Love The Sinner

Love The Sinner. The greatest problem facing Christianity is the question of adaptability. Should it change with the times? should it not? should it compromise? What should be its vices or core values, how might this affect its voice in the changing world. There is nothing black and white about such a decision, or about the process of making such a decision, it is not, cannot and will never be so.

Love the sinner starts with this dialogue where all the factors come in to play. In the opening scene (a conference in an African country) leaders of the faith talk more like politicians, negotiating around the topic. They parry and thrust their points back and forth showing the complexity of the debate. From the African leaders who claim to have a purer hold of Christianity but feel they have to bow to the word from the west, to the bible-belt Americans, to voices that represent a more liberal approach.

Describing this first scene as a cover letter, the play dives into a most visceral case study which centres on ‘Michael’. We first see Michael as the minute-keeper of the above meeting, he sleeps with ‘Joseph’ the African porter working at the hotel where the conference is held. This intermingling of their fates begins what I now call ‘The Wire’ factor. - What I love about the ground breaking t.v. series is it borderlessness: how it takes a simple case of drug dealing and effectively runs the entire spectrum of the subject from the addicts to the smugglers, police officers, crooked politicians, broken families, vigilantes, traitors, reformists, EVERYTHING. Love the sinner leaves the conference and returns to the U.K. with Michael, it shows the repercussions of his actions, and how when Joseph on his doorstep fleeing torture from his homeland, it further brings the issue home. The play touches on international development, colonialism and its legacy, the public image of the church, immigration, torture, human rights, the concept of family within British Society, the concept of love, motherhood, masculinity... the list goes on. And it does all this keeping Michael and Joseph central to the story with such perfect touches of humour, of humanity... it is disgustingly good.

It is directed by Matthew Dunster, written by Drew Pautz and runs at the Cottesloe at the National Theatre until 10th July.

**SPECIAL £20 TICKET OFFER // Get top price tickets for just £20 (save £12) for select evening performances of Love the Sinner on 22 May and 3, 4, 5, 14, 16 June. // To book online enter the Promotion Code 2704 before you select your seats. Or, call Box Office on 020 7452 3000 and quote ‘Special £20 Offer’.

Fela's Intro

Last night, I introduced 'Music Is The Weapon', a documentary on Fela Kuti at the British Museum, and read a few poems after the film. This was my introduction to the film.

I write poems for a living, I concern myself will the specificity of language, and belief that poets are the midwives of reality; we name things into being. This idea is also held in parts of west Africa, where it is said that children grow to embody their names, a child named freedom is destined to roam the world. In the long poem Said The ShotGun to The Head, the poet Saul Williams says: 'Let your children name themselves', imagining this to be the greatest act of freedom. Subsequently, it begs the question, will we author our own destiny? will the selfnamed ones be free? what  are the consequences to not naming ourselves?

The Soundtrack to My play the 14th Tale was Fela's song 'Upside Down' taken from his album 'Music of Many colours', in this song, he answers the question. The song begins with an observation of western society, he says:

Communication Organize Agriculture Organize Electric Organize Dem system Organize

Englishman get English name American man get American name German man get German name Russian man get Russian name Chinese man get Chinese name

(....) Wheras in Nigeria,

Village boku* road no dey Land boku food no dey Area boku house no dey

People no know their African name People no dey think African style People no know Africa way For Africa man house, I don see

Communication Disorganize Agriculture Disorganize Electric Disorganize Everything is Upside Down

If the language with with we communicate and define ourselves isn't ours, what are we saying when we speak? What are we asking of ourselves? What happens? Fela's believed there is a disconnect, chaos, disorgnization. This now begs the question, who will pick up the pieces, who will fix things. Fela believed the answer to this: we do. We build ourselves back up. Fela was a simple man, most great men are, they ask simple questions, have simple demands - affordable health care - equal civil rights - an end to Aapartheid -  Love your neighbour as yourself.  Fela wanted Africa to be governed by an African. Simple. But an African style, language and attitude to government, entirely without western influence.

And here lies the problem. In an increasingly global world, with different forces at play, powerful multinational companies, famine, greed, religion, incredible riches, vast resources, money... Morals tend to slip, injustice is rife, people die. Take for instance, the complexity here - where Nigeria's Ife heritage is exhibited above, and below we sit in a lecture hall sponsored by an oil company. Between the bright wealth of Nigeria's cultural history and it's dark natural riches, the bridge, the reason we are here, is art, its concern with truth and beauty, the power it wields to satirise and transcend the physical world, to touch us in our darkest, most sacred places and inspire a speck of change, hold up the clearest of mirrors and say - this is who you are, what you have done.

Fela's art was music, and wield this well he did. As Nigeria turns 50 this year and the play about Fela's life hits the National Theatre this autumn, his politics, his legacy speaks to us even louder. We have reinvented his message to contemporary ones: ‘Rock Around the Blockade’, ‘Fight With Mic’, ‘High Life not Die Life’, ‘Rock the Vote’, ‘Drop Beats Not Bombs’, ‘Love Music Hate Racism’, Fela had the umbrella term; that to start social, political, moral and economic change in the world, above all things; Music Is The Weapon.

