PLU Open Mic featuring David Sirois
Thursday the 7th November may have been damp, but it was full of emotion. There were tears, cheers, beers and brassieres… not to mention some breaking of poetic frontieres.
Calling on Missy to get things started, she took flight with some recovering alcoholic pigeons. Carole, a word addict, used her phone to soar from London to Jerusalem via Paris on the portable wings of folia (or was it pholia?) Annie arrived at her destination and checked in to the Ghost Hotel.
I walk with my skin open
Antonia was after that elusive Kodak moment, suffering from a hideous hangover from Halloween (weren’t we all)
the borrowed rooms we’ve stepped into backwards
The man Yann *insert coin here* showed his feminine side during a sea pony stampede, and Kate cleared up the ossuary question: certainly [he was] not from Ireland.
T.S. Eliot – no, wait, he was later – Eliott with two ts and Robert Frost (who would also make another appearance, if I remember well) performed fearlessly by rote. Melissa took up the journey, moving from New York to Montreal, finding herself along the way.
Then the umbrellas came out, and Jason took to the stage to do do do what you want. James J also took a trip (or several) down memory lane, or rather, down a manhole that lead to the centre of the Earth.
It was time for the biggest highlight of our evening. Host Emily didn’t even have the time – or need – to introduce David Sirois properly before fans and groupies errupted: There was screaming, underwear was thrown, people got trampled. It was quite a scene.
The overwhelming question
The pigeons called a convention, and T. S. Eliot came in to mediate. Never again would birdsong be the same.
A pause is needed. People catch their breath. Glasses are refilled. We continue…
Beak to beak, the pavement was at a standstill as David treated us to pieces from Songs to Growing Things and his culmination of twenty years work Silver Shiver. We tasted rhythm in air as the lilacs bloomed and the famous black smidgen of a pigeon took on the wordless seagull.
I am not the Prince of pigeons
Oh but you are now, David.
Victor had brought along his mum and dad *collective ahhhh* to hear him play some singalong guitar from the 22nd century. Jenna used some naughty words but was really just being a big softie.
It’s easy and it’s everywhere
Bawb took on Descartes: do we have to think to be? Bawb doesn’t think so. Or, wait, no. He does think we don’t have to think to be. But he doesn’t have to think that for him to be.
Sierra has the best intentions: now she’s a new woman she steps around the snails. Remi represented Belleville Park Pages‘ tenth edition with dandelions. Anita became a man, and Kristina jumped down the rabbit hole with the Mad Hatter
Forty-five minutes ago we were bubblewrapped
We are all mad here.
Emily forgot doubly – with a little help from Robert Frost again – and left poor Vanessa in poetic limbo while Frenchman Kitra sang us out into the rain.
Born in New Brunswick, Canada, David grew up across the border in Madawaska (no, not a misspelling of Madagascar,) Maine, USA, as a citizen of both countries. His poems have appeared in THE BASTILLE, Belleville Park Pages, Silo, Poesy, Ibbetson Street Press, the anthology Becoming Fire: Spiritual Writing From Rising Generations, and more. He also served as a staff writer for The Better Drink: A Sparkling Wine & Living Magazine.
TimeOut Paris described him as “une espèce de Woody Allen en rimes.” He is currently writing two collections: Songs to Growing Things, divided between poems to plants & to pigeons, & Silver Shiver, the culmination of 20 years of work.
More on his website: davidsirois.wordpress.com