bits of Monday 26th

Report by David.

Eyelids like wet towels
Wax melting on the skull vault;
a purring razor.

Shane reading from Word Legs: 30 Irish poets under 30
Downloadable ebook for next to nothing here:

Always carry the disease with you - may you never get well!
Songs about drowning
A letter from Henry James: Don't melt too much; Content yourself with the terrible algebra of your own problems.

Marie Baby & Light Leaks previewed their concert Thursday 5th April

Mandoline: the great clock of your life is slowing down, 
and the small clocks are running wild..
Ian collapsed raindrops.
Merve from SpokenWord Istanbul:

by Pablo Sotinel

The sound your sheets make
as you shift in your sleep
remind me of waves against
the body of a ship.
You are keeping me awake, and I hate you for that
And yes, I am blaming you
Not the lack of alcohol or of orgasm
(which, are also kind of your fault anyway)
But your heat, your barely audible snoring and moaning.
I hope to God you're having that nightmare about Chewbacca that you told me about.
Above me, a mosquito flies in and out of earshot
The fucker's already bitten me twice, on my left big toe, and my right eyelid. I had no idea there was place in insects' brain for cruelty.
I wonder what would happen if I tried to kick you out of my bed at this very moment.
Would you be terrified by my insults, and run down, wearing only one shoe and clutching to your crotch the few clothes you managed to grab on your way out, crouching, lost and ashamed?
Would you tell me to just go back to sleep, knowing I couldn't push you off with all of my strength?
Would you even wake up?
I'm stung for a third time, right inside my belly button. Is there such a thing as mosquitoes with eating disorders? Maybe it's throwing up all my blood somewhere in my bedroom. I hope it's on your face, and it's this kind of thought that makes me realize: I need. To go. To sleep.
When I wake up, you're already gone to work, as we had talked about. Inside my pillowcase, the perfect shape of your face is carved, ephemerally preserved.

Lucile's zine launch:


Béa reads a letter from Henry James

Spoken Word Paris March 19 Report or “On the difference between Beauty and Booty”

Report by Alberto.
Photos by Marie. The whole album is on our Facebook Page.
Magda trilingually opens. Cristelle and Beatrice bilingually singing “Dis, quand reviendras-tu?”. Brian is the referee for Socrates vs The Sophists . Troy: "Stop texting me, Mr. Beautiful."
A few lines from The Ventriloquist by Leonie Shulte about beautiful people:

you boy, afraid of your shadow
you’ll jump down an elevator shaft
for a drop of their spit
you’ll shine their shoes
take a beating or two
for one night in their arms
when they’ll remember your name
and kiss you
and kiss you
and kiss you

Claire is back from London and notices: There’s a puberty of poets in this room.

Marie and Georgina:

I kissed a girl and I liked it
The taste of her cherry chapstick
I kissed a girl just to try it
I hope my boyfriend don't mind it
It felt so wrong
It felt so right
Don't mean I'm in love tonight
I kissed a girl and I like it

it must be true, yes, I heard about that secret sex tape. Charlie would be Robert for a free coffee and a free stool.

I mixed up Ian, Mandoline, Mark Strand, Katie Grosso: The first intelligentsia was in love with the 2nd intelligentsia that was in love with the third Intelligentsia. Who wrote that? Calvin Jason Kline was stripping...

If anyone remember what was the poem about, write us. Lucy: it’s something like lovemaking. Mr. Yorke at the piano on Alberto’s When you sleep and your flower reposes from Strangers in Paris. Anna mugged for her memory. Patrick started this Booty or Beauty thing. Uncle James telling us a story of vampires...

... but it’s Georgina who send us to bed with a fairytale about Princesses and bushes.

P.S. Mr. Troy Yorke openly challenged by Jason (as we can see in the back f the picture) promised he will answer to this provocation.
When? Next Monday?

Report from 12th March

Fanculo! says Nicolas
Report by David.
Photos by Marie Lutz. More here

What do I remember from that far off night?
Magda drifting into oblivion...
Gary's quick fish...
Marie Lutz & Christelle's altercation on a bus...
Kate's jazz over the drowned city.

Then Nicolas the barman interrupting with his poem (partly written by Alberto and me, it has to be said):

Fanculo! Fanculo! Fanculo!
I keep hearing it from the apartment downstairs.
What does it mean? Do you know?
I like to think they are words of love.

Fanculo! say it like you say I love you.

The do do ron à la Jason, a tragic optimist.
Ah, Patrick... Declan McManus's oily slick on a wind-up world.
Then Lucy overheard on a Thursday afternoon.
I like to think that Jason was reminding us of what St Paul said: "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate, I do." Do do do not judge for yourself with his recording here.

Camilla saw worms moving in the red dust. Troy: ''It's fun to play with fire.'' Marie Baby was In Heaven. And then it was half-time, time to party. 