The Scapegallow

Commissioned to write this, deadline Saturday, I was just give the title, 'The Scapegallow' // A Scapegallow is 'one who deserves and has narrowly escaped the gallows, a slip-gibbet, one for whom the gallows is said to groan'. I also had to work on a poem for the Tate Modern: Maurizio Cattelan see pic:

"Ave Maria" 2007 Polyurethan, steel, clothes, paint / Polyuréthane, acier, vêtements, peinture 27 1/2 x 4 3/4 inches / 70 x ø 12 cm (x 3) 3/3+2AP

Translated as ‘Hail Mary’, the title seems to contradict the macho power of the salutes, referring instead to the catholic tradition of revering Mary the mother of Christ, who is saluted by the angel in the annunciation. Although this right-armed salute is believed to have originated as a form of military courtesy for the Romans, it became synonymous with right-wing or extremist political movements in the twentieth century. One of the hand is lightly concave, as to gently stroke the head of the visitor. Maurizio wishes in this way to denounce the correspondence between two such contrasting greetings.

And this is what I created: The Scapegallow

There’s a certain breed of Monday where morning comes with fangs, ones so straightouttahell, I imagine the horned one himself, hunched over workbench sanding down the best till its grain reads your name, each a dark dove, Dickensian in devilry; A certain type of 9 a.m. where coffee tars the tongue, high fives hail Hitler and the postman’s whistlesong will strangle you from inside. The Welcome mat will cuff you, the door resist your shoulder, outside the easy limp of wind will whip you like a bitch. If blades of grass that break concrete, their tips stiff as fists, lend none of their rebel strength, drive or sapling hymns and journeying pollen pause just to poison, all this and the front gate is grating at your gait, do as I do: crawl for your sofa, flick for a channel find a thick book, paint, do nothing till Tuesday. Just wait.

News from Inua Ellams.

Happy Nu Year! Ah sincerely hapologize, ’tis been four hectic months since I sent my last mail. I have news, oh! such news. But before I drop it, a moment if you please for Virginia who couldn’t keep with the demands and duels of daily life and in October, passed away; she will ever hold my heart. But my new laptop, Meredith, is beautiful! I’d also like to say a hearty ‘Hey’ to my new subscribers... Welcome to my Mailout! The Formula is as follows 4 News Items / Smthn frm YouTube: 14TH TALE at The NATIONAL THEATRE // POEJAZZI - YEAR OF THE POET // UNTITLED // LUKE WRIGHT & ROSS SUTHERLAND // Utube: Ctrl.Alt.Shift //

THE 14th TALE // COTTESLOE THEATRE // A thousand thanks to all who saw the play last autumn. If you didn’t, there’s yet another opportunity to: The 14th Tale experience has been a bit crazy. From debuting the show in March, to winning a Fringe First in Edinburgh, to the national tour - traveling, meeting incredible folks... to think a story of my life could do this is absolutely, completely, unreservedly ridiculous, for many personal reasons too. I’m lucky. But it’s just gotten more ridiculous - The play will run for Ten performances at The National Theatre. I mean, THE NATIONAL THEATRE, the heart of the establishment, - At London’s Southbank. If you’ve ever spent a Midnight Run, or talked about London with me, you’ll know how highly I regard the place. It isn't even a dream come true, I didn’t dare dream this... it is just... wow... anyway, I’m weighted with humility. Ten shows at the Cottesloe. (Between the dates, I’ll be hitting Dartington, Bedfordshire and Kent) Dates and all info below. Hope you can make it, please bring a friend.

National Theatre Web: http://bit.ly/4TIHtS Facebook: http://bit.ly/3Sjour

POEJAZZI // BANG! - That is how we started this year! We at Poejazzi, continuing with our promise to provide great poetry shows, have claimed 2010 as our own and have labelled it ’The Year of The Poet’ We have dazzling wonders planned for the year - events at the Roundhouse, Camden Crawl, The Ministry of Sounds, The exclusive Hospital Club and at E4’s Udderbelly to name just tips of our icebergs... And we begin the year long series in pirouetteish style with a show at the Royal Festival Hall this Friday. Entry is completely free - because we’re nice like that - featuring Alex Gwynther, Ed Sheeran, Heidi Vogel and Ventriloquist - one solid hour of back to back brilliance.

The Poejazzi Tonic Fri 15 Jan ’10 // 6- 7 pm: Free Entry Royal Fest Hall, Foyer Bar, Level 2 Southbank Center, London: http://bit.ly/4xz2SF

UNTITLED // Last Year between touring the tale, I had to write, set and show the first half of my next play - ‘Untitled’ - at the round house in London. It was crazy to do this mid tour and after the severe food poisoning I suffered weeks before. My brain was mush and the story of the play is quite simply, the most ambitious thing I have ever tried to write. But we created something magical and the photos in this mail are shots from the play. I won’t speak too much about it now, but wondered if you’d help me write the 2nd half by answering a question - What do you think would happen, would be the consequences of growing up without a name? Hit reply... Looking forward to your answers. Thanx.

