Littlest Birds at The Poetry Café

Littlest Birds at The Poetry Café

26 February, 2009
by: Bexy

Every time I go to a poetry night I can never get anyone to come with me. And yet, apparently, poetry is the new princess of cool. And after I go, (on my own) my mates always say, 'why didn't you tell me?' Poetry's like the gym; everyone talks about going and 'wants' to go but no one ever does. But what with the likes of Pete and Peaches being self-proclaimed pen pushers, surely poetry must have lost some of its limp image – or at least its corduroy trousers? Don't get me wrong, I don't want it wearing Carhartts around its bum, or presenting bad chat shows, but can't we just cut him (poetry is definitely male) some slack?

The Poetry Café in Covent Garden is a quiet, unassuming affair. It isn't pretentious or grannyish. Unfortunately it's not exactly cutting edge either. Tonight is the monthly 'Littlest Birds' night, hosted by Emma Robertson. The evening's inspiration is the idea that the littlest birds have the sweetest voices. Emma's aim is to provide a platform for 'quieter' performers; the focus is on what people say rather than how they say it. It isn't strictly spoken word but aims to be multi-disciplinary. Emma describes it as 'gift giving' and as a 'collage'. With three acts having cancelled, things don't start well – but there is lemon cheesecake going round. Most events at the Poetry Café are hosted downstairs in the basement and tonight's no exception. After communal cake scoffing, the first act, Captain H Morgan comes on clutching an acoustic guitar. A Gavin Rossdale look-alike, I suppress the urge to judge him as another '90s grunge throwback, and am quickly won over by his unusual lyrics, though there is some intense staring.

Next up is Kate Kilalea and I remember why poetry is my favourite form of expression. Kilalea is a genius. Her impenetrable metaphors leave you dumbfounded, wanting more. This she gently delivers in humble lilting rhymes where stories of her South African homeland unfold with a quality that is at once exotic yet familiar. Her poems 'Grey' and 'Portrait of our Death' take my breath away and I remember the first time I read Caroline Bird – (perhaps an easy comparison but justifiable nonetheless).

Kilalea is followed by a short break and I notice the room has filled up. The crowd is a particularly chic one, young, middle-class and good looking. There is a buzz in the room and I realise that, as usual with these sorts of affairs, most people know one another.

The second half acts are worthy enough; another poet, Maya Lubinsky, and the ex-front-man of the esteemed group Horsebox with his new solo outfit Stairs to Korea, but Kilalea has stolen the night for me. And that is why I go to these sorts of things. In a small, sweaty basement in Covent Garden, the words of some South African bird I've never heard of before have blown me down like a feather. And there's no corduroy in sight.

Click here to see more London poetry events.
Click here for things to do in Covent Garden.

Bexy