I was sitting at breakfast in Vedado, Havana last week when Jeffrey Shero, pictured, of Austin, Texas, says to me: “Allen Ginsberg told me that, as a young man, he’d slept with a much older man who, as a young man, had slept with Walt Whitman.”

What would the Queen Mum say, I wondered. “You knew Ginsberg?”

“Sure, and I edited Burroughs. He wrote stuff for Rat, the underground newspaper I ran in New York City in the sixties. Knew Auden too, though only spoke to him on the phone.” I later read that Auden was believed to be one of the paper’s financial backers.

While in Washington DC I’d suddenly taken it into my head to follow Barry Obama’s lead and head off to see what I could learn about the poetry scene on that island which, no matter your politics, you have to admire for having given two fingers to the US for so long.

I landed at José Marti international airport, named after the national poet, revolutionary hero and intellectual committed to the cause of Cuba’s independence from Spain, and the man whose poetry was turned into Cuba’s famous unofficial anthem, Guantanamera (someone from Guantanamo, ironically); a song I stopped enjoying when hearing it sung indifferently at every café I passed over the course of an evening in Havana Vieja. Perhaps because I’ve considered Pete Seeger’s to be the definitive version.  He had put Marti’s verse to another tune for his reworked version, which he hoped would be sung by people concerned about the Cuban missile crisis. It appeared on the first LP I owned, Seeger’s We Shall Overcome. I distinctly remember that day, during the missile crisis when our chemistry teacher sat at the front of the class, trembling, unable to teach: “Boys, the world could end today.”

I hoped to learn more about Marti from the Fondacion José Marti but they had nothing in English, and my lack of Spanish prevented  further research. The centre is also in Vedado, not far from El Parque John Lennon, whose metal statue, - a cross-eyed depiction looking nothing like him - sits on a bench, worn smooth by tourists desperate to have photos taken with this odd choice of hero in a land of real ones.

On my second morning I visited UNEAC, Cuba’s Union of Writers and Artists, to ask about the poetry scene: do they have slams and open-mics? An underground, grassroots poetry movement? Or is it just state-sponsored writing that is permitted? The union is housed in a surprisingly upmarket Spanish colonial house with a beautiful oasis of a garden, as befits artists and writers.

Desculpe, no habla Espanol. Anyone here speak English please? After lots of admin staff shrugs I bumped into Enrique Saïnz, whom I later learned to be Cuba’s foremost poetry critic and literary essayist; and with whom I was fortunately able to converse in French. He advised me to speak to Susana Haug Morales and husband Jesus David Curbelo, then asked me to revisit the union office the following day, when  he presented me with a copy of his latest book: Poetas Cubanas: neuvas reflexiones.  In the prologue he writes of his desire to share his passion for poetry as widely as possible, and to help others acquire a sensitivity to and knowledge of poetry. A sentiment we share at Write Out Loud.

Susana and Jesus invited me to their lovely flat – a contrast with much around their block - which had one room crammed to overflowing with books mostly in Spanish, but many in English too, which Susana speaks so well I had wondered at first if she might be from the US.  Susana is a much published writer of poetry, and fiction for adults and children.; translator, professor of Latin American literature and, well, polymath, described on one website as a precocious talent. She is 33.  Jesus, also much published as a poet and translator has recently rendered Seamus Heaney’s lovely poem, Scaffolding, into Spanish for one anthology. He gave me a copy of his own anthology. Although officially published it is hand-stitched and imperfectly finished, lending it an underground press air.

Both of my hosts seemed at first rather academic, responding to my questions with furrowed brows, high and otherwise. They told me of their work, of the publication of poetry in Cuba, largely through the Union of Writers and Artists. No, there’s not really an alternative poetry scene in Cuba. Yes, there are people who write for themselves, of course, but …

Hang on, what about that Argentinian woman, says Susana. She holds events, a bit like salons, encouraging young writers and other artists. Not sure how you could find out about her though. Then there’s that guy who brings together black poets. Isn’t there something … So, there is an alternative, unofficial scene. They are not really a part of it, but were not dismissing it either. My next trip perhaps?

They wanted to know about Write Out loud, so I talked of this website, and of open-mic poetry. I told them of our jazz festival poetry jams, of my reading Howl one year. Ice was melting. Susana turned to her husband: your TV programmes! Jesus went off to find me videos of poets performing, including one reading to the background of a bongo drum style instrument, not unlike the Beat Poets used to do. Would you like copies of one or two? You bet I would. Could I put them on YouTube or would I need permission from the ministry of culture, for whom he works. Whispered discussions. No, I don’t think so. Jesus, on the other hand seemed keen that a wider audience might see them.  I handed over a USB stick and wondered about getting out of the country with it. Was this a cultural artefact that I would be considered to be exporting?

I mentioned Jeffrey Shero, my Ginsberg and Burroughs B&B buddy, to them. Susana looked stunned. But I am writing a programme on the Beat Poets, to present on TV in a few days’ time. Please, introduce me! So I did.

And that, dear reader, is precisely what Write Out Loud exists to do - bring more people together to enjoy poetry and to spread the word. Even on vacation. Even in Cuba. I have yet to follow up and find out what happened. I hope also to report more from the trip, not least on Jeffrey Shero and the results of conversations over several beers over a couple of nights. Things such as Ginsberg telling him the best places to meet other gay men in the 1960s, and how to be invisible when the police charge the demonstrators. Or how Jeff helped draft dodgers forge documents, or his business selling drug-free urine for testing (which he got from an OAP home, so turned out not to be drug-free after all).

Jeffrey gave me a poster from one of the pages of Rat. He is reproducing some of them in his upcoming book about his experiences of that era. He signed the poster, too.

I didn’t buy the Rough Guide to Cuba. Didn’t have a lot of time for tourism. Enough, though, to be transported back to my youth. I’d been prepared for the old American cars that have been kept going since the 1950s and are now used as taxis or for the tourists; but not the British cars: Standard 10, Ford Mk 1 and 2  Consuls and Mk1 Anglia and Prefects, Hillman Minx, Vauxhall Victor; some of which I had owned and driven. That, and the pollution, took me straight back to my 1960s youth.

Pity we didn’t have Cuba’s revolutionary slogans, perhaps? Still, we had free orange juice and national dried milk. Viva the NHS! Viva Cuba Libre!