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Food & drink: report from 1st December
That’s Martin Neaga on cello. Later Betty Rojas improvised on a large box instrument whose name escapes me while I did Unspoken Words.
Sarah was in Berlin for Baader Meinhof days. Scott was on Quality Street. Soon you’ll be able to see him from space. Maria performed extracts of Burns’ Tam O’Shanter. Rufo listed everything he’s eaten and drunk all week. Thanks to Marianela and everyone else who did stuff too.
Some other words about food and drink, especially jam.
In Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There, the White Queen, seeking to hire Alice, offers her ‘jam to-morrow’:
‘I’m sure I’ll take you with pleasure!’ the Queen said. ‘Twopence a week, and jam every other day.’
Alice couldn’t help laughing, as she said, ‘I don’t want you to hire ME – and I don’t care for jam.’
‘It’s very good jam,’ said the Queen.
‘Well, I don’t want any TO-DAY, at any rate.’
‘You couldn’t have it if you DID want it,’ the Queen said. ‘The rule is, jam to-morrow and jam yesterday – but never jam to-day.’
‘It MUST come sometimes to “jam to-day,”‘ Alice objected.
‘No, it can’t,’ said the Queen. ‘It’s jam every OTHER day: to-day isn’t any OTHER day, you know.’
.
Edward Lear’s The Jumblies (extract):
.
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,
To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,
And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees.
And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,
And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese.
.
Next Spoken Word: “Animals” 15th Dec
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Suzanne's poem she read
Suzanne’s prize-winning poem for English teachers and waitresses/waiters everywhere…
Keep Them All
When you wait tables or teach, you don’t quit
one job for another. You keep them both,
keep them all because you need the money.
You skip a lot of meals because you’re broke
or busy. You eat a lot of fast food and feel guilty
when you wait tables or teach. You don’t quit
believing it will get better. You don’t quit
drinking either. You drink and save up bottles,
keep them all because you need the money.
And you say you do it for the environment—
all that saving, reusing—you do it with people too.
When you wait tables or teach, you don’t quit
stockpiling lovers who ask nothing of you,
lovers you never leave and you never ask to stay.
Keep them all because you need the money.
Let them buy you dinner. Meet them for lunch.
Have sex. Keep living. Keep believing that
when you wait tables or teach, you don’t quit.
Keep them all because you need the money.
This won a prize in California Quarterly’s annual competition. News from her:
“I just got word that I’m gonna be in a women’s poetry anthology with Sharon Olds and Erica Jong! And many others, of course. My name isn’t on the blurb but you can see it on their site… scroll down to “Not a Muse…” not quite half-way down the page… due out in March: http://www.havenbooksonline.com/ The “Dummies for Mummies” book looks intersting too!
They’ve accepted my Ginsberg knock-off, “Wail.” An oldie but a goodie. Funny, I never submitted it anywhere else before this… and I’m not even sure it’s done. But I had a little feeling about this match… just a little one guided by hope and smothered by fear of rejection–but a feeling none the less! More often I’m surprised by the poems editors “like,” always sad for the unloved ones 😉
I’m not familiar with the press, but I love the name–Haven Books. And I don’t know the editors either… better do a little research! Can’t wait to see it!”
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Report from 17th November (Work)
A packed night at the Cabarét Pop in Beautiful Belleville. I think what I like best is the insight poets and performers’ stuff gives me into their interior worlds. Worlds richly different to my own. Maybe that’s the first reason why I go to these things. Plus enjoying the language and the jokes – a lot of humour last night. And finally ‘cos Spoken Word is becoming this party/social event.
So, the report:
Charly était en Amerique. Bonjour Frisco! Giéno? Il y a des gens qui vivent les vies qui ne sont pas les vies. Rufo, before his recent windfall, oiled his piston till it shone in the night. Aidan’s been working away underground in borrowed words. He says the earth will seduce you. Amy’s rusty flower snaps the lighter straps. Leemore gave us vignettes about bicycles & boys and went out with a song. Ellen’s been trying to kick the other woman habit. Beverly performed extracts of her plays, asking ‘What message are your shoes sending to the world?’ Christophe n’a pas de souci et pas de sou. Or possibly pas dessous. Alexa – whose performance poems are on the Spoken Word blog – shook out her hair in full witchiness, getting raunchier with each verse. Peter & Armen were looking for hoovers. Sally had some cracking lines. The thing thing about men is, for them sex is like pizza. They’re glad to get even cold pizza. Suzanne naomiwolfed us. Sarah’s lexicon of the erotic blew out eardrums in Limehouse. Pauline mixed alcohol and teaching, suspected her students, et finalement elle s’est marriée pour les raisons fiscals. & Xander relived being 10 and scratching that itch, the first pre-sex sex. You wanna play highschool?
