It was my last poetry night in Melbourne last night, and it was beautiful.
We had a man recite to us in Persian. There was a pregnant woman who dedicated her work to a friend who had gone into labour an hour previously. There was a balding, stooped old man who read us the Alan Ginsberg piece The Lion For Real. I ended up doing a piece that was less poetry and more performance art, but it was fit the night. There was Shakespeare and Dr. Suess, and sing-alongs that ended up with participation from everyone in the bar.
People were pressed into each other, sharing space on the floor.
It felt like the first time in a long while I haven’t been cold.
After the poetry ended, someone put the Beatles on the speaker system, and everyone danced until we got kicked out of the pub.
If I could distill my hopes for life into a single event, it might well be that one.