London

Time Out's intrepid poet takes to the stage

While open mic nights are more benign, they still enjoy an element of cut and thrust. ‘Last week we nearly had a fight,’ O’Sullivan tells me. ‘One poet read a poem slagging off someone else who was in the room; I nearly had to separate them.’ This doesn’t fill me with confidence for performing my own work. However, O’Sullivan assures me that, when not behaving like iambic incarnations of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls, poets are in general a welcoming lot. Just as well, as the last time I read in public was when I was ten, reciting ‘Who Killed Cock Robin?’ in a deadpan monotone that I’d unwisely thought would lend dramatic effect. ‘Perhaps next time you could try it with a little feeling,’ commented my English teacher. Feature continues

While the crowd at Poetry Unplugged is largely composed of those visibly itching for their chance to read, it’s a good place to go for a first taste of the scene, not least because it’s a weekly event. One early tip: sit near the exit if you plan to sneak off before the end – defectors are much more likely to be heckled than those in front of the mic. An open-mic poetry night is as much a gamble as fringe theatre or a band playing an early gig. While some poets appear to have cast a box of poetry fridge-magnets into the wind and taken a chance on the way the words will fall, on balance the good work outweighs the bad.

On TO’s visit we heard an elderly gentleman sporting a beige sports jacket – who O’Sullivan introduced as a Poetry Café virgin – blaze through a satirical number called ‘War on Terror’, while an enigmatic boy from Dagenham with a burgeoning ’fro, going by the name of Requiem read a touching poem about a girl who could skim pebbles. The most raucous applause goes to those who use comedy or swear words – or, best of all, both. As I learn at an event a couple of nights later, while listening to a girl with a surfeit of lip gloss and tears in her eyes emote her way through poems on lost lovers (I can see why they’ve gone), humour is a defining factor in the success of the spoken word. O’Sullivan’s own works, compiled in his new collection ‘You’re Not Singing Anymore’, are cases in point – containing funny and compassionate observations about disparate lives glimpsed on London street corners.

Rather than image and style, it appears that what matters most here is whether the material is any good. No whistles, bells, smoke or mirrors are required; just a sensitive use of imagery and a decent delivery. As West points out, ‘No one becomes a poet because they want to be rich and famous.’ The simplicity of the scene is refreshing.