SpokenWord Paris

Deborah and Alberto’s non-identical twins, Orlando and Amadeo, were born late on Friday 10th.

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Round 1

William Strangmeyer

Gus was born. Melinda gave birth. Devon used to have a demon, feeding on crumbs, beating inside him. Katie knows your bloodshot eyes are art. It pains Clayton to think that he hit her (heroin poem). James’ waters broke in a dream of Britney Spears, when he was twelve. Then he went to the dentist’s. Sophie took the postcards down and turned round the Sun. Pallavi spent a brutal 6 days with her parents. Here au Chat Noir she got a round of applause for only taking 30 minutes to be born. Bill: “Between the see are certain walls, but are men soft and women tough?” He is available for baby boxing lessons – Alberto take note – “Keep that left fist up!”

Round 2

Ferdinand’s clock is ticking

Will: “We are all born once. Dreamers die twice, are laid to rest in broken drawer graves.” Kaisa, Linea and Ellen sang about the rebirth of nature after winter. Jennifer turned a backward thought to hours of greener tears, Max went online dating disastrously. Melissa read one of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet advising him how to write, and whether to. For Kristina any wind is fair. Ferdinand presented “How to Learn English with SpokenWord, lesson 6: the Biological Clock.” And I plotted the world as a whodunnit.

Round 3

Julia & Anna

Hanniffa asked “Can a poem fight?” The legendary David Sirois read to an Azalia. Sam’s knuckles seized, curled round cold air. Sam’s Dad read next, Daris Kalinksy, planning his own fantasy funeral he found fool’s gold. Yann mapped the social order in post-human neo-Tokyo. I’m not sure what Evan’s poem was about, possibly his metallic shiny clothes: “Threads of brilliance, why do we tarnish?”
And Anna told the story of her mother’s birth in a Russian prison!! “As I look at her I have trouble believing so much life has fit into this one person.”

Turn up tonight despite the rain for another mix of fragments of life, biography and poetic invention, for a night of REVENGE! with another host hosting under the top hat, neither me nor Alberto. Sign up from 7.30pm, poetics begin 8.30pm in the basement.
Cheers all,
David

Margo Berdeshevsky’s guilty pleasures were gifts of lingerie and a moth. ”Dear ex ex ex ex ex’, she wrote. Then sent ‘Postcards to the Body Politic.’

Natasha Larousse, arrived from the U.S.S.R. with vodka. Owen sang the history of Jersey from the Ice Age to the present day. Evan used to worked in a bomb shelter in Nebraska. Simone indulged in the guilty pleasure of prejudice. I read Kahlil Gibran and Ferlinghetti:

Poetry still falls from the skies
into our streets still open.
They haven’t put up the barricades,
yet,
the streets still alive with faces,
lovely men & women still walking
there,
still lovely creatures everywhere,
in the eyes of all the secret of all
still buried there,
Whitman’s wild children still sleeping
there,
Awake and sing in the open air.

Ferlinghetti – Poetry as insurgent art

‘After the funeral… cocktail sausages. As if parsley garnish could heal the heart.’ – Francesca. Alex spoke in the name of the last cigarette. Max told us the 15 weirdest things he did on alcoholic energy drinks – including making out with a dear. Pallavi said ‘Don’t feel guilty!’ and told us about her sister’s guilty pleasure – Jewish guys.

Kajsa and Company harmonised. Melinda walked determinedly in the wrong direction. Ferdinand likes to feel dirty. Gus’s guilty pleasures “are no one else’s fucking business.” Hanniffa had a rhythmic and beautiful ending. Gabriel’s tongue twisted in the wisdom of Adrian Daoud’s sax and sound effects.

Ambjorn brought Conan the Barbarian. James’ pigeon with one leg was genuinely terrified. Katie’s fingers were dead as the spoken word. David Sirois read a poem he abandoned today, one designed for easy grieving. Jennifer spoke of her almost right life. “What’s up with that finger?” asked Troy. “Ooops,” replied Kelly.

James’ guilty pleasure is supporting Wolverhampton Wanderers.

Tomorrow – Danger! – is the theme for SpokenWord at the Chat Noir.
Cheers all,
David