Berlin Spoken Word
BerlinUnspoken
Volume 1
Summer 2016
„A cool magazine for cool kids with cool friends and cool things to say“
Copyright © 2016 by Berlin Spoken Word All Authors in this publication reserve the rights to their work. Cover Photograph Copyright © 2016 by Benjamin Pfau Cover design by Mary Vlasuk, Beulah Kirupa. Published in Berlin, Germany
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EDITORIAL
Berlin has long been a cultural melting pot for the arts. This inventive city has been home to world famous musicians, artists and writers, and continues to attract those of all ages and talents today. From Mark Twain and Franz Kafka to David Bowie and Nick Cave, it is this deep rooted creative history that sets the backdrop for our story. Nine months ago we had no idea what role we could play in Berlin’s artist community. Had we been asked we wouldn't have guessed we’d now be running a lively weekly open mic night - Berlin Spoken Word Live. Each week writers, poets, spoken word artists, singers, songwriters, comedians and storytellers meet to perform and listen. What started as a personal interest in participating in Berlin’s writers and performers scene quickly developed into its own thriving and familiar outlet. As BSW Live has grown and developed, so have we. Compared to when we started, we are no longer unaware of what Berlin has to offer and it is our goal to continue expanding in a community of creativity and passion. This magazine is the first of many next steps. Berlin UnSpoken’s aim is to be an informative, creative and fun publication. Its inspiration is sourced from a desire to further our commitment to the Berlin artistic community, as well as to raise awaren3
ess of the emerging spoken word platform. To such an end it welcomes contributions both pertaining specifically to artistic events and projects in Berlin as well as current affairs and personal works. Our ambition is to create a broad portal provid-ing information regarding current and up-coming ‘spoken word’ events and projects in Berlin. Included in this project is our intent to publish poems, stories and articles in different languages. The magazine mirrors our passion and recognition of spoken word as an emerging and multifarious art-form. Spoken Word - a ‘catch-all’ term that includes various types and forms of poetry and prose recited aloud - is an amazingly rich platform. The potential of Berlin UnSpoken is to contribute to the creation, maintainance and discovery of the social and political tapestry. We hope Berlin UnSpoken can become a building block in the scene around us and look forward to growing and developing this project with the inveterate artistic community that has let us grow into it. Furthermore, to the community that has welcomed us with open arms, we say thank you. - Mary Vlasuk, Naniso Tswai Berlin July 2016
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Editorial
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Table of Content
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My First Time‌ By Annie Musgrove
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Untitled Poem By Ron Ingalla
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Sharing Words That Matter A look into the first event
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Metanoia By Alex Rezdan
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Dead Line or Word Futter By Richard Schemmerer
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A Spoken Lady By Malene Lauritsen
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Cups By Sanjukta Krishnagopal
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Untitled Poem By Nina Westerdahl
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Origins By Joe Mullings
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Various Poems By Ankit Goyal
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Poetry, But Not as You Know It by Eleanor Tremeer
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Berlin Spoken Word Projects By Naniso Tswai
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Events Where to find more in Berlin
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How I Got Hooked By Eva Kleer
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Berlin Unspoken Editors
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Photograph By Malene Lauritsen
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My First Time... It was just a couple months ago, on a normal Tuesday evening, when my friend Michelle thumbed through the pages of an inconspicuous notebook lying on my couch. "Oh, you've been writing!" She caught some long ramblings and maybe one page of stanzas. "I didn't know you write." Well, no one did, really. And that's probably because I didn't consider it much myself. But I told her, yes, I'd been writing things down randomly, and that I was thinking about reading something at Berlin Spoken Word in a few days. She immediately pledged to come (which I wasn't sure about), and from her thrust of support, a plan was born. I was going to read on Thursday night for the first time. Something I wrote. Out loud, to a group of people. A group of complete strangers. At that point I turned off my brain. To think would become to agonize, and then the prospect of performing for two minutes would mutate into a spectre of my selfworth, wrought with insecurities that have been eroding it for years. So, I detached. And went on with my week.
