Poetry Party

On Saturday we held our version of a Burns’ Supper – a Poetry Party.

The rules are simple. You come, you eat, and in the company of friends, you recite or read a poem.

Any language, any topic, any poet, any time.

This year our guests represented Ireland, Scotland, England, Germany, Turkey and Australia and we read and listened to poems in English, German and Turkish from thoughtful through witty to downright hilarious.

For the first time our daughters joined us, and I was particularly impressed by Rhianna’s 13 year old friend who’d come along with her parents and who had not only found a poem, but was eager to read it to us. (Beautifully.)

Beka, the youngest, wanted to do the Mulan ballad we’d found a few weeks ago, but as it is a just a little bit long, performed instead ‘In the Dark, Dark Wood, there was a Dark, Dark House……” followed by T.S. Eliot’s Jellicle Cats, gamely read by the recovering Rhianna.

Although inspired by annual dinners in honour of the Scottish poet Rabbie Burns, a haggis and a tartan tablecloth was our Poetry Party's only concession to the man who penned Auld Lang Syne. Grown up guest Don was, however, handsomely kilted for the occasion, for which I thank him. He had Beka and at least one of the adults present snorting with laughter as he delivered, totally straight-faced after years of story time practice, Roald Dahl’s cautionary tale of Goldie Pinklesweet from Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator.

(Over the years we’ve been giving these parties, Roald Dahl is a consistent Top Tenner. Friends who find the idea of reading a poem terrifying, find Dahl well within their comfort zone and then they're on a roll....)

My husband chose Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’ – his personal credo really, and Claudia hit a similar note with a German poem on singing out to the best of your ability even in the face of darkness.

Hit of the evening for me was Turan’s poem in Turkish; no, I don’t speak a word; but his reading and the sheer well, poetry, communicated powerfully. I let him leave without getting hold of his translation but as soon as I do, I’ll post it.

The evening was convivial and low key. We aren't into the technicalities of writing poems, or any one-up-manship on favourites, but we each paused for a moment to enjoy words and word play; the profound and the troubling, some wit and some wisdom. And prior to the party we spent a couple of enjoyable hours locating old favourites and finding new voices.

Until I track down the diverse poetry my guests chose, to share with you later , I’ll leave you with the one I read, which the BBC says is Britain’s favourite post-war poem. That’s not all I discovered about it while researching for this post. More tomorrow.

Warning by Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Read Warning online at www.poemhunter.com