We attended a poetry reading evening last night, it lasted for about 65 minutes. There were three readers/poets/players. There was a full house albeit the house was small but that's better than no house at all. So after a slow bus journey home and a cheese and fruit bread supper I wrote a poem about it. It seemed like the right/write thing to do.
(I actually composed a few other versions in my head, in bed, but they're now forgotten and so will remain unsaid):
The Poetry Evening.
When poets get together, gathered in their upper rooms, shielded from the damp world and caustic criticism, they operate, safe for now and untarnished.
Not always easy to understand quite what they're talking about, the sound is almost ... varnished.
There's wine and civility, chatter and no rush for seats, expectation too.
Words out loud that are used differently, cut up and misplaced.
Quotes and dropped names, a low level of fame, in the quite circles.
This is not the common speech.
This is difficult to reach.
Is it some snobby club, some sect or private thing?
Nobody outside of the imagined circle crashes the night and everybody is polite and we all conform to useful stereotypes.
I'm some lone outside listener.
A temporary visitor.
In poet's land.