and pressed on my chest — it was a terrible idea. So I went in to Du Beast forty-five minutes early and got ein großes Fassbier instead. Everything was calm. From the well of middle school debate, the metered rhythms of college poetry classes, and the undulating intonations of spoken word I've attended and internalized in the last few years — my mouth spoke. My eyes locked on the page, my ears on the sound of my voice, and nothing else existed. When I finished, all senses slipped out of focus, so I don’t remember much. I remember Mary calling for a second round of applause because it was my first time performing. I remember smiling really hard. I remember wanting another beer. I remember the dreadlocked head of a stranger turning around to nod at me, also smiling. It was to be his first time performing, too, and later we would cheers each other at the bar upstairs. Ultimately my poem was self-fulfilling. I needed to get unstuck, so I wrote about it, and what I wrote is the very vehicle which got me moving. It brought me to the Berlin Spoken Word stage, and it brought me into this magazine. And now, with that little bit of distance, I understand better what the whole experience was like — the experience of attending something like spoken word and, from your anonymous spot in the audience, feeling admiration, inspiration and some ample amount of impossibility. And then finding yourself on the other side.
The piece I wanted to read was essentially a braindump, a complete purge of anxiety I wrote so that I could stare at it as a pile of words and detangle the strands searching for meaning. Or, rather, for understanding. I needed to get unstuck. I had felt stuck back home in the States for three years and finally got myself across the Atlantic to Berlin — where I then sat in the dead of winter with no job, no visa, dwindling money, and a lack of impulse to do much of anything in the face of everything unknown. So I spewed it onto the page, for no other reason than my own private catharsis. And then, somehow, casually, decided to show it to the public.
For me it was sitting on the shore, absentmindedly digging, and suddenly finding a small pool had formed. And it's a kind of miracle because you'd been sitting on this dry sand your whole damn life and never knew. I didn't know I could access the same water that I was watching everyone else play in. Or maybe I didn't believe. But now I know, and I believe, and I'll keep inching down the beach until the waves crash over my head.
After printing my piece at work on Thursday, I skipped out early and practiced the poem on the streets around Du Beast. On the canal bridge, I made a silent salute to the strong women in my life; I took deep breaths and stayed "centered". Then I had a cigarette. The nicotine skated on my veins
By Annie Musgrove 6
Send me to Femenyeunarmed and without fleeceraise the flag, whitesurrenderto the strangers of love— Blow me to Bermudato triangles, hashed upon chartscaptured and framed in cerulean bluelost, in the acquisition, of morphology—
Now is the willing to attainatomic, less for more,
de rerum naturaLucretian waves, transmissionsbroadcasting coordinates for the boundariesestablished by aged Epicurean delight, recorded on papyruslimited, only by the texture of strawberrythat last hedged and coated the rules of your stately kiss—
By Ron Ingalla 2016
Berlin
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Sharing Words that Matter Berlin Spoken Word’s latest local outreach Sharing Words that Matter is a project that developed out of a need to be active and vocal in our community: performances driven by political actuality in public spaces. What started with weeks of think groups and planning ended with well received discussion and impact about social and political awareness. Writers and performers are given the chance to submit pieces of work pertaining to our theme. Each piece of work is then adapted into a one to two minute long performance and given to a performer to be memorized. Together one day is taken to perform these pieces in public. By using perfor-mances as premise to come into contact with strangers, our guards are let down and grounds are set for a conversation about our work, our motives behind our actions, and most importantly the issues at hand. 8
Responses ranged from polite clapping and thanks to critical conversations and inquiries about the issuThe first Berlin Spoken Word: Sharing Words that e and our reasons for pursuing the Sharing Matter excursion kicked off at Görlitzer Park Words that Matter project. around 13:00. Although we were greeted with light The participants left Görlitzer around 15:30 rains, we remained enthusiastic and waited for the with a sense of pride and surprised satisfaction with poor weather to blow over before getting underway. the degree of success of our first venture. As a group of six people (four performers, one photographer, and a group orchestrator), we spent The next Sharing Words that Matter event will be about two hours moving through the park and perheld in October, and the theme will be Addiction. forming pieces. Nerves were an obstacle when approaching the first group of park goers, but upon receiving positive reactions from our initial attempt, - Seth Nuñez, June 2016 spirits were raised, and we covered a great majority of the parks area by the end of the two hour time slot, addressing about 10 groups of people. Only one of the groups we approached declined For further information about future projects and our request to perform to them and speak about the how to get involved: month’s theme. Everyone else we approached met us with varying degrees of positive engagement. www.facebook.com/Sharingwordsthatmatter
SWTM: Refugees
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Metanoia by Alex Rezdan
