Poetry and Pints: Forspoken

“Surprise! You have found yourself in love with a kinky hobbit.”

Yes — you read that correctly. And no, this is not some stray scrap of Lord of the Rings paraphernalia found pinned to a Tolkien enthusiast’s bedroom wall. This, astonishingly enough, is the opening line of a poem by Spencer Mason: confessional in tone, brazen in spirit, and delivered with the sort of candour that makes a room full of strangers sit up a little straighter. 

Mason, a poet from Dundee, took over Aikman’s Bar with the air of a man who had absolutely no intention of boring anybody. His performance blended confessional poetry with theatrical delivery, accompanied by a dose of political messaging. At one point, Mason described himself as “an anarchist who votes,” which seemed to neatly summarise the spirit of the set: rebellious, but still broadly in favour of filling out a ballot. Whatever one expected from a poetry night, it was safe to say that line had not been on the list.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Mason was only one act in an evening that had already taken several unexpected turns.

Picture this: It’s almost nine o’clock on a Saturday. The regular crowd shuffles in, expecting the usual raucous noises of a bar. Instead, they are greeted by the melodic cadence of spoken poetry. Aikman’s Bar is hosting the Forspoken Poetry and Open Mic, a poetry night that replaces the standard pub chatter with something a little more lyrical.

The event, on 28 February, was led by Gabriela Milkova Robins and Mike Yuill, who explained to me that it had been set in motion because they were simply too excited to wait for the annual StAnza International Poetry Festival.

The evening’s poets demonstrated that inspiration can come from almost anywhere — including the everyday hazards of seaside life. Poet Dan Power introduced what he described as a “scathing” poem titled ‘Violence,’ recounting the particularly harrowing moment a vicious seagull snatched his Gregg’s pasty. Anyone who had ever paid the toastie shack’s “seagull insurance” nodded knowingly.

Power, whose delivery suggested a man deeply committed to deadpan delivery, then surveyed the audience and asked, with the grave air of a man about to address the human condition, “Does anyone here worry?” A few heads nodded in the affirmative. Fortunately, he had come prepared with a poem entitled ‘Don’t Worry,’ which seemed a sensible countermeasure.

Another poet, Mattea Gernentz, drew inspiration from a rather different source: her love for curation and art history. Her poems were inspired by the intricate interiors created by Narcissa Niblack Thorne, known collectively as the Thorne Miniature Rooms. 

Her work drew heavily on place and memory, including Paris, where Gernentz spent some time as an au pair. Gernentz described her experiences in the city and reflected on the curious phenomenon known as Paris syndrome — the disorienting gap between the romanticised city and the real one.

More locally, she spoke about drawing inspiration from familiar places, from the quiet paths of the University of St Andrews Botanic Garden, to time spent in Glasgow.

The evening reached the most perilous frontier of live performance: audience participation. At one point, a poet requested that the assembled company join their voices in unison to say “welcome,” adding an unexpected chorus to their poetry.

As the evening progressed, the microphone opened to anyone willing to step forward. Subjects ranged widely. There was a poem about a childhood dance recital, another about A-level history, one reflecting on a recent loss, and — because poetry is nothing if not democratic — an earnest meditation on eggs. Someone even invoked Ernest Hemingway’s famous six-word story: “Baby shoes, for sale, never worn.” A reminder, perhaps, that poetry can come in many shapes and sizes, from miniature tragedies to anarchic hobbits.

At Forspoken, although you may have come expecting a pint, you stayed to discover what strange and wonderful thing someone will dare to say into the microphone next.

Photo: Forspoken