Poetry Night

Pamela Winning

       I’m always enthusiastic about the Blackpool Dead Good Poets open mic events. That’s because they are, well, dead good; offering an evening of entertainment from the clever, the witty, the humorous, the serious and the daft. It’s an immense amount of talent to fit inside the four walls of the Number 5 Café. It’s a cosy, friendly gathering where all are welcome. Sometimes, I share my own efforts if I have something to say on the chosen topic, or I’ll dust off the words of a famous poet if I find something that fits the theme.

       Last Friday the theme was ‘love’. I had written a poem in a simple style, based on something I’d begun in writing class. It was honest, realistic and I thought, carried a romantic thread. The more I wrote, the more personal it became and I wondered if I would be comfortable throwing it into the open forum. It had my husband’s approval, but just in case I might change my mind, I took another of my poems out with me. I was going to the mic with something.

       I was early, as I always liked to be, and sipped a pot of strong tea while looking over my two poems, but I was preoccupied. During the afternoon, I had been told some shocking news and before coming into the café, I’d heard it officially on the car radio. I left revising the poems and instead, scribbled my thoughts down in the back of my note book in an attempt to ‘self-help’.

       During the next half hour, people began to arrive, friends and acquaintances all in good spirits and making a party atmosphere. My husband had joined me and our table filled up with some friends of ours and other regular Dead Good Poets fans. My name was added to the list of readers and that’s when the nerves would normally begin to kick in, but nothing happened. In fact, nothing happened to me until after I’d done my bit and sat down again with feelings of great relief. People clapped. Those nearby whispered encouragement and praise to me and no negative remarks were said. Except in the inner me.

       I wish I could develop the confident delivery that most of the others have, but I can never find the strength in my voice. Neither dare I raise my eyes from my poem. Standing at the mic with an adult audience is very different to performing ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt’ with actions, to a class of four to five year olds. That’s something I haven’t done for ages but it’s given me an idea for next time.

       And from the back of my notebook:

       “Someone weeps for their daughter, as my daughter weeps for her friend.

        Forever lost, life taken, no words can mend

        Hearts forever shattered.”

For Sasha, with love.