Madeline knew it was her last day alive. It had to be. When something as natural as breathing takes every effort to do, it’s only postponing the inevitable. She was surrounded by her family, and even though she loved them dearly, she could not help but feel envious when looking at her grandchildren and of all the things they will know that she could not even begin to imagine. The future was uncertain, that much is sure, but the unknown had always held a special kind of allure for her. And now she had finally arrived to the most mysterious unknown. Life, she thought, was both the longest and shortest experience she ever had. It really did flash before your eyes before you die, and as she inhaled the last breath she would ever take, she finally ended the eighty-seven year blink that was her life. And everything went dark. And cold. And wet. She heard the river’s stream as the world around her cracked, and she escaped from the shallow water and swam with the current, trading the freshness for a larger, saltier environment in which to explore. She no longer struggled to breathe the air. The water around her provided enough oxygen to never make that a problem again, yet, despite this, she felt compelled to return to the shallow stream from whence she came. The current no longer accepted her, for it knew only death awaited her there, but that did not stop her. She jumped out of the water and felt the air for the first time again. It stung, but was exhilarating, too. And so she jumped again. And again. And she dove down deeper and surfaced even harder to jump ever higher, so high that she never touched the water again, but instead landed in the mouth of a bear whose existence was unknown up to that point. And as she slid down his throat, everything once again went dark. 10
And cold. And wet. And though it stayed wet, warmth did come this time. Once again, the world cracked open, and the gosling breathed his first breath. But it was dry. Much too dry. He followed his mother to the water where he dove in to swim and eat, and before long, his wings were able to carry him into the sky. He looked up for the existence of any large, brown predators, but even if there were any, nothing would have stopped him from joining his gaggle. He jumped from the ground and flapped his wings, falling into the V-formation for the very first time. The uplift was electrifying, and before long, he found himself at the front of the formation. The rest of his gaggle honked to encourage him, and he held out as long as he could before giving up the lead to another. He dove back down to return to the ground, but never made it that far. Now he was stuck in a tree. No, not stuck, relaxing. He lazily examined the three toes that replaced his wings and wanted nothing more than to sleep. There was not a care in the world, as long as he could continue hugging his tree. But that desire would prove to not be permanent, as well, as he found himself wanting to run as fast as he can. No, not wanting to, needing to. She needed to run for her life. Her black and white body galloped to outrun the hairy, fanged creature that chased her, but it was faster than her, and as the pain sunk into her like an electric jolt, the sensation of biting into flesh overtook him. He ripped the meat away with a sharp turn of his head, blood gushing onto his mane. For a split second, he felt confused as to why he might have felt bad for the zebra, but it subsided with the rich flavor of its blood. And as he napped after a well-earned meal, the world returned again to being dark. And cold. And wet. A thump reverberated through the yet uncracked world, turning into a syncopated thu-thump, thu-thump, thump thu-thump, until you realized one was your own and the other, not quite yours but not separate either. You kicked to explore your surroundings, but there was nowhere to go. And yet, you felt completely at peace, more so than even the sloth you used to be. For a brief moment, all the thoughts of all the lives you had lived returned to you. The symbiotic love affair you had with an orchid as a bee. Your grand symphony as a whale. Perfecting your spider web and catching your first fly. It was all there. And it was all perfect. And then, I was born. 11
Dead Line or Word Futter by Richard Schemmerer I follow my mind into the rabbit hole
and find an egg that has no shell so I do a dance the chicken dance to make sure that I don't fall head over heels into my own narrative that is time based but is also out of ordinary time to follow what is called a linear time line that's when I realized I am supposed to produce a piece for Berlin Spoken Word and instead of pulling the plug to let it go I went on to produce this flow about the tick tick tick the trickle down that we all learned to love to hate the approaching deadline to give the mind a push a last minute warning to come up quickly but still brilliantly with word futter in this case the dreaded dead line has reached me like the fuse lit under someones arse
which is mine that has been lit like in literature so I pronounce that every breath is an event worth our cognitive recognition and validation Dead lines are meant to be missed but in this case I beat the odds by a mile
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The Spoken Woman, by Malene Lauritsen 13
Cups There’s something about the stern countenance of an empty cup that is strangely forbidding, the way it beckons you into the abyss of loneliness and agony. When people ask me if I'm a tea person or a coffee person I usually respond, to their utter confusion, with 'I'm a cup person'. Through dark and excruciatingly painful time, cups have given us something to hold on to, and something to kiss. They have been comrades in times of dearth, and wrapped their tiny handles around your fingers to keep you from losing grip, on life itself. They are a silent comfort for the grief stricken and a partner in crime for all your shenanigans. A place you call home when loneliness drives its ice cold claws into your back. A cup to hold the tears pouring relentlessly from your eyes and another to hold together the shreds of your youth. Somehow, no matter which cup I chose, I always found a few drops of my naked soul in it. “I have been in poisoned defeated relationships too many times to have not seen this coming�, I once thought to myself, seething with rage, with cup in hand.
