Eminem vs. Robert Frost

Whether you like the forms or not, spoken-word and the poetry slam have resuscitated poetry for popular consumption. "I think poetry is more popular now than it has been in the last 100 years, at least," says Eleveld. "'Poetry Speaks,' published by Sourcebooks, sold 100,000 copies because of three CDs that had canonized poets like [Walt] Whitman, [e.e.] cummings and [Sylvia] Plath reading their own work. 'Spoken Word Revolution' sold 20,000 in its first run. In poetry, these numbers are unheard of. The National Poetry Slam in 2003 ran for four nights, taking up eight clubs in Chicago's Wicker Park area, and boasted 1,100 people at the individual finals at the Metro, which is where the Rolling Stones, Smashing Pumpkins and more have played."

According to Eleveld, those numbers are a far cry from a literary landscape before poetry slams. In the mid-1980s, he remembers, "Poetry readings were sparse; audiences were usually around something like 15 people. Now, professional poets are regularly touring high schools, colleges and clubs. If you go to Billy Collins' site, you'll see that he travels 15 days out of the month reading his work. This is all related to slams, hip-hop and the appreciation of oral tradition."

But even though that oral tradition -- whether it was handed down from Homer, Rumi, Allen Ginsberg or Chuck D -- is alive and well in the spoken-word sphere, there is still a performance aspect of slams that remains largely alien to conventional poetics. And that added dimension of public performance is just as complicated as it is attractive.

"We don't really have an academy position on spoken word," explains Swenson. "The lines are blurry. You certainly have more traditional poets, who begin with the page and then read their poems. Some read it well and some read it abominably."

That is, just reading your work aloud might not be enough sometimes. You've got to "move the crowd," as Rakim said on "Paid in Full."

"There are a couple of different elements here," Swenson continues. "Do these words work on the page? There are some poems that are so complex on the page that they're impossible to read. But there is some middle ground, where the poem can come alive through the voice. Then are some great performers who can put on a show and wow an audience, but when the words are put on a page, they become lifeless."

Then there is, getting back to hip-hop, what Saul Williams considers to be the built-in oppression coursing through the rap game.

"The difference between the poet and the M.C. is that the M.C. is by definition a master of ceremonies," Williams explains. "If you aim to be the master of ceremonies, then you have to play the role of the oppressor. You have to be in control, you have -- to use a hip-hop slogan -- 'to act like ya know, son, you have to act like ya know.' Whereas the poet is allowed to be introspective, allowed to raise questions -- is allowed to say, 'I don't know, I wonder why, I wonder what this means.'"

That innocent questioning of what the L.A. ska-punk poets Fishbone called "the reality of my surroundings" is often frowned upon by those in hip-hop and rap who, like 50 Cent, build their reputations on flak jackets and bullet holes. "The poet is allowed to be vulnerable," Williams continues, "whereas, with M.C.'s and in hip-hop, vulnerability is a sign of weakness. And so it becomes less and less real, less connected to the true nature of humankind. The further out we go on the tip of invulnerability and being hardcore, the less we can show a soft side."

It is this simplistic hyper-masculine posturing that has continually plagued the rap game, and kept it from achieving the type of legitimacy bestowed upon other forms of poetic expression. 50 Cent's unimaginative subject matter and Eminem's persistent homophobia, no matter how cleverly worded it may be (and in 50's case, that's being exceedingly charitable), are ultimately alienating. Which is not to say that Eminem's work, in particular, hasn't inspired thousands of kids to dye their hair blond and put their thoughts on paper, but to what end? Does the world truly need another dick-grabbing M.C. who's interested mostly in heaping calumny on homosexuals, groupies, Moby and his own mother? Can we really consider lines from 50 Cent's "In Da Club" like "I'm that cat by the bar toasting to the good life/ You that faggot-ass nigga trying to pull me back right" poetic in the slightest? 50 Cent might have been the hottest selling rap act of 2003, but to call him a poet would be testing the limits of the terminology.

But it's not as if the world of conventional poetry doesn't have its own issues with masculinity. Two decades back, poet Robert Bly's wildly successful "Iron John" initiated a "men's movement" that called much of society's sexual advances into question. Bly's basic thrust, pun intended, was that 20th century males had become too soft, and he set off a firestorm of feminist criticism. On the other hand, his books, videos and seminars sold like hotcakes.

Forget for a second that Bly's work was skewed mostly to white heterosexuals and also forget that Bly's way with words was a bit more sophisticated than 50 Cent's -- both men, along with the majority of the hip-hop acts that have hit the charts since the genre exploded in the late '70s, utilize the figure of the warrior as man's saving grace. In fact, 50 Cent's continuing appeal lies in his ability to get shot up and live to tell the tale. Bly's so-called soft males have been redeemed as much by rap's hard guys as by beating tribal drums in the wilderness.

In other words, hip-hop is not the only place you find this kind of social narrowcasting; the ivory tower set is just as much to blame for it as anyone else. Which is why the argument over whether or not hip-hop is true poetry will always be a red herring. To mangle Shakespeare, the play on words is the thing. The presentation, however compelling or alarming, is incidental.

Plus, hip-hop, if you ask Eleveld, is simply one facet of an oral poetic tradition that has enthralled global culture for millennia. "Hip-hop is huge," he says, "but so is slam. I would still say that poetry is the queen of all mediums. There are no limitations to how good poetry can be and in what directions it can go. Look at Lou Reed's [stage production of] Poe's "The Raven" or Laurie Anderson doing Melville or Pearl Jam including spoken-word pieces on their albums."

That democratic strain of appropriation, presentation and representation is ultimately poetry's gift to the world, whether it be written, spoken or slammed. Rap is just the form's latest popular incarnation, one that is spreading like wildfire if only because, as Eminem's ascendancy to superstardom illustrates, it can deliver hope, motivation and sustenance to those who feel they have no avenue of expression, no way to voice their concerns and desires.

"Poetry is the voice of the people," Eleveld says. "It is open to all. When a poetry slam is pulled off correctly, the least likely effect will be a great show. The most powerful effect can be -- and has been -- life-changing."

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