So, yes, I know, I know: I have been remiss in my updates, and reporting only when the events are long past. How do I plea? Guilty, but here’s the remedy — a double shot of poetry instead of just one. What more could you ask for, dear readers?

1. Wayang Kadbod & the 3 Poets

A blur of Friday evening traffic as it seemed as if everyone in KL attempted to leave the office at the same time; wouldn’t want to miss a second of the weekend, would we? Rain helped the matter not a twit. Quick meeting with Philip Tatham of Monsoon Books Singapore to discuss a couple of book proposals, courtesy of my literary matchmaker pal Ellyne.

This was at Bangsar Village II, right at the tail-end of the KL International Literary Fest. Philip said he was going to catch Cecil Rajendra later that evening, and I nodded, having to rush off to the Central Market Annexe, with spiffy in tow, to catch Benjamin Zephaniah & co. performing poetry.

We arrived just in time, hands stamped with a question mark (leaving me quite querulous about it the next day, as the darn thing wouldn’t come off, no matter what) and took our seats in the darkness with a huge crowd of strangers and half-recognised faces.

The show started with Wayang Kadbod by the kids from Projek Kampung Seni, depicting the ongoing struggle between the villagers of Kampung Berembang and the authorities over their reluctant “move” out. Children can win anyone over anytime, especially with cute shadow puppetry about a very serious issue.

Then Jerome Kugan came on as a last-minute replacement and his ethereal voice really blew us away as he alternated between his poems and his songs. His paean to his friend and her feeling up a tree, as if it had boobies, that was a special one. (Check out Jerome’s music here.)

Next up was local street poet Rahmat Harun and the man killed us with his raw energy and brash irreverence. His best pieces are in Malay, uncompromisingly frank as he exclaimed that he’s the one who bans the ones who ban us, that he ain’t an artist, he ain’t a Rastafarian, he ain’t anything but a fake — wow, that’s bristlingly refreshing. Hot stuff.

Finally, the star of the night came on stage: Benjamin Zephaniah himself, a popular performance poet and surely he demonstrated why that night. You can feel the rhythm of his poems infecting the crowd, his smooth transitions between his different pieces, the lively banter which seemed not so much rehearsed but honed from hundreds of live shows.

Politically charged? Yes, but the man also sang about his collection of rare banknotes. If one can rhyme about racism and corruption, why not a poem about money too, eh? Quite simply brilliant.

Elsewhere: Sharon Bakar has her version of that night, and a story about Zephaniah she simply must tell you.

2. Wham! Bam! Poetry Slam™!

Chris Mooney-Singh introducing Poetry Slam™

Saturday afternoon, almost raining. Driving behind a car whose driver seems lost. Turns out to be Winnie, eventually the Simon Cowell of poetry-judges, and her lovely passenger, Zhang Su-Li (author of A Backpack and a Bit of Luck). We reacquainted ourselves at Seksan’s doorstep and what a lovely place it is too! Poets and people were already mingling, wine free-flowing; did I mention there was a li’l kid too?

Poetry Slam™ is the competitive art of writing and performing poetry. You don’t really need to know much more than that. The rest is actually being there and feeling the electricity in the air. Poets can be such punks, such mavericks, such damaged souls, and gifted with more than a modicum of drama. Yummy, yummy.

Marc Nair; Peter Brown and wife

Sharon Bakar will clue you in on what happened and who won; I’ve decided to focus on the sleaze and scandals being whispered around. I’m almost joking, but not quite. Let’s see: Grace got roped in as one of the judges since she didn’t know any of the poets, and in her own words, she knew next to nothing about poetry. Perfect: a tabula rasa here. Other judges include the Dreamer Idiot, Jehan (an NST journalist), a bunch of fireflies and Malaysian’s very own Simon Cowell (see above).

What’s interesting to me is how seriously these judges took their duties; I especially admire Winnie for sticking to her guts despite being booed a couple of times by the audience (okay, maybe more than a couple of times, and I’ve to admit I was one of the culprits), awarding points only to the poems she connected with and she felt were performed well. Also the Dreamer Idiot for being very demanding in terms of the content (as he told me afterwards; I was a tad puzzled at some of his scores but I quite understand now).

Dato’ Shan & Nur Sheena Baharudin

Another perhaps unsavoury but necessary feature would be the tradition to snap one’s fingers and/or stamp one’s feet if one should find a performance less than illuminating. I had assumed no one in the audience would do so, Malaysians are such nice creatures after all, but boo! hiss! I hear the sound of hecklers and disturbers of the peace!

This is audience participation at its best: we decide what we like and what we don’t. Of course, I decided to pay the dissatisfied masses their own coin by booing them at one point and cheering all the louder for the participants. I am reckless like that. So now you know who the guy whooping like a crane on acid was…

Poetry groupies (the best!) & Bernice Chauly

The saddest part of the day for me was not having had the chance to chat with Bernice Chauly, the poetess/artiste extraordinaire who birthed “Readings”, now lovingly fostered by Sharon.

It’s my own fault, of course, for simply having too much fun running around talking to strangers, discussing, amongst other things: how drinking carbonated soft drinks may not make one a good Muslim since it harms one’s body and one’s duty is to protect it; how the French elections is now a three-way race and everyone loves Hilary (even though they secretly hate her) and no one cares really about politics here cos nothing ever changes; what the secret to a really good hangover was, et cetera, et cetera.

And this was before the poets even started slamming!

Puisy-poesy: Their 1st ever group portrait!

We are all camera whores, of course. (Or get whored by a couple of crazed cameramen running around.) Everyone feels pretty when you ask them to pose for a photo. This has an extremely important message pertaining to the topic at hand, but at this moment I forget. I may also be merely lying. Figure that out yourself.

It was such a way fun time that it’s easy to forget that most people think I’m attending a dusty-musty, dull and dreary, catacombed librarian’s nightmare of a poet laureate reading from a centuries-old tome in a language even the dead no longer understands. No, this is a revel, a mosh pit of ideas and desires and opinions screamed from off rooftops.

This is murder, as walls of convention are torn down. This is how we give voice to our dreams, how we whisper our nightmares. This is how we build a family.

The future of poetry? (Liyana, Nic Wong, Sharanya & kG)

One of the last poets I spoke with was Chris Mooney-Singh himself, he who gave Poetry Slam™ its headstart in Singapore, and now looks to do same here, with the support of our local literary community, of course. We repeated the mantra, “The Points are not the point, the point is Poetry.”

Amen to that. And free booze, too.

Photo credits: Leon Wing takes some beautiful pictures (I nicked a couple of Marc Nair, Peter Brown and his wife for use here). The rest are mine.