As I scrutinized that cup with a faraway gaze for the last time, in search of its obscure bottom, I pondered over the many ways it had been my anchor through turbulent times. That cup had been a substitute one too many times for lost lovers and 3am nostalgia, for bruises in every shade of the rainbow and for men who left just as soon as they came. It had nurtured my dreams like the stars nurture the night. It had served its purpose only too well. But its job here was done, never again-I thought to myself. Never again will it have to fill-in for my shortcomings - not after this time. Strange how a cup can represent the contentment of solitude and the sweet pleasures of company, and the hypothetical voyage that transcends the two. The air reeked with the foul stench of betrayal, and the rational that I prided myself on had become imperceptible in the void. But even as those memories clouded my vision until I could not see into the darkness anymore, not once did my resolve waver nor my mind falter. I remained undeterred as I kissed my fellow companion goodbye for the very last time. The cup had borne the brunt of my mistakes for far too long already. I looked across as the sun made sweet love to the horizon, and watched the raindrops slowdance on my windowpane. My lips met the cup, my last lover, and with one painless stroke, I drank its contents. My lover had poisoned me, yet again, except this time, I made the call. And in that instant I was sold to the grave. A cup of life it shone as, but destiny had its own twisted fate planned for it, and it rose to crescendo as the cup of death.
By Sanjukta Krishnagopal 14
I wear a yellow dress when I approach people for hours I am not empowered I feel afraid not even great when I approach people I wear a yellow dress I stand in the middle of the street for hours and I carry heavy bags I feel I stand in the middle of the street empowered and I carry heavy bags I feel and I dare I feel flattered I am not great afraid it must be great just going around making people happy a great life and you look fucking great he says hey girl I see you just going around and in the nothingness making people happy I feel honest hey girl dancing and drunk you look fucking great he writes and in the nothingness confessing I feel I feel touched flattered and I see the essence of the world you dancing and drunk to be simple I feel it is honest confessing I feel a great life touched I feel the essence of the world and I dare to be simple I feel
- By Nina Westerdahl 15
Origins By Joe Mullings.
