Wandering around Stockholm on a sunny day I came across a smallish poetry festival. As the poems were read from a platform adjacent to a café in a park, what better way to while some time away than to listen to some poetry over a coffee? I must confess that much of the readings I did not understand or relate to. It was kind of fun anyway. The only poet I took to was a guy whose nom de guerre is ‘The Street Dove’. Not necessarily due to the poems but because he had passion – something the others sadly lacked.
The Street Dove in action, delivering goodies like:
The head is about to blow up
lack of nutrition
lack of medicine
and the internet hell
(my own translation)
Fine poetry for sale. Yes, I did buy some.
Most of the other poems were, well, a bit long winded and, in my humble opinion, not that great. For street poets perhaps also a bit too bourgeoisie in their projection? Maybe it’s OK to be a bourgeoisie street poet?