I'm Back in London!

This is how I know I am back in London. This cute, blue-trimmed café, tucked away on a side street just off Dury Lane. My first time in London, I discovered it by accident, typing “London poetry open mic” into Google. This time The Poetry Café (or Poetry Place), was the first location I sought out. I’ve missed this cozy cubby, with book-shelve lined walls and a basement that doubles as a theater during poetry events.

Because I visited for lunch, I decided to be oh so unoriginal and post a picture of my meal. Because I am sure you all are just dying to see what I’m eating. Ha ha. Actually, you might be interested to know that the picture on the right features their white bean soup, bread and butter, and green tea, even though all but the bread and butter look nothing like you might imagine, given the description. All of the food tasted divine.

I went back in the evening for Poetry Unplugged! And I am including this picture, so you can see why I jokingly say “basement that doubles as a theater.” 

It really isn’t a theater in any sense of the word. It is an entertaining, welcoming, and homey place to read and listen to poetry. I listened for almost three hours as fellow poets read everything from love poem to political poems depicting the different personalities of Northern and Southern London (London is split by the Thames), to poems about buses and trains, and so forth. I read the poems posted below. The first one because it’s nearing July 4th in the U.S. and, as I mentioned to the crowd, this is the closest I get to writing a “patriotic poem.” Prose poetry seemed to be the new in thing last night, so I read “Self Resuscitation.” The prose gag started when one poet asked Niall (our host) if he could read a bit of prose instead of poetry and Niall jokingly begrudgingly allowed him. Then, another poet decided to read a prose poem he’d sneakily managed to get published in a book of short stories. After that, it became a theme and running gag of the night.

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Patriotic Materialism

A scenic back road on the outskirts of a quant and common town;

a newly paved path, shimmering in the heat of summer,

where gravel used to dust the horizon;

there stands the emblem:

     ★A three-layer cake with a three-car garage and three gabbles sporting ginger-colored caps

     ★A foundation set in marble and trekking to the front door might take hours

     ★The bannister is snazzy, though—silver-white with vine shaped supports

     ★Wrap-around porch and balcony

     ★Lacy curtains and open-shutter windows in the traditional green

     ★Chocolate colored batten trim

     ★A rock garden with Greek lady fountains ceaselessly poring

     ★A backyard desk stained coppery

     ★An 8-foot deep pool, a shimmering crystalline mirror

     ★There is probably a wall-length television inside and a highbred parked in that three-car facility

     ★All of this surrounded by acres of green lawn cropped so neatly it looks like that spongy, fake stuff they sell in the stores.

The newness, the sparkle, the shine is glaring.

Yet, above the pruned roses and wispy poplars

hangs one limp Stars and Stripes and

one impotent Confederate flag.

Their blue threads have turned to slate

and red has bled through

the white.

Frayed strings hang from both ends.

They are too exhausted to flutter,

and the only stars in sight

are embossed on the screen door to match the iron-gate entrance.

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Self Resuscitation

Detachment was unintentional. The perpetual theta existence and dispassionate routine animation, simply side effects of a dozing interlude and falsified life. I had forgotten.

I suppose that’s why recollection hits me with the force of a sudden spike on a flatline, an upward, jet-powered, elevator ride to a Sears Tower height where the end-chime sounds louder than at any other landing. A bass rhythm echoes at light speed through the liquid of my veins, and the firework-blinding display from this high-ride vertigo, this stomach-drop reversal of the gravitational pull, an exhilaration so intense I almost gag. And amid this endorphin sensation, this thump-thump momentum of adrenaline pumping, this quick succession of harmonious physical and mental reactions, finally

I remember to breathe

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Last night really was the best first day back to an old friend location ever! Today, I’m off to see Much Ado About Nothing!