LUKE WRIGHT & ROSS SUTHERLAND // So, if in this game of live literature, you haven’t heard of these guys then I’d like to know the exact location of the rock you’ve been living under, and wonder if you’d be so kind as to lend me the keys once in a while. Luke and Ross are members of the award winning troupe, the first ever poetry boy band Aisle 16, and between them, have stacked up more awards, column inches, hate mail and experience than any I know. They are stunning writers, witty, visceral, entertaining. They both have poetry shows running this month and I highly recommended them.

THE PETTY CONCERNS OF LUKE WRIGHT and THE THREE STIGMATA OF PACMAN run from 12 - 30 Jan 2010 (except Sundays and Mondays) at - The Old Red Lion, 418 St John Street, London Tickets £10 for all performances - from Ticketweb: http://bit.ly/oldredlion or BoxOffice 02078377816

SOMETHING FROM YOUTUBE: Ctrl.Alt.Shift was formed to work against social and global injustice - Sentences like that I usually take with a pinch of salt, but they mean it and are ON IT. Born in June 08, they’ve already stormed embassies of countries who've imposed travel restrictions on people living with HIV, highlighted the plight of the 50 million women missing in India and created awareness around countless development issues. Breaking with convention to bring about change, they work with everyone from Plane Stupid and VICE to Sadler's Wells, Tinchy Stryder, Metronomy, Shynola, Alexa Chung and David Shrigley. Last year they held a live graffiti battle themed ‘corruption’. Your’s truly hosted the event and to get a flavour of he great work they do, sit back and watch:

uTube: http://bit.ly/806MOi Their Website: http://www.ctrlaltshift.co.uk/

SPECIAL OFFER!! from Inua Ellams.

THE 14th TALE: Half Way Tour// Howdy Pardners! It tis been a whirl winding month, I’ve been on more trains than a monsoon has rain, up and down the country telling THE 14th TALE. I’ve also being sending ‘tour diary’ entries to my Facebook contingent and will try to edit down four mails worth of magic into this, retaining the dazzle, wit and insight that I rehearse to hell and try to sound spontaneous. But I will begin with a... SPECIAL OFFER Tonight & Wednesday// On Monday 19th & Wednesday 21st / 2 for 1 deal to see the play, The 14th Tale /call the BAC box office and quote ‘Friends of Fuel!’ Mail 1 // 30 Sept//

As I type this I am en route to Stockton on Tees. To my right is my touring production manager - Rob, and opposite Thierry, my director. We have 3 laptops, 24 tickets, 6 bags, 4 pairs of shoes and 13 boxer shorts between us - more testosterone here than at a He-man convention - throw in the mix of theatre, poetry and Thierry’s Frenchness and we make for a interesting trio forming TEAM INUA - as Rob calls it.

We arrive at 9pm, enough time to eat, drink and work out a secret handshake. Tomorrow is the first show, 1 out of 23 and I’m nervous. The play has stayed the same since Edinburgh, save for some positioning and the odd text edit here and there. After Stockton, we go to Manchester and if all goes to plan, when I arrive there’ll be a brown box containing copies of my third book - the script for The 14th Tale!

Mail 2 // 4 Oct Last 3 days have blurred by. Firstly, the high art conversation/relationships between Thierry, Rob and I has diminished into a loose lipped medley of toilet humour and one-upmanship. E.g last night, after tearing up the Manchester shows, we wanted to party, hard. This meant returning to the theatre-turned-club at midnight and gyrating haphazardly. By 2.30, I was asleep in the corner. Rob was flagging, but Thierry held his own till the very end. We crawled into bed at 3, woke to a hurried breakfast at 7.50, caught the 9.20 from Manchester, which brings us up to speed, me typing on a train back to London.

The first show was an eye opener - pretty low turn out but we rocked it! Those who came Loved it. We taxied back to the hotel for a drink, or three then bedded down for Manchester the following day. We arrived at midday, made straight for the Contact and began setting up. The show went well, I made two grown men cry - a crude way of judging, but it works for me! At 3pm the following day, I met Martin Roberts at the Theatre. The show that eve would be challenging - a sign interpreted performance - and we didn't want Martin in a corner of the stage, but moving about within the play. We knuckled down and worked on his positioning and when the time came, took the stage vibrating nervous energy. How did it go?

AMAZING. In the post show q&a, the hearing-impaired audience thanked us zealously for mixing Martin into the story. Thierry was so pleased with the show, his smile was wider than a welcome mat, and as for me I was chuffed I’d told the story well.

Mail 3 // 12th Oct Dudes, Dudettes, the in-betweens and indebted, I’ve had the wildest week’s worth of work, taught, gigged, wrote, graphic designed and still got to spend lots of time with my lady. I have two lil shows before I go, tomorrow at ‘Writer’s Block’ and one on Wed, then I hit the road again with the 14th Tale. Honestly, I am raring to go... the long line of trouble makers beckon... on the 15th I’m in Maiden Head, 16th & 17th in Bath, after which I’ll return for the two-week-run at the BAC in London. - please book in advance, if it is at all possible, come to the early shows in the run, the first couple of days are crucial as the press will be there, and mob mentality works wonders - i.e. if a bunch are people having a good time, the freak in the center scowling is more inclined to smile. Simple as. Will be hitting you later this week.

