The air was electric, on entry to the Edinburgh International Book Festival’s Spiegeltent and the crowd was buzzing for the sold-out, Loud Poets Grand Slam Final 2024.
Twelve performers – poets and spoken word artists – were vying for the phenomenal £3000 prize, the Loud Poets Grand Slam Champion 2024 title and (perhaps best of all?) to be custodian of the infamous Loud Poets Grand Slam Champion belt for the next year.
Slams often begin (as this one did) with a performance by a non-slammer, or ‘sacrificial poet’. This time, it was last year’s Loud Poets Grand Slam Champion RJ Hunter – introduced as Slam Champ one final time. When host (and Loud Poets Creative Director), Kevin Mclean, asks what last year’s win did for RJ, they replied, “It changed my life”.
Onstage, Hunter looked sharp and slick – a kilt and platform docs, contrasting with flamingo pink locks, rhymes rolling from their tongue as they joked about it being too early for sodomy jokes before demanding, “Pump me poetically” much to the audience’s delight. But this was also an opening poem about reclaiming oneself and assertively resetting the goalposts with a climatic ending, “I will be your everything as long as you kiss me after.”
With the audience suitably warmed up, the first round of twelve performances began with Aditya Narayan telling us, “The first time I said my name in this land was a response to someone butchering it.” Boom! We were in the room. This was a poet to sit up and take notice of. In that one line, and with a sucker-punch smoothness to his delivery, Aditya evoked a whole movement while excavating colonial bones.
Next to the stage was Akshay Anilal Sreeja, who told us, “When I die, I am holding onto everything [. . .] holding onto the men that I have kissed, the women I have loved.” Akshay’s poem danced on the palate, until we were pulled sharply underwater anchored to his grief. “I almost drowned two times” is the prologue to the list of all the things he will take with him when he dies. A stunning piece about grief and faith.
Nick Bagshaw shared a memory. “I wanna draw you”, he says, “I wanna make you look beautiful.” Aw thanks, so I look shit generally?” which receives laughter from the audience. I loved the brutality of language, honesty, and slick style of delivery of this poem, Nick confiding their “body has yoyoed [. . .] elastic snapping”, bravely confronting ideas around body image in a world where we are all becoming more insecure, everyone is having work done, because we cannot simply be ourselves. A last punch flattened (metaphorically) the artist addressed throughout the poem, “Dannii Minogue is a superstar, and second best is still too good for you.”
Our next poet, CD Boyland, paused before he began. Clearing the air of everything gone before, preparing us for a new tone of voice. “It’s coming home, it’s coming home, hatred’s coming home!” he belted out, appropriating the infamous ‘Three Lions’ lyrics to draw parallels between the tribalism in football and the tribalism of violence on England’s streets. This was a poem with its finger on the political pulse – “Men with riot shields arriving to relieve communities besieged inside their homes” [. . .] “Taking back our country – one fucking Greggs gingerbread man at a time!” – referencing “armchair keyboard armies” fuelling hatred from a distance whilst reminding us that we have the power to effect change through our collective voices, “Say it loud and say it proud, refugees are welcome here!”
EmmaClaire Brightlyn’s frantic energy added to the rhythm of motherhood fatigue – scrambling eggs whilst her toddler potters about under her feet, telling herself, “grab that egg, crack, split, pour” – single syllables echoing the slow drip of your losing yourself within the early years of motherhood. As a mother of three, this resonated with me, the constant battling of the outer and inner voices and being totally demented trying to carry out the simplest tasks. By the end of the poem, she wants to “Smash the pan off the fucking wall!” but she doesn’t, instead composing herself, “I’m sorry, it’s my fault, there’s eggshell in your lunch.” Scrambled eggs; a simple and beautiful metaphor for a frazzled mother.
Next up was an outpouring of India de Bono’s unrequited love – beautifully delivered, listing all the things they didn’t know about the person they were potentially falling in love with, while questioning their own sexuality because of “leftover catholic guilt”. This was as much a love poem to themselves than it is to the object of their desire, “The point is I don’t know your favourite colour [. . .] is the person I want to kiss the true you, or have I not met her?” A brilliant reminder to be true to ourselves and loving ourselves before loving others.
