A request – because, as people have said, it is distracting from the poetry to have a lot of camera clicking going on, I am asking you not to use professional style cameras. Steph takes pictures and is very discrete and if you want to use hers for your personal use, just ask her. She posts them on the facebook page. If you want to film your mate on your i-phone as they read or take one or two pictures discretely, feel welcome. But no professional-type cameras clicking away please.
SpokenWord Paris is a place to speak our truths, to sing our visions, to glimpse each others’ hidden worlds. Born the bastard son of Jack Kerouac, Patti Smith, Arthur Rimbaud and Dr Seuss, SpokenWord Paris first drew breath in the cellars of The Lizard Lounge in 2006, a dream sprung from my dreaming brain. Since then I’ve nurtured it to become the community it is today. When I arrived in Paris there was simply nothing like it going on. No English open mic nights. So now it’s 6 years old and is the place where people come to speak the words in tongues of fire that lick the ear or in the stumbling naivete we all pass through when we first write poetry. It’s a creative home that opens its doors to all, in the hope that you will cast off the work clothes of your mind and allow yourself to be vulnerable and be moved. And that then in turn you will be moved to speak with your unique voice and will move us all.
SpokenWord Paris is not about ego, or getting published – though our magazine is on sale at the back – or climbing some ladder of spurious success. It is not a rat race for poets. It is a place where we can all be our strange selves and find, for one evening, home.
And now on to the report from 10th Dec!
Destined to produce dust (Evan)
autumn chides the skin with sudden cold (David)
Pablo Neruda forgets me (Jane)
lost in Victor’s history of chanson, part V
if only I could have half as much sex as Pat Cash!
Float my words upon the surface like an oil slick (Gabriel)
Paris is for strangers and fractured romantics
while London burns (Pat Cash)
Here comes the rain again (Amel, Tania)
as love freezes over in the autumn (Colin)
and glossy paper that holds a thousand thumb prints (Anita)
but then –
as grandmother’s eyes drink me in (Lidia)
I am the word that reading eyes read (Lexi)
in the natural spectacle of a boxer falling backwards (Alberto)
No matter how hard you try, books won’t fade to black
Poetry is for the not-so-straight shooters
And we heard from Betsy Ma’s novel and about Anita’s bank robber father, who was arrested when she was 3 weeks old, got out of prison when she was 12, died when she was 13.
For Victor’s info about the chanson songs, including youtube clips, check out his post on the facebook page.