YEah, A couple of weeks ago, Josh, Musa and I hit the streets and recorded some poems for the Times Online newspaper! - Check it out now!! Click here
For all you Literature Developers Out there, this may be of interest. I am attending for the full three day going ons, it will be brilliant.
pound something
Wha blow,So in my last post, I spoke about my reading list, it has all gone to plan and I have not been disappointed once by my choice of books. Lover's Liar's Conjurers and Thieves' was an absolute delight to read, so much so that I will name-check it something I will write soon ish - after the other epic stuff in the process. I am writing a verse to be dropped in a hip hop track, yes people, my first actual foray into that world is on a track called "Rubbish", stranger than fiction I tell you. After that I am working on a three part story with my PiP possey, you will find out more of that in the future, I will publicise that sh*t, believe.
One book I read not on the list has not been published yet. I caught a sneaky peek at it on fellow Gen Txt Tourer - Joe Dunthorne, It is the manuscript of one Ross Sutherland, member of the UK's Aisle 16 crew, (Poetry Boyband, the lead singer is Luke Wright). Now, I was told once, that in the group, Ross was the 'writer' the most talented wielder of words and a hastily sent e-mail to him asking for the manuscript, and a reply with the book in tow, led to me reading all if it in two hours (spread over two days) and realising the rumour was true. The book was COOL. Just steady deftly handled trips into the known and pushing it into the unknown, subject matters from Pac Man to a delicate look at Ikea, an exploration of Swear Words, to a X-Ray'd Love poem called Second Opinion. My favourite has to be 'When Paperboys Roam the Earth' I sent this in response:
'When Paperboys roam the Earth' This was quite vivid for me. I mean, I was never a paper boy, but I wished i was. I had a feeling there was a magic to it, it is ALL here. First line - Perfect.
"your scrappy Reeboks are the first to break the frost"
The first stanza is cinematic, I can see the boy poised at the top of the street, one foot on the pedal, second on the road, the camera begin with a close up of the Reebok, zooms out and travels up past his back, shoulders, head, then goes to the rows of houses picking up "the debris of play things"...
Look out for it, I really hope it is picked up by a publisher. The next few books: 'The Fire People' and anthology of Contemporary Black British Poetr edited by Lemn Sissay, // On the Edge of an Island by Jean Binta Breeze // Shakespeare's As You Like It, and occasional dabbles in John Milton's Every man's Poetry collection // after this will be The Silmarillion, Tolkien's epic novel on the history of middle earth. I read the first 3/4 when I was tour. It inspired so many poems and ideas that i had to stop reading it. 1)because I did not have the time to write the poems 2)I did not want it to end.
Yes, I am a nerd. So what? I journeyed into a park to take a swift arty photograph of the book in its context. Here it is.
Silmarillion.
speak soon. Inua x
Hey, dudes, I have not posted here in such a while.I have good excuses however, massive hiccups in my digital and analogue life, couch surfing for a good few weeks, mistaken identities, bank account cancellation, it seemed the gods were against me!
But I triumphed, slayed the digital dragons, taught demons a thing or two about darkness, took them to the pit and left them to contemplate their own morbid existence. Ha! Be Gone Vile thingybobs!
I lost you right? It happens, that is why we have steering wheels, so we can turn backwards. So I am now going back to the basics, to survival, eating and copulating (with regards to literature) I am reading a lot, keeping all the new info inside, sketching out ideas for other things to write. Recent list includes Paul Auster's - 'New York Trillogy', Malika's Kitchen's - Storm between fingers', Kim Trusty's - Darker than Blue, Khalil Gibran's - The Prophet (I will revisit from time to time, the dude was A DUDE) Nii Parkes' - Shorter, Next is 'Lovers, Liars, Conjurers + Thieves' by Raman Mundair, and after I will delve into the world of Octavia Butler baby. :-)
It's like that, and that's the way it is.
Hope you are well. Will be getting back to grips with my mailing list soon, so join if you have not.
Inua
All candles are cousins of the sunthe moon their foster mother
the waters, like some sorority sister pledge to always reflect her light
dust are daughters of the giver of life, all grandmotherd by nature hugging tight. In this patch work
order, this twinkling night all men are prodigal sons
we alone journey to spirit city yet earth remains our home.
© Inua Ellams
Lets pretend they weren’t plastic.Let’s pretend those one-inch toys named Billy the kid, Clint Eastwood and John Wayne, were more than drastic attempts at escapism; that nestled in my front pocket, they tore open the terrain. Let’s pretend my belts were horse reins and the mop between my legs was a black bronco named Buck. Let’s pretend its mop top were horse manes that flicked wild to my hummings of rolling rolling rolling raw hides! Let’s pretend the flattened bottle tops cellotaped to my trainers were riding spurs that’d make the bronco buck wild. My backyard was Texas, all tumble weed, no grasses and you would catch a glimpse of me, gold rimmed glasses, shorts too short, knees scuffed, mother’s pride and joy, ten years old, scrawny arms, Nigeria’s first cowboy;
Whilst the others believed in Thunder Cats, He Man and Turtle Power, mine was the Grand Canyon’s sun settling across rocks formed where nomads scour.
