2016 National Poetry Day we are celebrating some of our poet friends by sharing with you some favourite words.
First up we have poet, writer and film maker Greta Bellamacina. Greta graduated from RADA in 2012 with a BA in English and has since published highly acclaimed literary works including ‘Perishing Tame’ described as “a dazzling meditation on motherhood, female identity, ennui and love.”
Next up, Robert Montgomery who is famed for bringing his poetic voice to the discourse of text art. With exhibitions in venues from Europe to Asia, Robert has made waves in the world of literature and art with his beautiful displays of words.
New River Press is an independent publisher of poetry and the baby of both Greta Bellamacina and Robert Montgomery. The two came together and found their chemistry was too undeniable to not share, soon after releasing their first collaborative book ‘Points For Time In The Sky’. Through one of the only modern examples of British collaborative poetry, the couple allow us to walk the line where their minds meet.
Next up is Pete Doherty. Musician, Songwriter and Poet with this piece from 1998 entitled Bowhemia. A reflection of life in his Bow homeland.
BOWHEMIA
What is it?
It’s bow’s orange sunset spring,
That quick step groove down the Grove Road,
It’s the blue smoke glamour of crack slab urban bohemia,
The richest man alive doesn’t have a penny,
And I’m looking to cash in on his wisdom,
Looking out for the wise in his eyes and the ice in his next drink,
And his next drink,
And his next drink,
And his next drink,
I watch the world, its tower blocks headbutting the skyline,
So stitch that,
That slit in the sky like a knife gash, and a fallen sixties leather jacket,
The tenements so unlovely and kitsch,
And the people rolling on in our colours and classes, classes and colours,
The beats of New London,
Twisted by the bitter rhythm of the wrong education,
In the big schools,
On the bigger grey gothic, pink plastic flower estates,
Twizzling our biros and cashing our giros,
And it’s tupence for your philosophy,
And tupence for your dreams,
Fair ye unwell on the welfare,
And the state is a fair man-made maid,
It understands the sweet sickly pleasure of melancholy,
The malign happiness of the horrors,
Lick die happiness of the horrors,
Delights in the mystery of it’s own misery,
A modern love,
So here we are,
The ****ed generation,
At the ***-end of the 20th century A.D.,
Young and still breathing,
But now it’s a trial,
Cause we tried it all and we’re tired by it all,
Too much, too young, too often, too many times,
And it’s too late,
But we’re not surrendering though,
**** no we’re not,
We’re on the offensive,
On all fours in the puddles of No Man’s Land,
And in that manner we move to the rhythms of ice cream vans playing ‘oranges and lemons’,
And police sirens spinning and waking their mythical wails,
Calling us to ourselves,
Opium for the elite,
Yeah, and there’s his illegitimate brother,
Inexpensively smacking the kids of Stepney, at a cost,
So let’s step out now, you and I,
Let’s go now and stay a while,
Underneath the sun,
A council street lamp left on in the middle of the day,
Tussling with gravity, branding skin,
And it will tussle and brand, tussle and brand until it explodes.
Tussle and brand until the sun explodes.
Staying in London and this is Kojey Radical part of a new wave of performance poets with a commentary on the contemporary social and political climate.
OPEN HAND
We no longer need to close our fists for the revolution.
The open palm may show you, our separation
is man made. Made in aid of cementing
thoughts that turn John Doe to Adolf.
Where they see we weeds we see seeds see
We no longer need to close our fists for the revolution.
I’ve seen
flowers grow and petals fall from mountains
surrounded by estates and suburban terrace housing.
Heard notions of positivity discarded like pieces
of puzzles. Muzzled echoes of greatness in fear
Society may not feel the same elations.
We no longer need to close our fists for the revolution
We must be heard.
From the depths of our bellies
From the lump in our throats
When questioned on our perceptions
But fail to mention.
We must continue to be and be in unison.
Be and be in unison.
Like troops with with lowered arms and
open palms.
We no longer need to close our fists for the revolution
It’s amazing.
To witness the hierarchy of
power you deem acceptable
How the masses would rather
Hand decisions to the individuals
Individuals back to masses
In termly political rituals
Stand beside me.
Not as followers as thinkers
So we no longer have to look
Up for guidance we can look
Side by side
What side are you on.
We are no different
No age
No class
No Color
No Race
Like troops with with lowered arms and
open palms.
Where they see we weeds we see seeds see
We no longer need to close our fists for the revolution
Oh he must be
worthless if his occupation
doesn’t match your level of patients
Oh he must be urban if his cadence
drops vowels lower than where
his trousers sit.