I joke about them. Harsh times and tests of character tend to get glossed over in my stories. A defence mechanism. But who am I defending? Myself? Or you, my audience. On occasion I ask myself if my levity is a form of escapism from the clouds falling overhead or if it's a way to pass tales of caution without suffering the sympathy and pity that comes with any confession of my struggles. The truth I don't know anymore. This is my identity as a writer, painting over the acute roughness and melancholy with a brush of self deprecating humour and fiction. But the truth is there I promise. Somewhere underneath all the bullshit, plot twists and talking animals it's there but it is dark, jagged and contagious. Although sometimes it is necessary. And the truth is for most of my life I have been drifting, barley afloat, and this was the place I lost my vessel. It was a single month that destroyed me. Sat on the steps by the Fernsehturm my eyes were fixed on my belongings the entirety of which fit into a rucksack and a guitar bag. This was the point where the desperation I felt for the past five months became loss. This was the moment I knew I had nothing. That's the thing about drifting, sometimes the waves push you close to shore, sometimes they drag you further out to sea. Crappy Expat jobs and lack of conviction to learn a new language had left me struggling for a foothold until the inevitable happened. Hope died. Using the free wi-fi I sent out requests to friends for a place to stay just for a couple of days, each one rejected. It's ok, my mind said struggling to let go completely of my naivety. Mentally searching I sought out slithers of light but found nothing. All I found was memories of every time I helped another human being, how my entire life I had tried to be a good person and how if roles were reversed I would give a place to stay even if just for a couple of weeks. I counted fifty messages all with negative replies. Humans I believed to be friends. I decided to set out and play the streets only for my fingers to burn as if submerged in fire after just three songs and leading to me sitting in the U-bahn station with lock-jaw and a broken heart wondering if the feeling would ever return to my extremities. Penniless, kicked out of my apartment, unable to play I had become homeless. Those nights I slept on the trams or S-bahn. I would wake up in the mornings surrounded 16
by commuters with disdain plastering their faces. My health rapidly declining I saw the other lost souls as a refection of my future drinking themselves into a stupor on the ring and blocking out as much of the winter as possible. When everything is stripped away you are left with just the foundations. And mine were flawed, cracked and fragile. Those days I had a lot of sleepless nights to reflect on my choice of friends, how I had gotten to this point and how I could have avoided it. I would think about going back to England but that question was instantly dismissed. The one thing I knew is that it was no longer my home, I had never belonged there. It was around halfway through the month I was done feeling sorry for myself and started my rebellion against everything I knew myself to be. Stealing food to survive, giving fake names to ticket inspectors, lying to colleagues and meeting women in bars just to have a place to sleep for the night. The old version of myself would have thought of the consequences and repercussions but then I didn't give a shit. Ice flowed through my veins to my heart and now the only thing I felt was anger. Always anger. It was as if all the good in me was seeping out, my heart was torn by the one thing I had faith in and now all the benevolence I held was draining from the wound. It took a single day to break me. So it made sense it would take a single day to fix me. The week in question passed in a daze. I remembered a gloomy pub and poetry, another bed and a request from an American girl in the middle of her panic attack and a promise to fulfil it. The part of my decency that still remained drove me to the south of Berlin and to the bar where the American girl invited me albeit an hour late. 'Sorry I'm late,' I apologized, 'Part Jamaican.' I explained. Smiling she thanked me for coming before asking, 'Can you go first?' Having only been there two minutes and having nowhere near enough alcohol in my system it caught me off guard. Both hands clasped together she held them close to her mouth, eyes shaky with the nerves that came from the first night of hosting. My immediate reaction was a very firm 'No.'. I still wasn't confident enough in my musical ability. Yet here I was with a guitar and my mind asking me if I was going to run and allow myself to start drifting again. Asking others to fill in the opening spot but to no avail I caught her attention and much to her delight told her I would begin. That night I had no home, I had lost my job and I was poor as hell but it didn't matter. I played two songs to a cellar full of strangers and after we spoke and drank only for something quite strange to happen. I began to feel like I belonged. These people had personalities, interesting things to say and the courage to bare their soul through prose, poetry and song. These people made me want to be a better writer, better musician, grasp a language that had been plaguing me for so long. January was the closest I came to completely losing my faith in humanity. I'd gaze into the open world and find only selfishness and cruelty in the masses. I would remember the people I had drug fuelled nights with, alcohol laced weekends, the people that were hollow, many poisonous, that surrounded me and kept me anchored, the ones that thought I was too eccentric and weird that shunned me because I didn't conform to popular fashion, lifestyle or thought. These people that actually made me feel more alone and I was glad distance had severed our ties. Now I had new friends who were just as messed up as me and held minds artistic enough to express that fact. The truth is I almost gave up on everything that month. I'd lost my way, my purpose and my faith in people yet be it coincidence, blind luck or destiny I found them again. Now as I approach my 27th year on this earth I look at my reflection and know my light, my darkness, I know my soul and my purpose in life, I know the importance of fighting for what you love and believe and how imperative it is to surround yourself with good people that challenge you to be a better version of yourself. So yes that month almost destroyed me but I would never change it. For that is the month I found the answers I sought and the people I love, revealing their souls, crowded together in a brick basement somewhere in the middle of Neukรถlln. Photograph by Lilach Moskovich 17
Memorial to an Extinguished Flame the flicker in the darkness her warm breath
red balloon | burst a fire
the touch of the knee her beautiful waist
spark splash
the ghost of freud with a thousand penises
roaming‌
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The Ghost of Winterson a rose pressed between the leaves a poem scribbled down the blade of a sword an unopened letter thick paper with marks of tea stain, left like the lingering smell of a lover light pouring down 01 10 28 3...3......6 I like the dirt in your soul, it mirrors your memories, gives me a door to walk into you... kiss me, I whisper to your reflection in the black window
Poems by Ankit Goyal 19
Poetry, But Not As You Know It By Eleanor Tremeer
It’s a hot summer evening, and the temperature in this cramped room has to be over 30 degrees (Celsius, of course). Although the air is cooler and fresher outside, there’s over fifty people crammed in here, limbs folded up over each other as they sit shoulder to shoulder on any available space: sofas, folding chairs, and every inch of floor is occupied. In Berlin, the city of music and art, known for its liberal attitude towards sexuality and the use of various substances, you’d think that to pull such a crowd on such a lovely evening, the event would have to be really something. It’s poetry.