Everything then was cowboy themed; those trainers were purposefully campfire singed. School books were saddle bagged, paper’d with wanted posters, strapped with horse hair, wrapped in cow skin, wrestled from a coyote, one vicious and lean and my pen was no simple implemental thing, ‘twas a cactus spike its tip - fine hay, I’d dip into venom mark posters, plot ways through English classes mastering the western drawl, to math lessons where gold was a hundred’s haul, to lunch times when juice was a liquor filled flask, I’d lapse into lands of bulls and hay bales; spent months hidden in these wild west ways,
Till one midday, when the dust divided, three unprovoked shapes ambushed then chided, their shadows formed a premature night. None could hear me calling through their fists flying past, those dudes were wild Indians, the moon was a traitor, left in that dark side, crater faced and feebled, punched floundering, almost unconscious, I accepted the bullies’ riddle: I’ll never know the reason why such wicked boys be. To cease the pain, I took the name; they labelled me “The Nerd”, the logic being glasses framed the word, no quibbles.
And beaten in that brawl of a peaceful cowboy’s tragic fall, heard a subtle something, a desperate mantra playing: he who lives to run away, lives to fight another day, (this mantra holds the nerd way). So my pen, still cactus spike, its tip - fine hay, dipped into backbone, stirred the marrow till boiling bayed, fought through legs to these elder brighter days. And still I am bespectacled, still good to run away, but now I know sometimes, fists bring forth the day, still pockets full of cowboys, ride least thrice a day, once for metaphor, twice for simile, thrice so reading, rhythm stays, still juice, now apple cider, books bagged in satchel old, which holds this tale, none finer, of this trial I struggled through.
I am secretly learning how to fly.This mainly involves practising while I am dreaming, meaning the possibility of dying is greatly reduced (then again people say if you die in your dream, you die in waking life as well – see Matrix movies) - we all gotta start some where. So, flying in a dream once, I came across a storm cloud dressed in sheep’s clothing, I immediately saw through the disguise and zapped him with my pen. It rained purple. My wings got so wet I had to land and shelter under a banana leaf. When the rain had stopped, the sun came out and dried up the land. The water went but the purple remained. I saw choirs of Cheshire cats meowing in unison, their white fur stained, rebel chameleons casting ultra violet shadows, Violets venting pollen at the world for taking their individuality. Purple, a colour associated with the supernatural, so readily available, caused spontaneous small miracles to burst forth: wines were re-watered, vines pulsed with Evian. Leather chairs sprang to life and immediately ate its inhabitants, glass revoked its transparency, parrots developed their own language, snails out ran cheetahs, humming birds discovered opera – never will their wings beat sweetly again.
Flabbergasted at the destruction my careless penmanship had caused, I set about trying to rectify the situation, flying to cloud communions, asking if they had seen a lilac water congregation, a semi bluish fog, a pink mist, anything. They all declined to answer; news of my escapade had reached them. As I left their presence, and old cumulous took me aside and told me of death. The storm cloud having lost its colour, flew to the sun and died.
So everything purple that isn’t naturally purple is a remnant of that cloud- its only evidence of existence.Everything purple is meant to fly.
Yeah, I didn’t get the dream too.
Inua ~ Phaze
Work In Progress Number One. This is SO Overdue, here are the first few verses...
Joe O’Brien ------
There’s a thing to cotton that is unforgotten by the breeze. In its absence, the loss of wool wearies all who’d else stand fast. Filled with flecks of boulders and bales,
that breeze will blast past the shoulders of slaves and masters alike; reminding that regardless of status and might, all must face the cold.
now, we be the pheasants that pasture as the breeze blows; we never sleep. With bodies bold and ways ever forward we hope that all chaos found folds.
In our ends, where daily crime notices mark the roads I know a young boy called O’Brien. He is a character that cotton missed, one played out in street corners
in after school detentions and tired police cells in the hollowed centres of solitary hours where none save music keeps the brain’s sane well -
back pack filled with spray cans, eyes piercing to stare, head nodding to that preserve of sanity pockets filled with air...
stay tuned, and happy Newyear.
Inua ~ Phaze
second work in progress. ---- All poems are daughters of dust; they don’t fear death, They are the end-of-things given breath.
Like seedlings become saplings to siblings yielding… like bricks to buildings which crushed become dust again,
these daughters don’t fear death; they are the end-of-things given breath... ----
stay tuned. and have a good Christmas.
Inua ~
I am teaching myself to be epic. It begins small. -Trying to draw a pencil tip whilst using the pencil tip. -Asking seeds to grow inside me, then swallowing them. -Pretending to be 1/5th of the wonder. -Trying to breath between heartbreaks. -Writing the beginnings of theories as text messages, -Then texting them to Yemisi.
These things serve mainly as filters, that when the rush of everything I don't control (which is pretty much everything) comes, they take lessons from pencil tips and seeds and come in small sizes. I can't deal big. Anymore. It takes training now. What happened to the fearlessness of that 19 year old that claimed to juice the Muses? Or the 21 year old that claimed to have mistaken Bud-wiser for the Milk-way? I am too young to be this old. And too old to Catch myself at 22 (geddit?)
So to combat, I am trying to be unafraid of the fearlessness, to be epic again.
It begins small. -Drawing tails under every full-stop, so the sentence never stops; -trapping stars in pinhole cameras -echoing echos -echos -
Inua ~
In the graveyard of candles,you will find: only their wax works For wicks belong to the sky.
life owes us oxygen for acknowledging its existence,
Inua~Phaze