James Hickson’s poem “Because I Write” documented his own journey battling recovery and mental health after losing a loved one in a tragic road accident. The beauty of live poetry is being able to share such significant experiences, reminding everyone in the room to hold their dearest close, “I never told him I loved him.” He uses the imagery from the accident effectively to illustrate his “brain falling apart”, he tells us, “Tragedy is an incapacitated disease like grief. Tragedy is pummelling me.” This was a brave poem, seamlessly delivered.
Spencer Mason transported us into a whole other world where, “My skin surfaced as the moon… eyes adrip with every type of silence” referencing their own mental health journey which soon takes a u-turn, leaving the audience riotous with laughter when they talk about their “aircraft carrier nose, helipad for hecklers [. . .] I am the only person they know that can make their nose a dildo”. It’s like a stand-up routine with a serious spine, each vertebrae line reminding us to love ourselves, owning our quirks, they end with the stellar line, “I am the only one you know who’s face you will miss to sit on.”
Donna Matthew delivers her piece with vigour and grace – “society has a lot to say about women of a certain age, with birth scars and stretchmarks”, recounting how she realised she was in an unfulfilling marriage, and her fear of losing her identity on the domestic treadmill, post-motherhood. Her line, “I don’t love my husband. There, I said it”, was met with a collective gasp from the audience. Matthew gave us all the feels with a side of goosebumps – telling us of her rebirth, “every bend and sweep of nib pulled tight around salt wounds” until she filled her chest and spoke her truth.
Noor Iman told us, “I had to quit my job recently because my boss had racist tendencies”, a light-hearted delivery generating laughter expertly infused with the legacy of inequality which still lingers to this day. “Indian tea and Arabic coffee [. . .] ancestry battered and bruised” when she pours a cup of tea, it is the colour of her own skin and in it sees the blood of her ancestors – “you came to teach, divide and rule [. . .] your swords divided our lands”. Bringing us right up to present day, she talked about “no rights to own our houses here” and the divides of colour and class.
Heather Rose delivered us various letters to herself at different stages of her life – the refrain, “Dear Heather”, sparking a series of questions like, “Which labels are appropriate fits?” – questioning her own queerness and being ultimately proud of it. Her physicality on stage is interesting as she personifies the flower, moving from kneeling to standing in the process of germinating and growing she tells herself, “You can’t bloom a linear path.” Concluding with, “Dear Heather, I’m not sure where we next go, but it’s together, I promise.”
Finally (in the first round), former Scots Scriever, Shane Strachan’s Aberdonian dialect was the perfect, husky-voiced fit for his poem’s personification of North Sea oil – “Hullo sexy, it’s me, yur North Sea Sugar Daddy”. Imagining text messages from the oil’s point of view, trying to convince poet and audience to partake in some sexy shenanigans by investing in oil and gas. “Let’s “pump those pipelines”, convincing them that’s ok, it won’t hurt the planet etc. “Best haud yer wheest aboot they drips an wee leaks if ye want me ta be yer fossil fantasy”. A well-delivered, sexy, hilarious poem about a serious issue.
All the poets had performed their first pieces, so it was over to the predominantly Edinburgh-based judging panel to make their decisions. As you’d expect in a contest between slam champions, margins were incredibly tight, with only fractions of points dividing the six performers who went through to the second round – Shane Strachan, Heather Rose, Donna Matthew, Spencer Mason, EmmaClaire, and Aditya – and those whose Grand Slam Final journey would go no further.
Fewer poets now, so the pace picked up. Shane Strachan slingshot another sexting poem in our direction, decisively more aggressive than his first – “Ye want so desperately ta be the next JR Ewing o Eberdeen” he utilises the often onomatopoeic language of the oil and gas industry to great effect “gushers, bloats, shackle nuts, drill fingers, dry holes.” Sometimes hilarious, always drilling down to the essence of this serious issue.
Heather Rose told us, “There has been a murder [. . .] It’s the gay part in me. I now have [. . .] a boyfriend!”. On point with slick rhymes and rolling rhythms, she used the imagery of a crime scene chalk outline to illustrate her transformative journey from gay to bisexual.
