Brandy, lemonade with ice,

downed by candlelight.

Quite a gothic arrangement really.

No shirt nor tie,

just jeans, leather jacket and a worried eye,

though one eager to pervade.

Feeling a bit out of place,

with no literary anachronisms,

no thesaurus at the ready,

while others sip and swallow their metaphors,

ancedotes and editors euphemisms.

Over on another table the new breed of writer,

choke on their language of a different class.

What would Welsh or Bukowski say to such a scene,

indifference or something else that might be obscene?

The poet at the back with his Shakespearean mannerisms,

'comparing thee to thee' - well at least he knows most of the company.

And a Cumbrian raver - the star of the show,

'Ee, marra, fettle de dum de de, as garn yam',

Standing with an ever expanding beard and back to the wall.

Give him a top hat and ‘yuv’ got Charlie Dickens there.

 

Two local poets sit gassing, making forms

and sarcastically, satirically free-versed their opinions,

on the ceased publication of some local verse rag magazine.

I'd never been to one of these dos before,

except for a reading by Mr Armitage,

but it's a good set up and good drinking,

amateurs and pro's gently mingling.

Yet very few take any part in listening to that lady’s animal stanzas,

'Save the leopard. Save the wolf.' They've all heard it before love,

etc, etc, yawn, sleep - snore.

But if you ask me it went well,

though earlier on it felt like hell,

as one has to be near sloshed to enjoy it,

and play witness to a new star born:

Mr whatshisname and his ranting 90's expressions,

finger snapping rhymes and his word aggressions.

I'd love to hear more of this stuff ....

 

The room sadly emptied until next month.

Maybe crème coffee cigar deluxe,

Two piece tuxcido, sherry and not so many vacant looks,

when I'm next in the spotlight,

at the poetry cafe.