On a cold blustery November night I braved the 7min walk from my flat to The Glitch, and I was so glad I made it! I felt like I’d been transported to a secretive 1800s vaudeville backroom as the lights dipped at Rough Drafts and Drima took to the mic. What followed was a lovely, intimate, eclectic evening of word wizardry.
Friends - Roll up roll up!
Come one, come all, you’re welcome,
Our stage beckons you!
Why did you start the poetry night?
Drima, Founder and host, Rough Drafts -
Why indeed, when there are dozens of other poetry nights? I was working at The Glitch and thought the venue was lacking an open mic night, and I've been attending them for over a decade (back in Singapore) so I thought I'd try my hand at hosting one. I did meet a fellow Bengali poet at a Palestine protest and we were going to do this together but we lost touch. So it's just me now! I also wanted to make it an easy and comfortable space for newcomers, and I think calling it Rough Drafts has helped with that. The Glitch is a great place to hold the open mic, considering it's run by the charity that formerly organised the Vault Festival, who are champions for up-and-coming and independent artists.
@roisgreco, Image copyright: Tim Foley: @writespeakrecover
How would you describe the vibe of your nights?
I'd describe it as poetry, music, drag, tomfoolery and even shenanigans. Any kind of performance art goes, as long as you can fit it within 10 minutes. But of course we try to make it a safe space as much as possible and don't tolerate bigotry and hate.
@emmakirrage; @itsfuckingpingu - Image copyright: Tim Foley: @writespeakrecover
What do you love most about the poetry scene?
Everyone's so creative, it's insane.
@poetthejules; @rosebeynon; @venthooven - Image copyright: Tim Foley: @writespeakrecover
I’d certainly agree with that! Please share a poem of yours with us?
A GHOST IN KYRGYZSTAN
Before there were people in the mountains, there were ghosts.
The ghost is incredibly strong, that much is for certain.
Her feet are padded for this rocky underfoot, these mountains of nothingness.
Only birds fly overhead, waiting to steal what’s hers or maybe waiting for her to die,
can a ghost die? She’s not quite sure.
Death doesn’t mean as much to her as it does to the people.
They yell and cry and fire guns when she takes one of their goats.
She fights and that is all.
She doesn’t stumble, because she has tens of miles to cover each day hoping to chance upon the one that isn’t barren.
She never stumbles, tail in the wind.
She descends gracefully, balanced and poised.
She never falls, unlike her little ones.
They’re still learning, but they worry her so:
how do they stay so carefree when food is so scarce?
They tumble and play the way only babies could, seemingly forgetting
their sibling, lost mere weeks ago.
She doesn’t have the luxury to remember the third either,
death doesn’t mean much to her when two mouths
still need to be fed whenever they aren’t nipping at each other instead.
She’ll brace herself against the guns if she has to,
because the people don’t deserve to clear her mountain for their sheep:
she’ll take them if she wants.
It is her mountain, her rocky, dead outpost. The other ghosts know to leave her alone.
She isn’t scared, she can stand her ground. She isn’t scared when they grow in number.
More and more of them, carrying guns, carrying fire.
Before there were people on the mountains, there were cats.
Her mother and her mother before her, though she remembers very little of them.
Her children and their children, she will never know them.
If she kills something this far out, maybe it’ll be gone
by the time she brings her babies here, but that’s just a chance to take.
The birds come even closer, they know time is of the essence.
After the people leave the mountains, there will only be ghosts.
The ghosts can’t protest, that much is for certain.
Image copyright: Tim Foley: @writespeakrecover
Mic Nightlife is a photography, poetry and storytelling series celebrating the places people share words. Please invite us to your night!
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