So I did my first poetry reading in roughly, let me think, a million years on Wednesday at the private view of Liam Davenport‘s first solo photography show. The show is made up of portraits of various up and coming poets in their favourite spots in London. The photos are wonderful, I like mine anyway and you can find the details on his website. I love readings where the format is a whole bunch of poets doing just two or three poems each. Suites my withering attention span.
Anyway, this is one of the poems I read. I don’t put much stuff up about poetry here as it is so different to the crime writing. But just this once.The sun and rain chase between the market stalls of bric-a-brac and heartbroken veg. One side of the square smells of viniger, the other of balti and the rest is church and bar and bar and bank. Small town life, I say, gossip, charity stalls, four by fours He looks up from The Shooting Times. I give him my hands Unfold them. Tower Bridge, the toffee slab of the Thames, the curve of Regent’s street all fuzzed with noise. The space between my palms is lit by a hundred purple notes all burning on the breeze. I am hopeful. See. No time to think. He closes up my hands and kisses the inside of my wrists. Pushes them back to me, and over the magazine unfolds his own. Great wastes of sky, fields falling to still waters and a white silence that makes a symphony of your own breath and distant bird calls. See. Even better. Here you cannot think at all.