Too ShoRt State Of Rhyme

The other night, me and my man Gee2theKeezie hit up a spoken word event at Shoreditch House. We're classy like that. It was sick, some ridiculously talented even more ridiculously under-appreciated rapper poets who went at it for over two hours. Perhaps none more talented than this guy. Sean Mahoney. He performed the poem below on the night too. It was a game-changer.

So just before the interval the emcee - some brey called Lionheart - took the stage and grabbed the mic and said, i want to prove to all of you that anyone can write a poem if they try. So i'm going to pick 3 people at random from the audience, and they're gonna spend the next ten minutes writing whatever comes to their head. Then at the start of the second act, they'll get up here and read it out to everyone. 

Poor fuckers, i thought. Next thing i know i was staring down the barrel of a 12-gage sawn-off that turned out to be the end of Lionheart's finger pointing directly at me. I suddenly felt an excruciating urge to hit the gents and stay in there til 2017. By the time i'd come back, located a piece of paper and a biro, i had six minutes. 

He asked me if i knew what i wanted to write about. I said yeah. He asked me what he could do to help out. I told him given the amount of pain he'd caused me in the last four minutes, the best way to make the remaining six as painless as possible before social suicide in front of 70 strangers was to leave me alone.

When you have absolutely no time to write something, editing goes out the window. So it's pretty much stream of consciousness scribbled onto a page. Lionheart surpassed himself once again, and 43 seconds later called time. I hardly had the chance to read it through before i was reading it out.

But it went okay actually. Until one point half way through when after an especially poignant line the whole audience pissed themselves. I stopped, but then clocked they were laughing with me. I was killing it. Check out the dude watching. The 3 pixels that make up his face say more than words ever could. Something like stunned surprise. And then enraptured admiration. As clear as mountain lakes on crystalline mornings on mushrooms.

Anyway the room seemed to like it and i got some pretty nice applause.

Gee2theKeezie was suitably impressed too and reassured me i hadn't totally bombed.

The best bit was when Sean Mahoney came up to me at the end, and told me he'd loved what i'd written. 

Really? I asked. Yeah, he said. And he told me my poem broke his heart.

1 comment:

  1. Cool bro. Poem by Eugenio Montale, from The Occasions, Part II, Motets

    The white-and-black sine
    wave of the martins from the telegraph
    pole to the sea
    won’t soothe your agitation on the platform
    or bring you back where you no longer are.

    Already the elder sends its thick perfume
    across the pit; the squall fans out.
    If the brightness is a truce,
    your sweet threat consumes it.

    See the sign; it flares
    on the wall that turns to gold:
    a palm-leaf crenellation
    burnt by the dazzle of dawn.

    The step that arrives
    from the greenhouse so faint
    isn’t felted with snow: it’s still
    your life, your blood in my veins.