Mail 4 // 18th Oct I joined a rush hour London with two Eastpacks full of books and clothes, and with Basil my chair - prop for the show. Basil is heavy, takes a lot of space, not the most commuter friendly for rush hour. If looks could kill, the daggers thrown at me... in fact, looks did kill. Bits of myself are splashed all the way to Paddington Station, where we got the train to Maidenhead, the first stop. That night. I made a 65 yr old gentleman cackle so much, he cried... but could not dwell on my victory over the elderly as we had to run outta there sharpish, to Bath the next stop. The show again went well, made a maiden cry, but wasn’t completely satisfied with my performance.

The hotel we stayed at is the weirdest I have been to, like something out of a Jane Austen novel, but with wireless internet and surround sound system. I stayed up late am watching rubbish on t.v. woke at 8 and rushed down for breakfast - wearing a bathrobe. Now, apparently, this is not proper etiquette - to wear a bathrobe to breakfast, but I’m a bush man, what!? - never pretended else, rocked it proudly. The audience that night were more conservative, but I gave a MUCH better controlled performance and again, made my maidens cry, my tally should be in the 100s now.//

That’s all folks, that bring us up to the present day, with the first show tonight. Thanks for reading! See you at the BAC. // BAC, 8.30pm | Mon 19th – Sat 31st Oct (exc 25th) // Lavender Hill, London, Sw11 5TN // www.bac.org.uk | 020 7223 2223

March Forth - for Jay Bernard

March Forth - for Jay Bernard(‘jay’ is also slang for marijuana)

My friend Jay likes her birth date. She says its a call to action: March 4th.

Her dread locks are loose tower blocks, forehead for sky, her nose: a shrouded figure,

a dude speeding by, back packed with sketch books and gas masks, jeans patched

more times than he’s matched sticks to spliffs. He is a loose hoodied slouch with spray cans,

crouched in a train yard, headphoned and nodding hard to lyrics so deep it digs back

to the African forest where it started, back to talking drums. Now, they talk in drum

patterns, scattered in urban forests: rappers pattered tones riff against bars

just like spray cans whiff against walls, both birth brilliance, coupled in this dark

before radio crackles and rail guards mark his presence - it’s clearly time to go

he packs bag and coasts: a winged shadow floats past yellow lines, glides over railings,

air vents. The clouds cry. A poverty stricken kitten skips the sprinkled streets, litter

glitters pave-stones, pavement splits into a doorway, he enters, out breaths a beat,

door shuts with such finality it stops his existence:

He never pressed a nozzle to color walls, the rapper’s vocals never colored bars.

It’s a blasphemous silence, it unravels talking drums, jazz, blues, baselines,

black music - never strummed, trapped in the fingernails of a slave, so stitched,

he won’t tap for nuthin’, won’t twitch for shit, and the unplayed guitar riff

like ghost graffiti, leaks from his heart, and dies.

Jay, I once smoked your name and glimpsed what might’ve been

had no one courage enough to march forth, make canvas of walls, and music of bars.

Wisps of it phantom roads in potholes and hide in the hush of a rapper’s flow.

I nod to brave such breaks in hip hop and pray that the beat don’t stop.

News from Inua Ellams.

There are exactly four months left till the end of the year. Scary how time flies right? It is about this time you find yourself pulling out the ‘to do list’ you wrote back in January... who doesn’t want to look at it? hands? anyone?

The Formula: 3 News Items / Smthn frm YouTube: THE 14th TALE // THE MIDNIGHT RUN // LOVERS LIARS CONJURERS AND THIEVES// YOUTUBE: JOHN KEATS!

THE 14th TALE: EDINBURGH FRINGE // So So... It begins, the tour. As I write this, I am three days deep into a week long rehearsal for the 14th Tale. Next Monday I jet off to the Edinburgh Fringe Fest to run the show for 10 days as part of the British Council Showcase... pressure? YES. News is spreading... I think this is the last day to get a copy, but if you go a good newsagent, look for a magazine called ‘The Stage’ - theatre/entertainment news, and yours sincerely adorns the front cover with a tribe of other young Edinburgh performers. After that, next, week my face will be on the front cover of FEST - ‘The Ultimate Independent Festival Guide’ - (festmag.co.uk) as well. If you know anyone who is at the Fringe, please send ‘em my way, wish me luck.

Details: 14th Tale at The Edinburgh Fringe Fest. August 19 - 29th (excluding 23) // Time: 2pm // Cost: £10/£7.50 Pleasance Courtyard, Venue 33 // Tickets: www.plesance.cou.uk Box Office Call: 0131 556 6550 // Utube: http://moourl.com/e0hqw Download Desktop bkg: http://www.phaze05.com/The14thTale.zip

THE MIDNIGHT RUN // Last month, I talked about the August MNR, 12 hours walking through the streets of London. I promised fun and brilliance and if I were you, I would’ve listened to me because I was right! The MNR was breathtaking, it was gust stealing, I mean breeze robbing-ly magnificent... you should have been there. We had no business indulging in such harmless good natured fun, especially when the world would have us believe that everything is on the brink of collapse. Everything ran smoothly, even the unplanned happenings seemed planned. We started with 13 runners at 6p.m - but at the end, when Big Ben struck 6a.m. there were 26 Midnighters cheering.

