Went straight past the door of this café, Chris clawed me back. It’s a fine place to be on a warm afternoon. Other people are scarce here: a woman peers into a laptop, scribbling notes occasionally; a balding gent reads a book; the barista is planted by a table to one side, reading, pained to arise to serve us. Poetry books line the shelves; poets in picture frames line the walls. Something tells me this particular café leans towards the poetic. Indeed, The Poetry Society are behind this outlet, I’m dutifully informed. A couple of voices resonate from below, the basement, where performances take place. Someone is planning, planning poetry.
It was the American poet David Ferry who’s naive elderly man asked,’When I come into places like these
and there are people holding
Coffee cups to their lips and they
look at me,
Are they about to drink the coffee
or not to drink the coffee?’
What a quiet place. The few coffee drinkers do not stir from what preoccupies them. Chris and I, low tones and civilised conversation, puncturing the calm with our witty remarks. A stereo plays from somewhere, songs which sound like sentimental advert songs. You know the type – life is good, I have a ukulele, let’s all sing and dance and start a mobile phone contract… It’s not bad though, musicwise – I rushed to cynical judgement. The lampshades are like translucent pieces of paper hanging from wires, with scrawled writing across them. The Poetry Place plays with the rustic look, wooden tables, wooden floor boards, but selectively modern. It’s not cheap. I would advance the sentiment that in the past I have had better mochas. But mochas are a tricky beast, everyone knows this.
Real nice. Good for afternoon reading / working / composing poems. Just need to become a poet.