The poets of the world are gathered – Saturday,
they’re queueing up to caress the metal microphone.
The Dan‘s as full as any time I’ve seen it.
the place is like a magnet for the found and the unknown,
and they’re in a line, drawn upon the chalkboard,
waiting for their name to be declared.
A hundred eyes are looking up, gazing on the speaker,
waiting for another soul to be shown, and to be read.
It’s a movement through the naked, bared emotions,
of something in a life that we can all appreciate,
because each of us has travelled rocky pathways
to capture these small moments, small moving moments to relate,
and, to read them, to read to you, who listen,
with your hearts open wide to every meaning found.
It’s for you we touch the things we’ve never spoken,
and turn them into written words… try to make some sound.
The poets of the world all gather, Saturday,
in the sound-wired room, beyond the 100 Guinness bar.
The Dan’s the place of spoken word performance,
every one that fronts the microphone’s a star.
And once in a while, once in a while, just once in a blind, blue moon,
someone will rise right up and hold you in his hands,
as you listen to the stories, the hurting, breaking stories,
as you listen to the deep, inside that man.
Then, somehow, you know that you’ve been changed.
there’s something that’s altered, in the air, just there.
Something that’s been moved inside, it’s something like the truth,
or a thing that’s swept and picked you up, taken you somewhere.
There’s no way you can ignore it, no doorway to escape,
he’s whispered into your hidden place, insinuated right inside.
Those words on you, are a red, raw mark,
and there’s nowhere left to run, and just no place that you can hide.
In the Dan O’Connell, the spoken word place,
the poets of the world gather, every Saturday.
The Dan’s the place to hear words out loud,
come and listen, come and hear, come and stay,
on a Dan O’Connell, poetry Saturday.
© Frank Prem, 1999