Thanks to all others who read & who I haven’t jotted down impressions of.
More in 13 days!
Cold pizza, anyone?
Xander’s blog:
http://pont-des-arts.blogspot.com/
If you want to read his piece on the pretend high school game, hassle him through his site to send you the link.
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Cosy Biscuit by Roger McGough
A poem with a slightly skewed perspective on work…
Cosy Biscuit
What I wouldn’t give for a nine to five
Biscuits in the right hand drawer,
teabreaks, and typists to mentally undress.
The same faces. Somewhere to hang
your hat and shake your umbrella.
Cosy. Everything in its place.
Upgraded every few years. Hobbies
Glass of beer at lunchtime
Pension to look forward to.
Two kids. Homeloving wife.
Bit on the side when the occaision arises
H.P. Nothing fancy. Neat semi.
* * *
What I wouldn’t give for a nine to five.
Glass of beer in the right hand drawer
H.P. on everything at lunchtime
The same 2 kids. Somewhere to hang
your wife and shake your bit on the side.
Teabreaks and a pension to mentally undress
The same semifaces upgraded.
Hobbies every few years, neat typists
in wet macs when the umbrella arises.
What I wouldn’t give for a cosy biscuit.
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Report from 3rd November… Furniture?
Photo: Ellen singing about bedbugs.
So what was it all about? More than 40 people, 21 poets 2 singers, one pickpocket. The pickpocket went through my jacket pockets but did not steal my biography of Rimbaud. No one got robbed. Got a good look at him though.
So what was it all about? Furniture.
Michael says a renter’s gotta pay the rent. Rufo knows less than he used to, says to head nowhere special, hopes to uncouple hope from desire, his radio tuned to nothing. Genio était comdamné à rester au lit. Ton absence s’empechait de dormir. Une nuit foutu. Michele produced odes to sex in the Bottleshop, to Guantanamo, to Belleville. Suzanne missed the metro, following Colette in the middle of the night. Chase took the biological function of a flower & singed the epidermis of my soul. ”I want whipped cream with my slice of sky.” Ellen sang Baby’s Got Bedbugs but that maybe because she’s a Difficult Woman. Leemore dragged in a crib and a bedframe for some quiet apprehensive love. Christopher was curious about a box. Stephanos set fire to his couch. Sally visited the Taj Mahal asleep and rose with Maya Angelou. Pour Jaco, tous ça c’est humain. À chacun son opium. Devant sa fenêtre le monde est pété. Didier a fait un réprise de Baudelaire. Lux, Calme et Volupté. Edward dipped into his world of furniture vocabulary, encountered Grindling Gibbon and furnished his mind. Thanks also to others who read or sang. Erica has gigs coming up I’ll let you know about.
Thanks all for coming. By popular vote we’re moving to an earlier time for the next one.
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Spoken Word needs your support… 3 November
Here’s the situation folks. Last week’s Spoken Word was pretty quiet. We can only continue at Cabaret Populare if enough people actually turn up for November’s dates (3rd and 17th). So if you want Spoken Word to carry on, now’s a good time to show your support!
Themes: (not obligatory)
3rd November – poems, texts, stories, etc that include a piece of furniture
17th November – work
Cheers, all.
David
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London
Went to London last weekend and caught a monthly night called The Cellar (photo above) at The Poetry Cafe, Betterton Rd, Covent Garden… Real high quality poetry – I mean the artistic level of it was something else – and an older crowd.
The weekly open mic here is supposed to be the way into the heart of the London spoken word scene. Very friendly place too. Pity it looks like a museum cafe or a classroom.
Went drinking afterwards with some of the poets and thought about how different the London scene is from Paris. They have all these magazines and stuff going on. They know all these poetry & spoken word minor celebrities. They drink more than us. (Except that night I was falling off my chair.) But they don’t have the intimacy and closeness of the Paris scene.
One of the most amazing things was talking to this bloke who stuttered then seeing him go up on stage – he lost his stutter completely when he performed his stuff and was brilliant.
