At Open Mic on Monday night
the theme was ‘Leave’ but still they came
in ones and twos, all burning bright
with sheafs of poems, no two the same.
Yes, Fifty Shades of Po-e-tray
few rhymed, but that’s the modern way.
Some read with breathless, high-pitched squeaks
or mumbled incoherently.
Some had perfected their techniques
and read with verve and energy.
We listened, then, with faces, stern,
stepped to the mic to take our turn.
Some read from pages, some from screens.
Some poems were fun, some poems were sad.
A few were clearly in-betweens.
Some were unquestionably mad
but then, of course, most poets are
madder than average, by far.
We heard short poems and poems, too long:
the latter made us stretch and yawn.
Now and again we had a song
then all at once our time was gone.
The readings stopped. Now I could cough,
sup up my drink and bugger off.
Richard Fleming
