My poetry-learning effort pales when compared with that of Jim Holt, the book author, magazine writer and essayist, who wrote of memorizing poetry for pleasure in The New York Times Book Review in April 2009. He said then that he knew about 100 poems, or more than 2,000 lines. Contacted by email to see if he had continued his “cheap pleasure,” as he had called it, he answered with an emphatic yes. Mr. Holt said he now knows 160 poems.

“I only learn one new line a day,” he wrote. “It adds up.”

It is not necessary for poets in the Nuyorican open slam to know their work by heart, but I have done so since my first appearance at the cafe 30 years ago, eight years before the open slam began in its present form. The slam is limited to 20 poets performing original work. Would-be contestants start lining up at least an hour before the door opens, at 9 p.m., to assure themselves of a slot. The winner gets $10.

But what makes the Wednesday slam so competitive is the chance the winner gets to perform on a Friday night with the cafe’s veteran poets, which could lead to a place on the Nuyorican’s national slam team. The team is consistently among the top-ranked in the country. The judges for the open slam are selected from the audience with the stipulation that they not know the poets, who are rated on a scale of 0 to 10.

The first four times I appeared in the slam, my scores were mediocre. I recited poems from my repertoire in the face of slam poetry that Daniel Gallant, the cafe’s executive director, said is steeped in the elements of rap and hip-hop that tend to reflect the social and economic discontent of the poets.

The poem that advanced me to the final round nine years ago was one I wrote in rap style. My son Rob put it to music to give me the most effective rhythm. It was about the joys of old age. For the championship round that night, I surprised my wife, Mel, by performing a poem I had written for her 65th birthday. It was so vulgar I had promised never to recite it to anyone but her. At the slam, it received a rousing reception (and made my wife laugh, despite the broken promise) but I was still no better than third.

Image Mr. Barden, seated with glasses, waiting to compete at a Wednesday Night Slam at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. Credit... Willie Davis for The New York Times

What brought me back to the competition was a decision early this year to write about my brain-occupying project. My progress stirred my curiosity about how I stacked up against today’s poets. So, in the spring, I made two appearances in the open slam, performing a couple of my old poems, with encouraging results. My scores made me think I could attain the championship round again with the right poem.