The Nighter of the Run Award goes to one of the featured artists: Rory Broadfoot, who spent the first half of that Saturday hugging a toilet bowl after feasting on bad lobster, yet stayed the entire 12 hour duration, walking, writing, and planting with the best of us... Stay tuned for the Full Report. Other MNRs for the year: Manchester: 26th Sept, and two possibles I shan’t speak of yet.

Report of MNR '07 here - http://moourl.com/hp5u6 // Mini May Run '09 here - http://moourl.com/lsshh // Want to know more? mail me - themidnightrun@gmail.com

LOVERS LIARS CONJURERS AND THIEVES// I won a poetry competition. Imagine. The prize was a reading at Latitude Festival, and a t-shirt with my post code printed on it. The poem took two years to write; from when I was first inspired, to its completion and final fullstop. I was pushed to finished in time for a publication called ‘AT NIGHT I’; A conceptual artist and dear friend of mine, Ana Laura Lopez de la Torre, ran a year long project about Southwark (borough of London) at Night. During the project, I was one of the few creatives invited to her salon, to talk about a project at night and I did so about the Midnight Run. She asked for a contribution to her book et voilà: Lovers, Liars, Conjurers and Thieves. The poem traces my favorite journey home, from London’s Southbank Center, through Elephant & Castle, Camberwell, Peckham to right here, in front of my laptop.

The Artist Book: ‘AT NIGHT’, I is a limited edition run of just 1000 copies, and roughly 800 have already been snapped up, some will be distributed through the borough, but some are for sale at £10.00 a pop. Fancy attending the book Launch? (I’ll be doing a short set there) I got you. It is completely free, and ANYONE can come.

Date: Wed 9 Sept ‘09 // Time: 6.00pm - 8.00pm Venue: Camberwell Space, Camberwell College of Arts Peckham Road, London SE5 8UF // T: 0207 514 6402 *Read poem? click here: http://moourl.com/q2nzg

YOUTUBE: JOHN KEATS!// I have oft described myself as the love child of John Keats and Mos Def. And Mos has enough videos on the tube that I can easily spend a full day watching and gawking at his rhymes... (he says, ‘put down your blinds, your shade don’t out my shine’) but there is nothing of Keats to watch, not performances... or so I thought. I stumbled into this and almost wet myself with excitement, sit back and watch HIM READ one of his finest poems. Ladies and dudes: John KEATS: http://moourl.com/5cbuh

That's all Folks.Xx

News July 09

Haaaaaaaaa... Hope all is well fellas, It's been productive since my last mail, stayed for a week in Scotland, secluded and isolated, kicking out a script, poems and lots of other fun whatnots... perfect to clear my brain as the next six months of madness comes. Madness, what madness you ask? Hold, I shall reveal all... The Formula: 4 News Items / Smthn frm YouTube: FRESH OFF THE PAGE // THE MIDNIGHT RUN THE 14TH TALE TOUR // OPEN NOTEBOOKS YOUTUBE: MICHAEL JACKSON

FRESH OFF THE PAGE// Urgent! Last minute.comness, I know but click here and read on: http://moourl.com/ge02c // Cool photo right? (thnx Kim) Last year, I curated a live Word & Graphic installation under the banner 'Fresh of the Page' for the Southbank's Lit Fest. This year, I return to host and perform at an event - Mashing the Classics - FREE Entry - where writers/performers remix classic stories. Also on the bill: Nikesh Shukla, Rachel Rose Reid, Maxwell Golden, Kayo Chingonyi, Dzifa Benson & Naomi Woddis, and musicians Dylan Howe & Will Butterworth.

Time: 4.30 - 6.00 // Entry: FREE Venue: Queen Elizabeth Hall // SouthBank Centre // Web: http://moourl.com/ge02c //

THE MIDNIGHT RUN // Flashback summer to '05, bored of waiting for a bus, a friend and I decided to walk the bus route. We deviated a bit. After 6 hours of wondering through the night, through the deserted city streets, we had covered huge chunks of London by foot, and were not tired. I titled the excursion 'The Midnight Run' and since 06' there's been a run every year; I invite a bunch of folks, mostly strangers to themselves, and from 6pm - 6am, in summer, when it's hot enough to rock t-shirst, we walk, eat, talk, dance and make merry from sunset to sunrise. The runs are truly magical, I have stories for days... but the movement is growing. This September, there'll be a Manchester MNR, talks are underway for a Glasgow Run, and whispers of Oxford. And exciting news, The MNR is now sponsored by Blacks the Outdoor specialists.