But not as you know it. Many of us grew up with the idea of poetry as something static, stifled, cerebral. We were taught to annotate in school, to search for things like enjambment and underlying metaphors. There’s an art to crafting poetry, and it’s important to teach appreciation of this. But in Berlin (and many other cities) poetry isn’t just words on a page. It’s organic, living, breathing, a way for us to express emotion and make political statements. It’s a way of life.
Or at least, that’s what my experience of the Berlin spoken word scene has been. When I
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first arrived here a year ago, the first thing on my to do list was to find a social set. I had plenty of possibilities, and I expected my scene to be something theatrical, considering my background in British amdram. Or perhaps LGBT: as I’m bisexual, the queer scene is very important to me. But when I wandered into a bookshop, I fell in with a crowd that was far more vibrant and edgy than I’d ever expected to find among book nerds.
cite, rap, or sing about life, queerness, and the universe (and anything else that’s left over). “Berlin Spoken Word”, the well from which this very publication has sprung, is new on the scene but proved wildly successful very quickly, thanks to its atmosphere of vitality and excitement... not to mention it’s just really cool. I could wax lyrical for countless paragraphs about the spoken word scene in Berlin. It’s so welcoming and accepting, as people bare their souls in front of a crowd of strangers. There’s no set theme, no stereotypes for how Berlin poets write or perform. You can discover anything from a love poem to a lofty discussion of mythology to a rap about the refugee crisis. There’s no set age, as early twenties hipsters rub shoulders with older poetry veterans. Here you really have the freedom to express yourself about anything you want in any way you want.
My new friends introduced me to a spoken word culture in which I felt right at home, inviting me to poetry nights all across the city. Up for anything, I went along, expecting the events to be fairly dry intellectual affairs. That assumption was shattered however, when the first performer stripped off most of their clothes while half-rapping their piece, a bold statement about normative identity. And cupcakes. I can’t quite remember how cupcakes were involved, but I know they were mentioned several times.
Growing up Christian, the poetry nights I frequent remind me of Church, as we all gather to hear someone speak passionately about beliefs. Although what they’re preaching couldn’t be more different than sermons about sin, there’s something really special about how we’re all brought together to listen, to share in catharsis or joy or sorrow, leaving refreshed. We all want the chance to be heard, but in this poetry culture I’ve found more than a platform. I’ve found a home.
