Poetry Reading At Walthew House

Here’s how I could have reacted

I promised to tell you about the poetry reading I gave.  It was an interesting experience.  I learned how to ignore people, and that’s always good; I’ll try doing it to the Hub.

There is a place called Walthew House here in Stockport,  It supports people with sight and hearing problems.  They asked me to do a reading at one of their lunch groups.  After some discussion over the phone with Ben, the group organiser, we decided to go with my Apartheid collection.  I spent an evening preparing for the reading and a month worrying about it.

I shouldn’t have.  The group was lovely: warm, friendly, inquiring.

It was the Others…

The lunch group sat at the front of the hall; the Others sat at the back.  And talked.  And talked and talked and talked.  They talked over light poems, dark poems, black and white poems, poems about witchdoctors’ penises and poems about death, murder, bombs and violence (a lot of those).

Fortunately, I had a microphone.  Unfortunately, I also had a folder and needed to turn pages regularly.  Ben had provided a table but I like to stand when I read, to project.  After some serious folder wobbles I had to put it on the table and look down at what I was reading.  Looking down while reading aloud is a dreadful way to perform, but I figured the one bunch couldn’t see me and the Others didn’t care to.  I tuned the Others out and earned my free lunch over the fifty minutes I wittered on about me and my life and the male genitalia I have met.

Here’s how I did react

I invited questions and there were quite a few from the lunch group.  We talked more over lunch.  The Others did not eat.  I think they may have been the people who brought the lunch group to Walthew House.  Their attitude appeared to be, if poetry be the food of driving, talk on.

Despite my complaints, I enjoyed the experience. The group was warm and welcoming and the microphone was on full volume.  I’m going back in October.

Now I have to prepare for Saturday: I’m running two poetry workshops at my church Fun Day.  No microphones; no lunch; and an open gazebo.  I must be mad.

Here’s how my audience reacted

Joke 902

Today’s subject matter was inspired by Laurie, who posted about New York on her blog.

Improv Everywhere No Pants Subway Ride 2012-New York City-Times Square to the N Train (Photo credit: FreeVerse Photography)

A minister dies and, resplendent in his clerical collar and colorful robes, waits in line at the Pearly Gates. Just ahead of him is a guy dressed in sunglasses, a loud shirt, leather jacket, and jeans. 

Saint Peter addresses this guy, “Who are you, so that I may know whether or not to admit you to the Kingdom of Heaven?” 

The guy replies, “I’m Joe Green, taxi-driver, of Noo Yawk City.” 

Saint Peter consults his list, smiles and says to the taxi-driver, “Take this silken robe and golden staff, and enter into the Kingdom.” 

So the taxi-driver enters Heaven with his robe and staff, and the minister is next in line. Without being asked, he proclaims, “I am Michael O’Connor, head pastor of Saint Mary’s for the last forty-three years.” 

Saint Peter consults his list and says, “Take this cotton robe and wooden staff and enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” 

“Just a minute,” says the preacher, “that man was a taxi-driver, and you issued him a silken robe and golden staff. But I get wood and cotton. How can this be?” 

“Up here, we go by results,” says Saint Peter. “While you preached, people slept — while he drove, people prayed.”

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From ahajokes