Read more? Download a write up of MNR '07 here - http://moourl.com/hp5u6 //and the Most recent, the Mini May Run '09 here - http://moourl.com/lsshh // The Next Run is on the 8th of August, want to know more? just mail me - themidnightrun@gmail.com

THE 14th TALE: EDINBURGH FRINGE // The play is back! After the 3 sell out dates at the Arcola Theatre in London early this year, my first theatrical outing, The 14th Tale will be touring right through the autumn. A total of 32 dazzling dates, including the Contact Theatre in Manchester, ARC Theatre in Stockton, Ustinov in Bath, Norden Farm in Maiden Head, 2 weeks at the Battersea Arts Centre, The Albany Theatre in Deptford and the Croydon Clocktower.

However, the first place it'll play is The Edinburgh Fringe Fest. For ten days it will be part of the British Council Showcase, at the prestigious Pleasance Courtyard, Venue 33. Please spread the word and come. I'll be publishing the complete dates on my website soon, but leave with this:

14th Tale Edinburgh Fringe Fest. August 19 - 29th (excluding 23) // Time: 2pm // Cost: £10/£7.50 Pleasance Courtyard, Venue 33 // Tickets: http://www.plesance.cou.uk Box Office Call: 0131 556 6550 // Utube: http://moourl.com/e0hqw

OPEN NOTEBOOKS// Over at http://opennotebooks.co.uk something special is going on. Created and curated by Karen McCarthy, it asks the question: 'Can we use blogs and web platforms as interactive, multi-media notebooks, and if so does it change the end result?' Four poets have been commissioned to create one poem online, and blog about the process. I am one of the fellas and until the 22nd of July, I will be uncloaking my creative process, showing bits of my sketch book, and from my notebook. Please stop by and follow the journey. When you arrive on the site, look to the right and click 'Inua Ellams' and my posts will come up.

YOUTUBE: MICHAEL JACKSON There is nothing I can say that hasn't been already, no sentiment I can express that hasn't be played out on television. Perhaps the most curious complex character to have ever lived on screen has left. He battled his parents, his childhood, his sexuality, his gender and his race. As much as he was worshipped and recognised, he was ridiculed and taunted. So celebrating Mike J in his prime, sit and watch this legendary performance: Billie Jean / Motown 25.

SweetXx ---

Foyle's Young Poets Compeitition 2009-06-27

The Poetry Society has just created its first ever viral video! The video is being used to promote the Foyle Young Poets of the Year competition which closes for entries on 31st July 2009. The Poetry Society is celebrating its centenary this year and hopes that in 2009 as many young people as possible will get involved with the UK’s leading poetry competition.

Watch the video here: ---

Cove Park Day 3

Day 3

Dream. Had another dream where I was chased by a super villain. So, take the opening scene from MEN IN BLACK, you know how Will Smith is chasing down this alien, jumping over bridges, onto moving double decker buses. Well, replace me with the alien, that was my dream. 'Cept, I was the good guy. It was set in London, I jumped off the bus 9 around Trafalgar Sqr, hurtled down Whitehall, circled back to the ICA's area, which was laid out like giant chess board with a terracotta and lime stone finish. I spidered up the walls, and with my back against the stone, pushed the giant chess pieces onto the guy chasing me. I kept missing him. Then I woke up.

Wake. My body clocks back to normal, it is 2 minutes before my alarm goes off, 6.28. I roll off the bed, wide open the doors, put the kettle on, shower, make a cup of tea, get dressed, turn to sip and there is a dragon fly on the rim. On the white ikea mug sits a sleek, bluish green sky lord. It looks built for speed, reminds me of a slogan for a car. Simply read: Zero Miles Per Hour, Never Looked So Fast. I make for my camera, the dragon flies into the Scottish landscape, and it begins to rain.

Work. Door. Shut. Work. Today I'm working on a podcast, a 10 minute something discussing Black History Month. My starting point is that I am against it. I would see the month either expanded to include other ethnic minority groups or obliterated. In the first instance, a month would simple not be enough. Therefore, hopefully, it would spread over the year and eventually become common history. I think to dedicate a month specifically to an ethnic minority (black history, which is largely powered by guilt) causes further divisions in society. Why shouldn't there be a Middle Easter History Month, an Asian Hist. Month, list goes on...

Ten minutes simply isn't enough to table an argument. An in these Scottish Highlands with the loch lazily stretching out to sea, I am battle free. Instead, I plan to make a podcast celebrating the lives of the kaleidoscopic characters that litter my life. I plan to interview friends on their personal histories. My homies roam from China, Malaysia, Sweden, Uganda, Canda, India, Sri Lanka, Philippines, Jamaica and the rabbit holes between. I'm lucky.

I choose to end the podcast with a poem called 'Clubbing'. It is essentially, about going out partying something I do not do that often, but its parallel narrative is the slave trade. I wrote this for the British Council's competition. A pause for poetry?

Till Tomorrow, Out. x

Clubbing.

