Sorry if there is a delay in replying or if I'm away for short periods. Sometimes life gets in the way. As John Lennon says, life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.
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.
-
Author:
Tom Dylan (
Offline) - Published: June 28th, 2024 08:46
- Comment from author about the poem: This was inspired by a pretentious poetry evening I attended.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 37
- Users favorite of this poem: Accidental Poet
Offline)
Comments8
Good write Tom.
Thanks a lot, Orchi. Appreciated. Happy Friday! 🙂
It matters not of the subject, but more of how the poet perceives what he/she is writing about and what the meaning derived from it. Poetry is about expression. You ended up with a fine poem Tom. 😊👍
Thanks a lot, AP. Really appreciated. That's the way I see it too. There's poetry in the every-day, if we just look for it.
I've been to those pretentious poetry readings, I've competed in poetry slams against the overly educated and beat their knickers off. You are a great poet and you understand much more than you think. Keep writing.
Thanks so much, mate. That really means a lot. Really appreciated.
Tremendous work. It has guts.
They pop in here occasionally: the lovely landscape and introverted navel watchers. And I've ranted about them occasionally.
You've done a much more conversational piece of poetry which gently tells the truth. Good for you, Tom.
Thanks a lot for that, mate. Yeah, I was looking for inspiration from the reading but came away made to feel that my poetry and my urban backdrop was inferior.
Great work, Tom. You’re driving in your own lane. No one else can.
Thanks so much, Mutley. Really appreciated.
You are a poet sir, don’t forget it. I’ve been to a few evenings like that. Poetry is for everyone. Inner city poetry can be vibrant and exhilarating. It isn’t the subject, it’s what the poet brings to the table. His mastery with words. Enjoyed my visit very much Tom.
Thanks so much, Cassie. Really appreciate your comments. And completely agree, poetry is for everyone! Hear, hear!
Who judges poetry?
It goes out into the ether, and is an interpretation of the heart.
Completely agree! Thanks for your comments.
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