We had the main hall of the village community centre, a building that was once the local primary school. There were candle-lit tables, an angel-headed guitarist, hot fruit juice, wine – and poets, including our invited one, Maria Jastrzebska, who writes poetry that is intimate and personal but not sentimental, political but not preachy. She also writes beautifully about M.E. There was a moment when we and the poet thought that no-one other than us would be there. I had steeled myself for this, you never know. Then the place filled up. There are those star-dusted moments when everything that should happen does happen and all is, for a short space, right with the world. In other words it was a good first Poetry Café.
I have also been poetry workshopping with three others at my kitchen table. Perhaps workshopping isn’t the right term, but I don’t know what to call it. We do things that lead us into something that is, or might become, poetry or story. I have just looked at that last sentence. It is appalling but accurately reflects my ability to focus at this moment so I’ll leave it. I’m not in too bad a shape considering all, but the mind is a fuzzy television screen with many white dots, behind which you can just make out the picture. The picture is Bonanza, that cowboy series from the 1960s and 70s. I am visualising, free-associating, you see, doing one of those things that might lead to poetry. Or not. Sometimes you sit there and it’s just words on paper, something ridiculous about, let’s say, Bonanza, or the sound of a rollerball moving across white paper, and you were going to say virgin paper but remember that virgin is one of those words you shouldn’t use. Then you say it anyway. Then you cross it out. Damn, it’s hard being a wordsmith.
There was, however, coffee in my kitchen, the real thing, a latte made with strong americano or espresso blend and hot milk. Poets need coffee. They meet (well, used to) in coffee houses rather than opium dens or pubs. They even meet in old school halls to read their stuff and listen to others and call it Poetry Café when there is no coffee at all but in the name. Poetic license.
I have also been poetry workshopping with three others at my kitchen table. Perhaps workshopping isn’t the right term, but I don’t know what to call it. We do things that lead us into something that is, or might become, poetry or story. I have just looked at that last sentence. It is appalling but accurately reflects my ability to focus at this moment so I’ll leave it. I’m not in too bad a shape considering all, but the mind is a fuzzy television screen with many white dots, behind which you can just make out the picture. The picture is Bonanza, that cowboy series from the 1960s and 70s. I am visualising, free-associating, you see, doing one of those things that might lead to poetry. Or not. Sometimes you sit there and it’s just words on paper, something ridiculous about, let’s say, Bonanza, or the sound of a rollerball moving across white paper, and you were going to say virgin paper but remember that virgin is one of those words you shouldn’t use. Then you say it anyway. Then you cross it out. Damn, it’s hard being a wordsmith.
There was, however, coffee in my kitchen, the real thing, a latte made with strong americano or espresso blend and hot milk. Poets need coffee. They meet (well, used to) in coffee houses rather than opium dens or pubs. They even meet in old school halls to read their stuff and listen to others and call it Poetry Café when there is no coffee at all but in the name. Poetic license.
5 comments:
This is what life is about. Or, at least, this is what life should be about. Gathering with a group to consume nothing but coffee and words.
Sometimes, ms m, it all happens as it should - coffee goes in, out come the words. Sometimes.
Link to my site doesn't seem to work though. Something not working?
reading: for some reason, I did not put the "http://" in front of the URL. Fixed it. Because the computer could not resolve the address, it went back to Leesa's Stories.
Yes, but just think of the fun we could have meeting in an opium den! Or a hooka parlour! I'm up for trying it...
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