I’m going here tonight. And I’m as happy as a dog with two tails…
|A dog with two tails by ME|
Tucked discretely between a clothes boutique and a crêperie down the unassuming Rue de Bourgogne in the seventh arrondissment, the Club des Poètes is not only a place to hear poetry readings every Tuesday, Friday and Saturday, but also serves drinks and food all-week through except Sundays. With simple deco, homemade food (including Sarah’s cracking chocolate cake) and a cat, this little resto-bar is perfect for those who appreciate literature from all over the world, performed in a welcoming environment of strangers and regulars alike.
The poet Jean-Pierre Rosnay and Tsou- his muse -first opened the doors in 1961. The website explains that Rosnay wanted to “render poetry contagious and inevitable” through a place where performances, presentations, debate and exchanges could take place on an informal level.
Come for a drink or food and chat comfortably for an hour or so. At 10pm, silence falls, and the poetry begins. Be it French, English, Scandinavian or Russian, anyone can read anything, even your own piece as long as you know it by heart. If you don’t feel like bringing a friend, there are a mountain of books to fall into while you wait for the lights to dim, candles to be lit, and hush to fall.
If you still aren’t sure, have a look at their publicity video from the website. Possibly, like, the sweetest clip ever, and that’s coming from someone who doesn’t particularly like children.
5 euros for poetry readings
Menus from 10-25 euros
Drinks from 6 euros
Club des Poètes – 30 rue de Bourgogne 75007 Paris — Tél : 01 47 05 06 03 –
> Contact : Blaise Rosnay — firstname.lastname@example.org
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.