Black History Month

Some thoughts for Black History Month

There are many fine BAME poets writing today.

We particularly admire Patience Agbabi and Grace Nichols.

For copyright reasons we are unable to post any of their poems here.

But they can be found on ‘poetryarchive.org’

Lemm Sissay’s poem Making A Difference is published in

These Are the Hands Poems from the heart of the NHS.

All proceeds from the sale of this book go to NHS Charities

to help with Covid 19 work.

Lemm Sissay is also a novelist and has written a heartfelt

book entitled my name is why. The story of his early life.

Mayo Angelou

Mayo Angelou is a woman of colour and an activist poet.

She died in 2014. As well as her fiction and poetry she is

known for her philosophical sayings:

Poetry can tell us what human beings are.

It can tell us why we stumble and fall and how,

miraculously, we can stand up.

*****

I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will

forget what you did, but people will never forget how you

made them feel.

*****

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story

inside you.

Southwark and Lambeth Libraries have access to

local people’s videos and poems. Do check them out.

Enjoy the month and stay safe.

Wendy and Robert

Poem Of The Week, Week 6: Dog Years by Mo Gallaccio

Second up we have Dog Years by Mo Gallaccio -

Dog Years

My young friend Finlay has a dog.

He did me a drawing-

Ella, Patterdale terrier, 74 years.

He tells me...she’s really seventy-seven but

he didn’t want to rub it out and spoil the picture

and she lives seven or maybe it’s eleven (?)

years to every one of his.

I put her portrait on my wall

and note we are the same age.

She looks very sprightly

ears cocked, tail held high

nose up, alert - present.

Time is so very fluid, Ella

don’t you find? An hour

can drag on a whole day,

yet months and years flash

past all in a blink and memory

is so fickle, moments from years ago

fixed, every detail clear

but what I read or ate or did

last week - a blur.

Words slip out of reach

names and faces come adrift

I do acknowledge folk, but who they are

and how we met’s a mystery.

I am become so grumpy Ella

I miss that little optimist, my younger self

filled with curiosity and wonder, sometimes

fearful, often not understanding

ut full of trust and an unshakeable

belief in justice. A clear eyed

seven-year old. Age is just a number

Ella, I’ll take a lead from you

trade in my life-lived years

banish this weary cynic

become child-like again.

I’m with you Ella - I choose

to be alert. I will be present.

Poem Of The Week, Week 6: Keepers of the States of Sleep and Wakefulness, fragment from A Masque, by Kate Miller

To kick-start week 6 of Poem Of The Week we have Keepers of the States of Sleep and Wakefulness, fragment from A Masque by Kate Miller. We have embedded a pdf of the poem into the blog post to do justice to its form-

Kate Miller lives in East Dulwich and this poem belongs to her forthcoming collection The Long Beds published by Carcanet in July 2020. She recorded it during Covid-19 lockdown with a dedication to nurses of the NHS, especially the eight named night nurses who cared for her in isolation at Kings College Hospital some years earlier. You can watch Kate’s audio recording of this poem below-

Poem by Kate Miller, dedicated to nurses of the NHS, with original music and costume designs from 17c masques by Ben Jonson and Inigo Jones. A new collaborat...

Poem Of The Week, Week 5: Assimilation by Jane McLaughlin

The last poem we’d like to share with you this week is Assimilation by Jane McLaughlin-

Assimilation

It is important to learn the language

What is your name?

They took my name at the border

I have filled in the forms to get another.

Where do you live?

I live in a street where pomegranates flower

and birds and children sing at evening.

I live in a pile of white rubble.

I live for four days without food on a jolting truck.

I live on a mattress in my friend’s room.

Tell your partner something about yourself.

I tell my partner my right eye does not trust my left

and if I have two hands I am afraid

that one will kill the other.

What do you do at the weekend?

At the weekend I lie on my mattress

and listen to that silence that follows

gunfire and the fall of shells.

In the darkness I still cross borders

in strange clothes, leave friends and lover

where they fall.

At weekends I remember

I am the one who got through

and have nothing to carry except their names.

I watch the roof of a prison

that keeps closing over me.

Please listen to this conversation.

It’s about asking the way.

From the poetry collection Lockdown published by Cinnamon Press

Poem Of The Week, Week 5: Gothic by Maureen Jivani

We have a thunderously powerful poem up next with Gothic by Maureen Jivani -

Gothic

We were chasing lovebirds when the hail arrived

in violet clouds that burst and scattered their icy

bullets over us. Back home with fever we watched

through blurred windows as Old World vultures tore

up the sky like unanswered prayers. For immediate

safety we hid under the stairs with perfect dolls inside

perfect homes in perfect form while at the end of its leash

our house raged and staggered on the edge of a cliff;

its foundations rocked; its walls cracked, its doors

remembered the axe. And split. Its rafters shivered

and shook, its roof thundered and wept until the whole

brickwork shrieked and finally whimpered tearing

itself into crumbling halves. Vultures and lovebirds

descended like fallen angels on the brokered tiles.