Donna Matthew confided, “My ego tells me stories all day [. . .] my ego laughs at my metaphors – he thinks you’re ugly. She thinks you’re a cunt” full of self-doubt in the past, relatable to most people in the room, and again she gives us the feels in this flawless performance.
Spencer Mason talks about, “eight failed attempts to take my life [. . .] offer up the tonal map of my body, my insomnia jazz, there is silence beneath the roaring waves”. The audience are transported straight into Spencer’s mental health at the precise moment in time that they wrote this poem which is delivered with passion and gusto.
“The telling of time is not as linear as you think. Red lights change ETAs.” EmmaClaire directed the audience, “Let’s all feel about time. Inhale – hold – until you are told you have broken the mould. Now release your breath, or catch it, or both.” This poem is about grief, a body breaking down, slowing to death culminating with “Time is in straight lines. I hope you bend all that time to your will.”
The final poet (in the second round), Aditya told us about “Running out [. . .] running out is depletion, running out is care, grandma never running out of people to feed. Running out is illness, running out is stillness [. . .] when three years ago my country suddenly flew from me… running out is a loneliness you don’t get away with”. He never runs out of metaphors for his homeland, helping the audience to understand the real disconnect that distance delivers.
More deliberation from the judges, more scores handed in and suddenly, there were only three poets left – Aditya, EmmaClaire, and Heather Rose. Aditya seemed like the calmest person in the room (but probably wasn’t), kicking off the final round of the final by asking, “What happens in reverse time?” – then proceeding to deliver an extraordinary linear narrative in reverse, “Grandma coming off the funeral pyre [. . .] an entire season called ‘rise’ [. . .] riots give life [. . .] guns swallow bullets out of healing wounds [. . .] the British Museum emptying out its contents [. . .] there is world peace [. . .] you begin a poem.” Concluding back at the very beginning of time, this was an absolutely stunning and beautifully delivered piece. A poet’s poem, which needs to be seen on the page as well as performed, to truly understand it’s complexity.
“I think she is trying to kill me. This dragon I have birthed.” EmmaClaire was at crisis point in her final poem, with her toddler exploring a whole host of dangerous situations. “Mummy up” – all night – sleeping perpendicular or directly on my face”. The insomnia allowing a moment to reflect and reset, “The ball of glitter I wished into the world. I will never die, prepared to always catch her.”
Finally, in the final poem of the final round – Heather Rose considered, “Maybe I wasn’t meant to cook.” Employing a range of internal rhymes to great rhythmic effect, while alluding to a past life spent cooking for an ex-lover, “crisps don’t have feelings [. . .] there are so many meals I want to share [. . .] this kitchen is the graveyard of a failed relationship”. When it comes, though, the end is assertively hopeful, “Maybe I wasn’t meant to cook for you”. She is ready to move on.
The Loud Poets Grand Slam Final has been hosted at the Edinburgh International Book Festival for the last two years – which testifies both to the strength and quality of the spoken word scene in Scotland, and also to the fact that slams are (let’s face it) poetic firework shows – dazzling, explosive and hugely entertaining. This one having been all of those things and more – a range of diverse voices, making us laugh and gasp, tear up and cheer.
This final being also the culmination of a national series – everyone involved (onstage and behind the scenes) had worked long and hard to get to this collectively triumphant and celebratory afternoon – and all deserved praise and the audience’s applause for their passion, and commitment to the strange, extraordinary, epiphanic and cathartic performance art that is spoken word poetry.
At the finale, a visibly moved, surprised, and elated EmmaClaire was declared Loud Poets Grand Slam Champion 2024, and presented with the belt by RJ Hunter, finishing her set with a love poem for her daughter. I can’t wait to see what’s next in store for this phenomenal poet, and the opportunities that this win will help provide.
About our contributor
Lorna Callery-Sithole is an award-winning, working-class, poet, spoken-word artist, and Slam Champion from Pollok. She is co-founder of ‘Versaye!’ spoken word cabaret alongside partner-in-rhyme, Wendy Miller, promoting emerging talent alongside established writers. She was Reader in Residence at HMYOI Polmont, and Storyteller in Residence for the National Trust for Scotland.
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