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
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.
Sunday I went to One Taste, a kind of cabaret night. 5 different acts who do 2 short sessions each. Mostly music including the weirdly beautiful songs of The Moulettes. (Little mussels??) who would feel right at home in Paris' post punk cabaret scene. Or Brighton. www.myspace.com/moulettes The reason I went though was to catch my Reading friend a.f.harrold who performed at Spoken Word nearly 2 years ago and is a kind of rising star of performance poetry. He's the very tall guy with the long ginger beard. Very effective. A bath is a boat with the water on the inside...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...
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
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
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
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
& 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?
Inscription à :
Articles (Atom)