Hmmm. Do I wish I lived in London and was part of the poetry scene there? I’m certainly tempted. That could be me on those stages! Me I tell ya! But the lifestyle is just so much better here…
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il faut se méfier les mots
6th October was our first night at Le Cabaret Populaire, Belleville. A lot more French poets – which was great. The theme was loosely Intoxication. Began with Fanfan, for whom nous sommes des faites divers. I had a 2 a.m. high then got lost. Doudou dreamed of his neighbour. Ellis’champagne sent a big fuck you, a conversation creator & tongue loosener. Jacko did his ”not joy text” because Paris Hilton a compris le sense de la vie. Leemore wanted to Wake UP! and looked good dancing with a childlike ambition to kiss you. Dana pounded the keyboard and sung some crazy stuff I can’t read in my notes, but it looks like ”atrophy unspoken from Parkslope, Brooklyn.” Thomas was in Calcutta. Dona D. Leter was toxic. Christopher was mad, bad and dangerous to know. Didier produced an Albatros. Amy Ireland wandered round the palace of Kublai Khan. Maxx watches as each moment unfolded. Epiphany in the artifical night.
Apologies to any errors or incompleteness in this, I just can’t read my scribbled notes.
We wound down to a few new songs from Erica and headed for the last metros.
Cabaret Populaire – a good atmosphere, cheap beer & crepes. Should also be less hot next time as the air conditioning system should be switched on sooner.
Be back there, 9.30 Monday 20th October from 9.30… theme (optional – off topic stuff welcome) is Apocalypse.
More of Dana’s stuff here:
And I finally created my own spoken word myspace:
at which you can listen to 6 poems, but not these 2:
The 2 a.m. high
This is the 2 a.m. high
when the world is strange
when the world is strange
mind fireworking
too luminous with ideas to sleep
afterhours, afteryears
cramped-up in your head
suddenly you’re let out
you’re taking a walk across the grounds
a crazy escaped from the long-stay ward
all electric skin & fire-in-the-head
the cool wet grass under your feet
your hospital pyjamas flapping in the wind
eyes bulging with Now
hands flexing
to caress or strangle
the lover left behind on the bed
you know how it is
(they’ll keep)
while you live the 2 a.m. high
stalk the room
touch the chill of the night through the unshut glass
& the house floods with the dark words and images pouring
out of you like tea through a colander
& the house floods with the dark words and images pouring
out of you like tea through a colander
after the what-are-you-gonna-do-now,
that pressure-cooker prison
when the days were dull as dishwater
and you, closed up, in the motorway café of your soul
to not see how dismal the world was
that was then, this
is how
you’ve learned the location of joy
discovered that that half-dodged despair was not the final Revelation
because this is the 2 a m high, and you
you can tightrope-walk between worlds
side-step time
light the blue touch paper to your life and retire
You’re too alive to sleep tonight!
You’re off again!
through that Alice’s rabbit hole, the 2 a.m. high
let’s get lost
your voice – melting butter & honey on toast
Naked, warm as breakfast
your breasts the sea and your sweat as salty,
and as for the tang of that other taste!
and as for the tang of that other taste!
whenever you look at me so young & soft, close up
or with eyes that know & mind ticking
I touch how it could be –
or with eyes that know & mind ticking
I touch how it could be –
we blur
I come home in you
a book opens like a door at the top of the stairs
a book opens like a door at the top of the stairs
I hold you curled up like a cat
purring with warmth or woundedness
purring with warmth or woundedness
Or is it the other way round?
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Report from The Highlander 24th September
A friendly gathering to kick off the new season of Spoken Word. Joanna brought Flowers for You and A Breath of May before Driving Backwards in Paris. Rufo’s monks left no trace in Iceland, setting off in their coracles for suicide or sanctity. His city belongs to drag queens. Thomas carried out a Soft Revolution. He’s only an Innocent Boy who Wanted to do a Bad Thing before he dies. Dona D. Leter told us in the language of Moliere (who would’ve been a slam poet if he could) how it is to be in a crypt, improvised 2 slam poems on the spot and exhorted us to speak more French! Adrian gave a riposte and read various things before ending with a Cosy Biscuit.I was Addicted to Words, as always.
It was a good night. Some 25 people, not bad for the first of the season. Great to catch up with everyone who came, including Sophia who’s off to La Reunion and James who survived a plane crash this summer. And above all it was great to be reminded why these nights are important – to see someone alone on the stage reading poetry that has touched them, or even that they’ve written themselves, in a space where everyone wants to hear what they have to say. Yeah!
Sadly missed: Neil Uzzell, now in Chicago. Conrad & Charlie, now in Cambridge.
Missing in action: Conor Quinn. If you see this man, possibly walking a large Brazilian dog, you are advised to contact the relevant authorities.
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