What a honky-tonking, stonking

Poetry performing, barnstorming

Guitar-strum, maelstrom,

Meek and haughty

cello and piano-their-forte

All-singing, all-words-dancing,

Dynamic, eclectic, electric

Night it was at Kilburn’s Catweazle

When I visited.

No causal link, nor said in drink

I just think

It was.

 

North London Tavern,

comes alive, this dive

along the old A5, where you can drive

all the way to Holyhead

though best to stay, instead

and rest your beery head

on a leather Chesterfield – private club-feel,

No-mic open-mic and I like

The fact it rips along

A poem a song,

One or two too long,

But let that slip

This place is hip,

Hop up, it’s humming

Up-and-coming,

ready or not.

All acts are hot, to trot out

And spout

Their latest creation,

Self-revelation, titillation,

Incantation,

Irritation only

By those who read too many,

Position abused though still amused

By the quality of what they choose

 to share.

This seems unfair

To all who excelled there, but

Ivory-and-rib-tickling Matt,

the star for me,

so come and see

Each Tuesday, in turn

In High Street, Kilburn,

North West six

and take some pix

'cos I forgot

that's your lot.