Spoke-Word Poetry Evening

 I went for my second-ever spoken-word poetry evening last Saturday, after the march for Palestine in London. The first was nearly four years ago, on the night before the 2019 general election in the UK, which I wrote about here. I, in my ignorance of British politics, was expecting a solid performance from Corbyn. All the poems that day spoke to the moment, filled us with hope, lifted us. A few hours later, the results of the exit polls would push us into a despair, but that was not the fault of the poets or their stunning poems. 

However, last Saturday was a disappointment and I am still trying to put my finger on what put me off. I felt the poems were too navel-gazey and not deserving of the majority white audience's rapturous applause (all the poets were people of colour). I am aware that most art involves navel-gazing, which is giving form to the artist's own feelings or life experiences. But, good art gives form to truths buried deep inside us which we can sense, but cannot articulate.  I am aware that I should not be too harsh. I am not a poetry afficionado at all, and maybe I was just too tired that day. In times like these, it is the easiest thing in the world to take sanctimonious positions about how other people should respond to the crisis. The poems didn't speak to the moment because they were not written for the moment. Writing cannot be a public service, and artists have to eat too. They cannot conjure up art at short notice to respond to what is happening in the world, and they should be cut some slack if the read from their published books. But, as I told my communicating economics class, the reader/listener does not owe you their attention