Adam Kammerling is the 2012 Hammer and Tongue National Slam Poet Championship.
“I was originally drawn to spoken word by the freedom it gives me as a writer. I love the fact that I can write and perform something that is basically an acapella rap, and then tell a story, and then do a piece of short theatre - all in the space of a single set.
“I can go to a spoken word night and be moved close to tears, and then see someone else who will make me laugh out loud. And sometimes I can experience those things in the same piece of writing. It's a consistently inspiring art form.
“Some people think performance poetry is easy. To be good at this takes work and a willingness to develop and absorb and be critical and have people be critical of you, and accept it because it will make you a better writer.
“Anyone that is up for that should throw themselves in head first. It's a wonderful scene to be a part of."
Poetry heroes:
Ross Sutherland and all of Aisle 16, Byron Vincent, John Hegley, Rob Auton, Sally Jenkinson, Rosy Carrick, Raymond Antrobus
Regular spots:
Next gig:
Hamilton House, Britol, 17 May 2012
Contact:
www.adamtalking.blogspot.co.uk
adamkammerling@gmail.com
WoofQuackMeowNeighMooOink by Adam Kammerling
His sunken eyes are ringed in grey,
pupils peer from cold flesh caves,
facial hair sprouts like mould
his casual sportswear's dripped in stains.
Those eyes find a shadow of me
and I wish he'd sit elsewhere
before his bum hits the seat.
His questions come rapid fire,
inconsequential, like sonar.
What's your name?
Adam
Where are you going?
Hastings
What are you doing? What are you doing in Hastings?
I'm doing a gig.
What colour is the train?
Uh...
What colour is the carriage?
Blue.
Why is the carriage blue?
I don't know.
Why is the carriage blue?
Maybe neutral colours?
Why is the carriage blue?
Uh...
Why is the carriage blue?
He carries a blind man's cane
but his better eye flicks as landscape snaps in to the carriage's wake
I fling my own question through the galaxy of his and he replies
In a house near MEOW!
And in the same heartbeat he restarts
his white water inquisition, head twitching all the while
his boss eye wanders, he claps beneath the table
when my answers match his plans.
He mentions Emininem, Harry Potter
And Could this train bash the other train?
And Why do dogs have one head?
I laugh, and I make him laugh
A fluffy, globular guffaw.
I hesitate, shamefully,
when he asks my girlfriend's daughter's name
and where she lives and where is that?
He says his name is WoofQuackMeowNeighMooOink
And asks Is that a long name?
When I go to the toilet I reassure him
and push my bladder-swelling lengthy piss out
as fast as I can.
The instant we pull into Eastbourne
he is at the carriage door,
still rattling questions till he is gone.
No goodbye, no see you,
No good luck, nice to meet you,
just a question, a question, a step
and he is gone.
I find a seat on my Hasting's connection,
busy with people, bright with the first flashes of spring
like I'd woken from an uneasy sleep
alone, on a train.