Oh he must be
They don’t know my history
Oh he must be
They don’t know my history
For the knowledge they ripped it out the pages
call us thugs and beasts when we protest on stations
because embedding of thoughts is what has
a nigger run a nigger to the slave ships
Stop snitching.
Patience
All I ask is patience
Fear the brother on my shoulder
Because he could take my life right now
And we act like we don’t know no better.
I so solemnly swear
No I don’t really give a fuck
No I don’t really give a fuck
One hand up,
other hand gripped on my nuts
shake shake
man I spent your advance on my lunch
No I don’t really give a fuck
No I don’t really give a fuck
One hand up,
other hand gripped on my nuts
shake shake
man I spent your advance on my lunch
You can’t say that,
you can’t say
no you can’t black
you can’t say
My brother what you afraid of?
we ain’t got to cry no more
My brother what you afraid of?
we ain’t got to cry no more
My brother what you afraid of?
we ain’t got to hide no more
My brother what you afraid of?
we ain’t got to die no more
Last but not the least, Debris Stevenson, a young poet we just had to feature in Into The Dirt. After starting out in The Roundhouse at 16, she has since gone from strength to strength. From receiving a award to develop her company Mouthy Poets CIC, to go on to co-lead The Roundhouse Poetry collective.
WELCOME TO MY BITS
Welcome to my bits
more flashes than showbiz
I remember the boy
who stole my AQA Anthology
brought a gun to school – loaded
Stared into my tie as she showed it.
Mans workin in Zara now,
don’t even know if he used it.
I remember the day on the 128
when man got his ear ate
off –head eroded
looked like the isle exploded.
Air force ones –like an air force run
Dagenham straight to Ilford.
My girl got jacked in Ilford.
My boy got stabbed in Ilford.
Bars get trapped in Ilford.
Sock-wrapped-brick through our window,
kotchin outside in’a punto
man grabs arm as I rolled out
– no intro.
Sounds like he’s muchin’ a pillow,
but what I don’t know
Is each morning dad rams his face with a pillow,
for wearing his Nikes too low
My girl got jacked in Ilford.
My boy got stabbed in Ilford.
Man jacks cash in Ilford.
She asks to keep bag in Ilford,
he said that’s fine and folded,
she gave him two scores bare shakin
he said thanks a lot and jolted.
Sometimes manners are coded.
Welcome to my bits.
PYTHON
When I think of him
I think of plasters
thumb sized ones
the shape of disaster
all of his cane row inside out all of his girlfriends sleeping about.
Taught my trauma to move my mouth;
write my poetry inside clouds
write his sentence inside doubts
dashed into prison for scavenging pounds.
Walk like me, walk like you
walk like him, walk like true
If East London happened to you?
Hang your trust on the roads like shoes.
Hang your trust on the roads like shoes.
If East London happened to you?
He hung his trust on the roads like shoes.
East London happens to who?
SHOVELING
Agriculture stands for aggressive culture
I cut through small print like a lawn-mower.
Agitate and cultivate my land, hands,
I sit at Mac till the works scanned planned.
Stop shoveling, shoveling, the garden Mum,
for the dead can and her son?
Mum’s hysterectomy four hours done,
and now she’s holding stamina, like a gun.
Whilst, Dad’s on the hoover on a Saturday,
I spot his pain subtle in a little sway,
he hobbles over pelvis fracture,
durability you can’t manufacture.
Me? I’m binding my ligaments back,
propping up another students back,
all I need is heavy lifting – packed,
heave white tape round the back,
do a cross hatch, did I leave the door on latch?
Feel my chest thwack
throat tracked
brain crack
brain crack
unpack
life
is
blacked out.
I unearth a shaved Barbie,
From the Garden on me.
Oversized, knitted onzie, muddy with Nanny.
Lost at the bottom of my tossed toy sack,
she looks like every man I have ever loved.
The parts of me I don’t know how to love.
How far can this aggressive culture go?
Have a bath, cook a meal, do your physio.
Talk to the beautiful man/woman/unspecifically gendered human,
yourself, you beautiful self, even if it’s not forever,
even though, all you have ever been taught is forever
to tape yourself back together over
and over and over and over and over
and over and over until your pieces are to small and they fall, all the the bottom of your tossed toy sack.
The earth.
The garden.
With the dead cat
and your mum
who is still shoveling,
shoveling, shoveling,
shovelling.
More details you can find at:
https://nationalpoetryday.co.uk/
http://www.thenewriverpress.com/
Kojey Radical -mgmt@pushcrayons.com
http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/
http://poetrysociety.org.uk/