Each poetry night offers something different. “Isn’t Everything Poetry” (hosted by Curious Fox Bookstore every first Tuesday of the month) is a very chill event, but nonetheless extremely popular, with a diverse roster of regular performers and a host who simply sparkles, whether he’s wearing glitter or not. “Queer Stories” at Another Country Bookstore is pretty much exactly what it says on the tin, another popular event which draws a large crowd, providing a platform for people to talk, re-
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Words, Words, Words The potential of words is the shaping and reconfiguration of minds and social spaces. BSW recognises the importance and responsibility of communicating words - not just the right words but the appropriate platform. Positioned at the intersection between politics and art, BSW seeks to create and maintain community - understood in its broadest sense. Our current projects are directed towards both celebrating and showcasing Spoken Word, as well as using it as a platform to raise awareness and tackle current social problems. The potential of these projects is to positively reconfigure, mend and influence community tapestry. Our current projects include:
BSW: Live
BSW: Publication
BSW: Berlin Unspoken Magazine
BSW: School Projects
BSW: Outspoken
BSW: Workshops
BSW: Sharing Words That Matter
BSW: Photography
If you are interested in joining one of our many projects, please contact us at berlinspokenword@gmail.com
Berlin Spoken Word Live A weekly open mic night attracting spoken word artists, poets, storytellers, comedians, musicians and more. Driven by it's friendly and familiar atmosphere, Berlin Spoken Word Live aims to inspire with a weekly theme and encourages first time and returning performers to participate. Here you can also find monthly featured performers and community projects to get involved in. Every Thursday at Du Beast Innstrasse 4, 12045 Berlin
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Local Events Whisky and Words A monthly open mic night in the cozy back room of Keith for writers and drinkers alike. at Keith Schillerpromenade 2, 12049 Berlin
Isn‘t Everything Poetry Hosted by Curious Fox with MC Emeka Ene "Isn't Everything Poetry?" is a monthly event featuring guest poets, authors and spoken-word performers. at Curious Fox Books Flughafenstrasse 22, 12053 Berlin
Queer Stories and Storytelling Another Country is a bookshop and club offering a wide array of storytelling and reading events each month. at Another Country Riemannstrasse 7, 10961 Berlin
Poetry Meets Hip Hop Poetry meets Hip Hop is a creative space for local and international artists who happen to identify themselves in the framework of Hip Hop. at Ballhaus Naunynstrasse Naunynstrasse 27, 10997 Berlin
The Poetic Groove Poetry and music show in Berlin hosting featured poets, musicians and an open mic session.
at Ofen Bar Hobrechtstrasse 35, 12047 Berlin 23
How I Got Hooked on Berlin Spoken Word By Eva Kleer
E
lectricity? What kind of spoken word theme was that? That sounded boring. “Hej Calif! Are you going to the Spoken Word thingie for sure?” I asked my friend when she invited me on facebook. A Spoken Word event. I had no idea what “Spoken Word” was.
And it was taking place on the same evening I had planned to eat out at this new humus place. After a long day at work, my body was craving some culinary treats and a lazy evening. It seemed to make more sense to let my brain vent and my belly rejoice that Thursday night instead of taking part in some weirdly themed event that resembled a poetry slam. Had I actually ever attended a poetry event before? Apparently I hadn't been too eager in the past to see an evening based on written word. But my friend was going and she was thinking to perform. I wanted to see what she did at those storytelling events she had mentioned before, events that enabled her to emerge into a network of creative people telling stories in various forms.. I was intrigued to get to know this world she had told me tidbits about, so I decided to join, on the risk of not being able to satisfy my craving for hummus that night. Less than twenty-four hours later I am messaging Calif on facebook: “Califfff! Wow, what an evening!” I had been completely taken by surprise by Berlin Spoken Word. The evening started an hour before the actual event, the bar already brimming with people connecting, old friends and newcomers, casual bar guests and authors. When it was time for the event to begin I was surprised that we were led into a cellar, reminding me of unglamorous teenager gatherings in rooms that were little more than storage rooms, not designed to meet lofty aesthetic preferences but merely func-tional places. These unpretentious surroundings were slowly filled up by voices and I could clearly make out that everyone was speaking English. Although by then I had been living in Berlin for some months this still stood out to me. And when the actual event began it became even more impressive – a tiny English speaking world of poetry and words, tucked away in a cellar somewhere in north Neukölln, underneath a bar, only known to a circle of insiders. And what a level of English it was! Of course, Spoken Word is all about literature, expressing oneself through words. It is not limited to reading or reciting something one has written, it is open to music, performance, theatre or improvisation, and many others. Yet, even though I was well aware this was a creative and artistic gathering, I was still taken aback by how every performer was ploughing the vast plains of English language with dazzling mastery and virtuosity.Rapt by the powerful words of the performers, I almost didn’t notice how entranced I was becoming. How there was an instant connection and intimacy when I saw the content of the words being mirrored in the performers’ faces and the tone of the performers’ voices, when I noticed the joy and surprise of the audience, their reaction took shape in a fleeting expression. 24
That evening there was a wide array of performances: rhyming poems, pieces presented theatrically, short fictional and real stories told without a script, a theatre piece in which the host had his hair cut on stage, and several songs, some of them sung together with us, the audience. My friend had prepared a poem, but improvised the last line whilst on stage. She was also asked to rap in a little intermezzo game the hosts had prepared, which entertained everyone off and on stage. But even if this game might expose you in front of a crowd of (yet) strangers there was no shroud of menace or rejection during the evening. When I emerged to the surface of the bar I had a warm cozy feeling inside me, like I had just tapped into some sort of family evening where I was warmly welcomed. I came back to the hidden cellar the following week. And the week thereafter. And thereafter. To this day I can't stop and don't want to stop returning to this bare-walled basement, a basement that one day might burst one day from all the talent it holds each Thursday night. How and why did I get hooked? How did I become so attached to this world that was so unknown and strange to me at first?The answer is a mix of the inclusion and welcoming atmosphere I immediately found, the incredible and powerful sharing I became a part of, and the unfiltered, raw talent. The majority of the audience and the performers are non-Germans, many of which came to Berlin to start a new life here. Whatever the reason they may have for being in Berlin and in this special basement, this crowd and the two wonderful and quick-witted hosts ooze a welcoming, accepting and encouraging vibe that it almost pushed me to the stage once, and now I am again at the tipping point of trying out performing myself.