Then Round 2:
LN carried out sunflower surgery. Rufo: "Here on our iceberg, these are the best times we'll ever know." Ashley had a love poem for Heisenberg, wet and electric. Brian had a stoney assed grope. Alberto explained about courtesy farts (between gentlemen). Amelia let the wind move her. Henry: "...dipping our biscuit minds into cups of art." And Ben, in a song-story, followed in her ghost-footsteps.

Thought is a trap!

Salut maintenant.

Report from Spoken Word in Paris March 5 2012

Report by Alberto
Pictures by Marie De Lutz (Visit our facebook page for more photos)
Featured Poet: Kate Noakes!

Waiting for “I spy and Shanti”, her forthcoming book, we celebrated her birthday and we discovered her South African Poems. If you missed it more poems here. We had Gary with a vignette titled The Frisbee. Cristelle’s tales with empty words. Lisa’s motel rooms and Cafè con leche, Jason translating Samarago and words licked and stuck, words like stamps. Marie and Patrick:

James Simpson furious like an average Macbeth: “He deserve to suffer an unpleasing death!”. Awoko singing: Licky Licky. (Is this the proper spelling?) Main difference between Rigettini, Shakespeare and Petrarch. Brian’s party guests and parents’ friends.
Georgina introducing unstrung letter C. with Troy York:

crushed by the tables he’s sleeping under. “I’m a donut, fuck me.” Helene. French. Merci. Patrick: Exctasy makes you cry harder. Shane: We are creatures built to struggle. Griffin takes part to 40 poems in 40 days. Ferdia featuring Patrick, Shane and Marie in “The discount superheroes agency”.
Ambjorn featuring Charles Dickens:

Debbie: We work too hard, we are too tired to make love”. Amelia in a museum where you can touch statues. Pablito: is this an haiku?

Come on, sobbing girl
Wipe the tears off your iPhone
I'm uncomfortable

What do you think? Is it? And we closed with Silvio:

Report from the 27th February 2012

Every week either me or Alberto is faced with the challenge of organising a SpokenWord. We agonise that the lighting will fail, the tango class will refuse to vacate the cellar at 9pm without some kind of physical fight, or that the beer will run out. Last week, one of these terrible things did indeed happen! Nevertheless we switched to wine and continued to the end of the night. 

 Here you can see the concentration with which we choose the running order for the night.

Thanks to Margaux for these photos!
At nine o'clock the cellar is emptied of tango dancers; the pews, sofa and cabaret tables are put in place, the piano is wheeled out and then... and then... all that remains is to face the audience and try to give things a good shove so that they start moving. 

This week, James was one of the poets clever enough to see things that aren't there. 
Lisa asked the right questions of souls reincarnated as caged birds.
Gary called in about therapy.
- Habibi? 
- Yes, amore.
- You don't like lying because you're American. 
 Marie knew they don't love you like I love you. And she said so.
 Ferdia pitched his story idea to Chris:
Girl meets werewolf, an Irish werewolf from Cork.

Magda explained he was nothing to write home about.

Scott's machine birds were singing.

Brian had been getting way too much sleep. He steered the conversation past an awkward subject with the grace of an acrobat.
 Suddenly it was round two and Lucky Hopkins emerged from an unexpected alcove. Like a beast with its horn, like a baby stillborn, she tried in her way to reach out to you.

"What a waste of space is man, so quick to coalesce in clan" complained Chris W. But Awoko kept smiling. And singing. And playing guitar. Chris N had Shakespeare off shagging Belinda Big Jugs while Hamlet got philosophical. Troy took his heart and ate it. Like Kate and a few others he's writing a poem a day for Lent. Margaux ended the night with some Gainsbourg, amongst which, for your edification and delight we reproduce this one here:

A celle qui louche
    Je dis
"Je trouve ta bouche
Si elle begaye
    Eh bien
Moi je fais pareil et
    C'est bien
Lorsqu'elle zozote
    Je dis
"Toi tu n'es pas sotte
    Et puis
S'il te manque une dent
    De lait
Ca te donne l'accent

Tomorrow night SpokenWord will have Kate Noakes as our Special Guest Poet. That's Monday 5th March, Au Chat Noir, 76 rue Jean Pierre Timbaud. Sign up in the bar from 8pm, poetry starts from 9pm underground.

Meanwhile just a note to say Rest In Peace to the much loved John Kliphan, poet of Boston, San Francisco and Paris who ran The Live Poets Society. Here's a clip of him reading his poetry.

John Kliphan (b.1933, Boston - d. 2012, Paris) was a passionate and compassionate poet, teacher and lawyer. His poems are accessible, incisive, lyrical and often humorous. First published in Boston, then San Francisco, where he lived for many years, Kliphan befriended the Beats and was counsel for the North Beach art community. In the 1980's Kliphan moved to Paris, where he founded and directed the Live Poets Society, an internationally recognized series of readings celebrating the oral tradition of poetry while providing a venue for new voices and verse in Paris, the city's longest-running series of its kind. Invited to perform his work at events and festivals around the world, Kliphan was author of three books of poetry as well as individual poems and articles published in the United States and Europe.

David Barnes