Monday, 16 April 2007

Last Night at the Torriano Meeting House (1/4)

There was an open mic session which I mostly missed. I came in to hear Chris Gutkind read a deranged ekphrastic poem about swathes of Zeus and poking things with your eyes, someone reading her granddaughter’s poem about Winter (the woman I was sitting next to tried to throw a snowball at her, it was hard), and someone reading a sort of intriguing biographical poem – about stubbornly learning to read among crofters (part of a sequence). At the end of each, the room made a noise, which lasted about a second and was swallowed by applause.

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