I went along to the poetry reading,
at a city-centre book shop,
in the hushed cathedral quiet,
a couple of poets performed pieces
from their latest releases.
I took the offered glass of white wine
as there was no lager being served,
but declined the cheese and olives
in tiny ramekins.
The first reader described the Norfolk Broads
the nature and wild-life of that area,
the deer, the foxes, the pheasant,
in wonderful words that oozed like honey.
As the second poet shared poems about
the rivers and countryside of their native
Northumbria,
I could almost hear the rush of the water
and feel the drops on my face.
The descriptions and details
painted perfect pictures
of the backdrop and glorious scenery
of the regions the poets inhabited,
their lovely corners of the country.
I left feeling deflated rather than inspired.
How could I consider myself a poet
when my home soundtrack consisted of
speeding cars and police sirens?
As I rode the bus back home
staring out at the Salford city streets,
the betting and charity shops, shutters pulled down,
like eye-lids sound asleep,
the harsh neon signs of the takeaway shops
working the night shift.
The message of the evening had been clear,
poetry was the art of the gentry,
the craft of the middle and upper classes,
what could I possibly add?
what did I have to contribute?
where was the poetry in my neighbourhood?
I looked out the bus window at the city night,
a nurse sitting at a bus-stop on her way to work,
sipping an energy drink,
a man walking his Alsatian dog, wearing shorts
despite the freezing temperature,
fast-food delivery riders zipping in and out
of the traffic.
I placed my finger-tips against the cold glass,
there it was, there was my poetry.
This modern-day Lowry masterpiece.
It wasn’t wandering down by a lake,
it was here, with the bus driver humming to himself,
with the young man talking to his friend,
describing a recent football match
with the all passion and attention of a TV sports pundit.
I stepped off the bus and out into the cold night,
my breath hanging on the air in front of me,
feeling determined to stick with verse,
to make my own poetry,
and to make poetry my own.
As I passed by my local pub,
passing the smokers huddled in the doorway,
I spotted a handwritten poster
tacked to the frosted glass window.
Spoken Word Poetry, Thursdays at 7.
A man in a football shirt took a long drag
on his cigarette, watching me with curiosity,
he pointed to the sign in the window,
Are you a poet, mate?
The usual lie, fib, and cover-up
was about to leave my lips,
every poetry book I ever bought was
‘a birthday present for a friend’,
but I stopped myself,
it was time to come clean,
time to shout and recite it from
the rooftops.
Yes, I said with a grin,
yes, I am.