It begins with shackling necklaces across throats: the distorted custom of wearing amulets to battle talismans to war; we are new hunters, wear jeans

for camouflage, clutch mobile phones like spears journey to the village / town / city square, meet the rest of the tribe mostly in short skirts, armed

with stilettos, armoured by Chanel. Dusk thickens, the customary bickering between us commences through the jungle vines of power lines/stampede

of zebra crossings/night growth of streets bustling, our ritual is natural, till the traders come. Greater armed, they divide with such ease that most of us

are taken. Those who resist are swayed by liquor deals, sailed to darkness where the master spins a tune not our own. We move stiffly to it as minds

force indifference, but spines have a preference for drums. Rage building, we make our melody, fight to find our feet until the master tries to mix

our movement with his song… but the rhythm is uneven and the tempo, wrong. Against its waves, we raise voices in anger, fists in protest, dancers

in the tide, militant against the music, a million men marching through seas. But we still know how to cross water: the ocean holds our bones,

explains our way of navigating past bouncers like breeze into night’s air, where clouds pass like dark ships and find us beached, benched

with parched lips, loose-limbed and looking to light. Now, the best thing about clubbing is not this, or the struggle to make hips sway

just so, not the need to charge cloakrooms as if through underground railroads. No. Best thing about clubbing is the feeling

of freedom on the ride home.

Cove Park Day 2

Day 2

I wake at 9.27. For the first time in roughly 2 years, I've slept for eight straight hours. And I had a dream. 'twas a mindless thriller. I was chased by an anti-Inua, a mishmash of Will Smith's Hancock and Mel Gibson's Brave Heart. The dude was vicious, flying through trees, skimming ponds, slicing tadpoles in half, all the time cackling madly and coming at me. All I had was a fountain pain, kept squirting ink at him. Then I woke up.

Rain. Drenchfull and utter. If this was London, wouldn't think twice of going in to it, there're doorways to duck into, shops to feign interest in, free newspapers to make head gear, all the tricks of the trade. Out here, nothing but trees and their canopies aren't water tight. I pull back the curtains and stare across the loch, can't see anything. A thick fog has settled on the island making it a giant stormy snow globe. A grey light crawls into my 'Cube', shifts about a bit, settles down. I flick open my laptop, begin to write.

Work Today I work on 'Sparkle Sharp', a poem, essentially a f*ck you to the stars for not caring enough about us. An alright idea, not one of my best, I'm certainly not the first to have tried it. I'm in danger of making a metaphysical tosh pot of words, so try the one way out, keeping it as grounded as possible, lock it to concrete images. I left with Niall O'Sullivan's 'Ventriloquism for Monkeys' - great book, Page 53 has the love poem 'twilight', so tightly written and clear, it dazzles me. I steal its movement (I'm Nigerian, what?). 'Sparkle Sharp' begins:

Those distant sparkle sharps that pin prick the sky, those ice -eyed eternals, those indifferent twinkle tips, stoic in their stillness

will never know how pebbles wink when watered or how oceans rival space for wonder //

Rain stops at 13.20. It's been a solid four hours of downpour. I dash into the shower, dash out, break fast, back to work. 'Twilight' is set in London, Niall's eyes go from: Brixton to Hampstead to Herne Hill. The stars on the other hand see the whole planet, so I go from: forest to desert to city. In the desert, I describe a cactus plant in danger of being shredded by a sand storm. In the city, typically, a crime scene. The poem closes with me asking to be acknowledged by my lady...

So this night, my love, hold me; the sparkles don’t care for us. As if the world were dark and lips were flint stones, kiss me a never spark, speak of my name //

This is one of my five writing targets, I am roughly happy with it, will keep kicking it till it looks right on page and sounds right on stage. Targets include: Sketching out a 10 Mins Podcast, writing the first few minutes of next theatre project and solidifying ideas for a radio play. Till Tomorrow. x

Cove Park Day 1

Day 1 Last time I left London, I went to the lake district. The journey was most peculiar... I sat beside two charismatic, boyishly charming, salt of the earth type, cheekily dirty old... Freemasons. They chatted about their roles, robes, scripture, showed photographs, even invited me to their grand hall. In comparison, this journey is levelled. I leave for Cove Park, an artist's retreat in Scotland. To get there, I bus to London's Kings Cross, Train to Glasgow, Train to Gourock, Ferry to Kilcreggan, Car to Cove. The Journey is seven hours long.

Journey I sleep on the bus, finish a book to Glasgow, only truly wake when I get to Gourock. 'It's not a bad day' the greying station attendant, name-badged 'Paul' remarks after I ask about the ferry. He answers: 'end of platform one', I get there and gasp. I guess I never fully engaged the idea of the ferry. I mean, we own catalogues of sensations and images we attach to expectations so the mind relaxes for other things, I must've done so for 'Ferry'. This is better. Imagine the capital letter 'J', I am standing at its bottom ledge. The rest of Gourock is on my right, Kilcreggan island is to my left and the sea between is vast and unrelenting with its blue.

I totally tourist out, snap and film the Ferry rolling on. It expertly docks and I spend the twelve-minute ride gushing at Kilcreggan's rush towards us. At the pier, clamourous kids decorated with banners and balloons cheer for a young passenger, today is her birthday. I meet Sara who drives me to Cove. Her handshake is a bear-hug. We speed through lanes, past mini castles and plush houses, chatting about how perfect a hideout this is for Hollywood's elite, about Sara's work as a Glaswegain artist, till we hit Cove Park.

