia and they have regular tours.

I live on a big round ball
I never do dream I may fall
And even one day if I do
Well, I'll jump up and smile back at you

I don't even know where we are
They tell you that we're circling a star
Well, I'll take their word, I don't know
But I'm dizzy so it may be so

I'm riding a big round ball
I never do dream I may fall
But one day the high must lay low
So when I do fall I'll be glad to go

Jesse Winchester

Now Slide, why put the bad mouth on Rod?

What is slam poetry?

To me it is all about the words. The words will have a beauty and grace to them. They will not necessarily rhyme or any of the other gimmicks that poets of the past used. They may have, but that is not necessary. The blank verse of Wordsworth managed without the tricks.

Many modern poets (like modern artists) are highly experimental. My problem with that is that they are rejecting techniques they have not mastered. When Wordsworth abandoned rhyme, he did it from a position of having mastered it. So his poetry still resonates today. Many modern poets won't outlive the next garbage collection date.

Some will, of course. Leonard Cohen, for instance. Rumour has it he sings too, but I prefer his poems.

How about the recently departed Seamus Heaney?

Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

Thanks Lobo,
I have heard we don't live so far apart. We willhave to meet one day.
BTW" Your comment gave me a wonderful laugh. Thanks for brightening up my day.

Speaking of "slam poetry" I believe Taylor Mali won an award for this bit of slam. It is one of my favorite pieces of poetry ever...

What Teachers Make
by Taylor Mali

He says the problem with teachers is
What’s a kid going to learn
from someone who decided his best option in life
was to become a teacher?
He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s true
what they say about teachers:
Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.
I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests
that it’s also true what they say about lawyers.
Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.

I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor.
Be honest. What do you make?

And I wish he hadn’t done that— asked me to be honest—
because, you see, I have this policy about honesty and ass-­‐kicking:
if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it.
You want to know what I make?
I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor
and an A-­‐ feel like a slap in the face.
How dare you waste my time
with anything less than your very best.
I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups.
No, you may not ask a question.
Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom?
Because you’re bored.
And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you?
I make parents tremble in fear when I call home:
Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today.
To the biggest bully in the grade, he said,
“Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you?
It’s no big deal.”
And that was noblest act of courage I have ever seen.
I make parents see their children for who they are
and what they can be.

You want to know what I make? I make kids wonder,
I make them question.
I make them criticize.
I make them apologize and mean it.
I make them write.
I make them read, read, read.
I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful
over and over and over again until they will never misspell
either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math
and hide it on their final drafts in English.
I make them understand that if you’ve got this,
then you follow this,
and if someone ever tries to judge you
by what you make, you give them this.

Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true:
Teachers make a !@#$%^! difference! Now what about you?

Mali. Taylor. “What Teachers Make.”

Yes, I'm about 20 minutes from Long Beach (used to live in Belmont Shore). Would be happy to meet up with you for lunch or something one day. Do you ever get to Magic Galore and More in Westminster?

That would have been way better. If I had thought of it, I probably would have chickened out. Not citing a source is so... anti-patent-lawyer.