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Poetry Brothel no 3 – Mirrors and Masks buy tickets now the last 2 were SELL OUTS

3 September 2016 @ 12:00 am

Poetry Brothel London is back for a new season and for a new magical encounter with the most enthralling, fiery, witty, decadent, romantically-infused and carefree poets in town. This time it’s all about mirrors and masks. So, put on the guise of your most poetical self and come be reflected by beauty and dreamy togetherness. Connect and sigh with a mix of carnal delight and poetical bliss. ¬ÝSPECIAL GUEST – Sophie Cameronsophie cameron
Bring out your most poetical guise. Get reflected on decadence, smoke and beauty. Our next event is all about mirrors and masks. Who are you? Who do you want to¬Ýbe? How are you perceived? It might all confabulate on the 3rd of September. And don’t worry Harry, if it doesn’t, we shall dance and sing our shadows away. Give a soul an eye and it shall shape itself into a guise. Give a guise a name and it will turn into a soul. Give a soul a dream and it will get close to what it wants to be. Kill and Revive the master of disguise, our mad prince, Salvador Dali.

Mirror – Poem by Mark Strand

A white room and a party going on
and I was standing with some friends
under a large gilt-framed mirror
that tilted slightly forward
over the fireplace.
We were drinking whiskey
and some of us, feeling no pain,
were trying to decide
what precise shade of yellow
the setting sun turned our drinks.
I closed my eyes briefly,
then looked up into the mirror:
a woman in a green dress leaned
against the far wall.
She seemed distracted,
the fingers of one hand
fidgeted with her necklace,
and she was staring into the mirror,
not at me, but past me, into a space
that might be filled by someone
yet to arrive, who at that moment
could be starting the journey
which would lead eventually to her.
Then, suddenly, my friends
said it was time to move on.
This was years ago,
and though I have forgotten
where we went and who we all were,
I still recall that moment of looking up
and seeing the woman stare past me
into a place I could only imagine,
and each time it is with a pang,
as if just then I were stepping
from the depths of the mirror
into that white room, breathless and eager,
only to discover too late
that she is not there.

poetry brothel madam


3 September 2016
12:00 am
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