Tag Archives: Poetry

The Word House Review

            I have a reserve about poetry events. Even at its most oblique, poetry must be one of the most personal forms of expression we have. And since there is a current trend of poetry being confessional, these events have, even with the bravado of slam, become a place where people expose themselves to an audience. In essence, we go to see people’s truths- putting them in a vulnerable position. Still, I can handle the truth, but what if I don’t like their poems?

Recently I attended The Word House, a poetry night organized by Amy Yoko Stratton and hosted by Dan Simpson. I wondered how I would feel during the performances. Whether I would be sitting uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed for the person confessing their everything, with no real skill or tact. And then Dan came on, and everything just happened.
            The three feature acts, Emma Jones, Sabrina Mahfouz and Mark Grist excelled in their performances. However, the open mic slots were just as stimulating. I’ve been trying to think of a way to describe what poetry does and why I enjoyed the evening so much. I came up with: poetry is a way of communicating the ineffable. The void between emotion and rationale. But I fear I miss the point with this. The poets on stage reminded me that poets are just people, talking about being people. Showing they take the time to put down their experiences in bright, illuminating and poignant ways. To craft the things that make them.
            Aside from the high caliber of poetry, the night offered a great atmosphere. The people were warm and engaging and the room had energy. Clearly the night had been as well put together as the poems themselves. It was one of the best poetry evenings I’ve been to and I would recommend it both to regulars on the scene and newcomers to the spoken word. Perhaps the only problem was space, but with rumours of a change of location, let’s see what’s in store for next time.
For more details on The Word House visit:
Seki Lynch

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My Mirror Lies To Me

My Mirror lies to me.

Honest.

Instead of showing me my face, it shows me a

Forest.

Full of hyacinths, daisies and daffodils, a veritable Garden of Eden

So why aren’t they all there when I need them

Roaming the streets of London

Westminster, Angel and EC1,

The ears stand down to Gould, Ravel and Lennon

The eyes have it: as they pass there is a moment

Of the everlasting approach, as they encroach

On my person.

Look down, look left, look right

But even using all of my might

The image I remembered

So full of smoulding embers

Is long gone: every one a faceless judge

Until my brain turns to sludge

And my fears and worries do their star turn

In rubies, emeralds and Armani

My own creation, my own evil army

Hey remember, remember when you cried in the street?

When you tripped over your own feet?

Once again, my brain, now sleet, turns against me.

Dances, pirouettes around me, wearing my face of Eve,

Wiping my eyes now on my sleeve,

Poking, prodding: the judges have long since disappeared

And yet they were just the appetizer, what I honestly feared

Takes it’s bejeweled bow, shimmies, winks at me

Honestly and truthfully, my mirror lies to me.

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