They are open, curious, knowledgeable, sensitive to your own struggles and supportive of each other. You are almost immediately connected to the others the moment you join in the room. Everyone shares so much, and it does not have to be a realistic account of life events. The moment the performer gets up on the stage, they tell the audience something about themselves. Every evening is full of information, about people, life, politics and social matters, about side projects and spin offs, about new ideas and old common places. It's a little treasure of stories, insights and opportunities that I carry home with me every Thursday night into Friday morning. Apart from becoming a part of this family of performers and audience, one is becoming part of an even more fleeting and ungraspable concept – one becomes part of the event itself. It's floating and changing from week to week. And everyone at Berlin Spoken Word shapes it along the way. Finally, in this small, raw basement you are not part of an anonymous crowd, your reaction is echoed by the people around you or on stage, a strangely comfortable intimacy sets in very quickly once the event commences. This connection and familiarity is one important layer of the Berlin Spoken Word baumkuchen that I am now hooked on. Another is the sheer talent packed into that tiny underground room, shared with you unfiltered. I was taken on journeys and into abysses, I laughed and cringed and had goose bumps from joy and anger and despair, marveled at sophisticated words and phrases and was led into imaginative worlds. When I commute to work I now carry a little notepad together with the English book I am reading. I scribble down there all those fancy sophisticated words from my book which I usually am too lazy to look up since I always somewhat get the idea without grasping the many layers of the true meaning. But now I want to know, now I want to understand all the hidden aspects of what Spoken Words performers read and recite, to better understand and to better connect. I began learning English again. I still haven't had my humus at that new place. But this can wait. On a Thursday evening after a long day of work, I crave something else now. 25
Meet the Editors Managing Editor, Layout Editor Mary Vlasuk has called Berlin her home since 2009. Driven by her admiration for the arts and business saavy ways she helped found Berlin Spoken Word in 2015 and continues to run the weekly open mic night. Mary is currently studying Social Work and is committed to supporting an active, open and aware society for social change and justice.
Executive Editor, Layout Editor Beulah Kirupa grew up in Australia. While taking a career break in 2012 she travelled around Europe, a trip that would put her on a path that would eventually lead to her sitting in a Berlin basement in early 2016, listening to people sharing their beautiful words. Inspired she became involved with the Berlin Spoken Word family and their affiliated magazine.
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Content Editor Selene Ross has lived in a basement in West Berlin since September 2015. She is an artist and writer originally from California, interested in themes of femininity, power, and the in-between.
Project Manager Naniso Tswai is a Berlin based South African author. His work is strongly embedded in broader issues of justice and peace, particularly as these relate to human rights and identity. In the past few years his focus has gradually shifted from academic writing to fictional writing - this has come in the form of short stories and novels. He is interested in creating platforms which both celebrate and utilise the potential collaboration of art and politics.
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The Templhofer Feld panorama. The volcanic eruption of a setting sun tassels with blue tranquilly. This is Berlin, an unresolved space of bits of pieces that conspire into city.
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