Cove Park Situated on a site overlooking Loch Long, it was initially farm land, then an ammunition store in WW2, then a conservation park. I stay in a 'Cube, a converted freight container, balconies over ponds, excellent view, it's ridiculously, naturally beautiful, almost to vulgarity. Everything is green, steep, lush and rolling by as if ripped from Middle earth. To the islanders, this is everyday, but I grew up a dust boy in Nigeria, been in cities since raging against urbania.

It's said, to fully experience hip hop, “extract the urban element that created it and let the country side illustrate it”. I open iTunes and sound track my cooking with Common's classic album: Like Water For Chocolate. This Mc's fight to so master bars, they are render invisible in his flow, this struggle against constraint, is magnified here. I drift into K'naan's (Somali rapper) song, 'Smile'. The chorus is a mantra: “never see let them see you down, smile when you're bleeding”. Away from London's battles, the horizon bleeds in to night. Like a rapper throwing gang signs, one lighthouse blinks desperately. I fight sleep. It wins.Covepark

News June 09

The Formula: 4 News Items / Smthn frm YouTube: POEJAZZI UDDERBELLY // DDREAM/ROYAL ALBERT HALL 22 JUNE // CITY STATE // YOUTUBE: THE WHITE HOUSE

POEJAZZI UDDERBELLY 15 JUNE// There's a purple cow on London's Southbank. It's E4's Udderbelly, an inflatable venue usually pumped for Edinburgh's fringe fest but this summer it hosts eight weeks of comedy, theatre, music, circus... headlined by Joan Rivers. I was asked to write a poem for the launch event last Thursday and in the shadows of the cow, rammed with the who's who of purple-cow-importance, I apologised to the audience (my poem contained one expletive) then launched into its conceptual narrative where I describe stars as 'indifferent twinkle tips and stoic mother**ckers*. Poem went down a treat. No... two treats. I introduced Jude Kelly - artistic director of the Southbank - who gave a short rousing speech, then Joan Rivers, who mooted my apologetic sentiments by swearing profusely between breaths before cutting the Ribbon. But this ain't the real news.

THIS IS: On the 15th of June, I shall be dropping words inside the Udderbelly. We, the legendary Poejazzi team have conspired with E4 and the Udderbelly to present a star-studded event hosted by Scroobius Pip. Feat Afrobear, Sound of Rum & Benin City. Between their music sets Catherine Martindale and I will read poems. Come, I bet you my Self, nude, on a silver platter, you won't regret it.

Date:15th June, 7pm Full details: http://moourl.com/rvag1 See purple cow: http://moourl.com/w9cdz

DDREAM/ROYAL ALBERT HALL// Daydream Mag of which I am lit editor for is also a hub for visual artists. We've taken over spaces like the Tate Modern, Design Museum & M&C Saatchi, releasing street artists onto white washed walls, spray painting, drawing as they go. This month, we are taking over a big one, The Royal Albert Hall. Okay, not all of, just the loading bay, but still. The exhibition is called 'LOAD'. See below for more info. I've been commissioned to write a lil something for it and will be reading it at the Private View at the RAH. But there's an itch. The private view is on the 15th of June, same as the Udderbelly so I will be hurtling cross London to make both events. LOve it. On Monday 22 June, the exhibition located 3 floors underground, will be open free to the public so swing by. More info? I got you:

Royal Albert Hall: http://moourl.com/hemjd Daydream Blog: http://moourl.com/0fn6v

22 JUNE// If you could time travel to this day in 2003, go to the Aroma Cafe - a stone's throw for the National Portrait Gallery. You'll find me in an event called 'AromaPoetry', nervous at the back, wondering if I got guts enough to join the open mic. This was the first time I ever read anything aloud in public. Thought it went horribly, was set to flee the café and abhor all things literary but a lady called Makeda pulled me aside, whispered 'that was really good'. That made me stay, write and return (thanks Maki). This day is my poetry birthdate. I want a present. I am accepting thumbs ups - so before the 20th of June, take a photograph of your right hand in that gesture, mail it to me and I'll make myself a computer desktop bkg with all of them. Thanks!

CITY STATE// I have been published in a spanking new anthology. Penned in the Margins have released a rather beautifully designed, crisp, clean collection of London poems. The cover is of London's underground tube map seeped through a thumb print, on a white matt finish. Featuring the lick of London's lit elite: Jay Bernard, Laura Forman, Jacob Sam La Rose, Ahren Warner, Heather Phillipson, Wayne Holloway-Smith and oh so many more... buy a copy:

See link: http://moourl.com/xw0zs

YOUTUBE: SPOKEN WORD AT THE WHITE HOUSE// Yes... you read right! We are still scrabbling with the media for attention, trying to be recognised for our art form, but it is ubiquitous in the states. So much so that Obama - in his ever revolutionary way - has done it again, turned the white house black, hosted a Music, Poetry & Spoken Word night. Prime Minister, in the minutely miniscule chance you are reading this, I am calling you out, do something similar at Number 10, I'll programme, design, flyer and even host it - free of charge! All together, there are 9 Youtube clips, these are 1&2:

Number 1:

Number 2:

That's all Folks!