The last 24 hours have been good. I went to Leeds yesterday and read poems to the audience crammed into the upstairs space of a bar called Strawberry. The journey was long, 4 and a half hours of numb bum cheeks and uncomfortable sleeping positions all to arrive in a strange city where I had one friend. His name is Andy and he organised the gig, the show called 'Sticks and Stones'. We go way back. When I first started this work spoken word artists: Polarbear, John Berkavitch, Andy and I, bonded in a field in Glastonbury because we were called the urban poets. We formed a group called ‘The Urbanian Quarter’, did two gigs and essentially disbanded. They were really good gigs. Anywya, Andy told me to wait for him at a certain location, but I turned down the wrong street and stood opposite a car park, under a ventilator that blew warm air onto my cold neck. The air was pumped out of a kitchen, they were making kebabs. Think I inhaled a meal’s weight in aroma waiting there. Andy, pulled up coincidentally and I got into his car, drove to his to drop a few things and went for the show. It was good, I mean, you could hear a mouse fart - the audience was that attentive. A girl whose name I forget, but who had a dutch surname (don’t ask) stood up and read in a quiet, gorgeous, melancholic voice, poems about her grandmother. Another read a moving poem about a mancunian prostitute and another guy read about quitting smoking after seeing a male relative die of cancer. Then It was my turn.
I read for about 30 minutes and made only two mistakes. Quite proud of that. I sold books and at the end was handed a glasses-case full of the takings at the door. Enough for a couple meals, a couple tees, and the journey to and fro. For talking poems, that’s a good nights work I reckon. We rolled back to Andy’s and talked long into the night about Kevin Spacey, Milton Freidman, a cat that can fetch (video evidence) and the Tsunami in Japan.
On the ride back home to London, I sat beside an old man who had travelled the coach journey to Leeds from London and back again 6 times in as many days. He did not believe in TomToms or maps and was trying to learn the route so that when his wife was released from the hospital, he could drive her back home. He did not want to rely on coaches on trains which would not stop if anything went wrong or if she felt nauseous or unwell. So he’d spent a total of 52 hours, memorising the 200 mile journey, so his wife would be comfortable. The man was 67 and used to be a steel worker. Spent 40 years bending iron, probaby as tough as men come. And they say romance in dead ey?
Rubbish.
work in progress... can anyone tell who it is?
Amazing. I am interested in poetry and architecture, have worked with a lady called Sarah Butler who creates projects of exactly such a description, however, architecture and moving motion graphic is a new to me, watch!
So, I am a writer in residence at the Tate modern. The Post began on the 1ts of January and will last for all of 2011. My previous residency was also for a year, posted at Covent Garden's Piazza to celebrate its 180th anniversary and this was written on the final day. 30th December 2011. My last day.
I arrive to find a street performer on his hands walking over and across four young boys lying flat on red carpets on the cobbled grounds. The crowd is united and clapping to the spectacle. Back on his feet, they fill his’s cap with five pound notes then dissolve into pedestrians. Another performer takes the stage wearing a kilt, holding a ladder and a wooden box, he begins to build the street magic again. I walk to the west side of the Piazza and there is a man bare chested save for suspenders, juggling a crystal ball with his elbows and a little girl is so swept into his performs she yells when her mother tries to feed her ice cream. There, I meet Davina and Jeanie biting hungrily into cornish pasties. They are from Little Hampton which they tell me is by the sea. Jeanie says her mum bought her an overnight stay in London for Christmas at a hotel just down the road. They arrived, dropped their bags and wandered up to the Piazza. They have not visited London in a year and a half. I suggest things to do and ask where in the piazza they had visited? Whittard, a shop round the corner. I follow their trail.
There, I meet Dunia who has worked here for five months. She is dark in complexion, open face, wide smile. She spells out her name, says it means ‘world’ in Arabic. She likes the atmosphere here, a great place to work but how sometimes, it does not seem a part of London. There is a queue building behind me, so I thank her for her time and follow a couple as they leave the shop, turn left and walk towards the pit where a string quartet strums the khan khan and has visitors dancing. The couple, Adam and Chloe from Derbyshire, came to see Ghost Stories at the Duke of York Theatre. Adam describes it as a really good show and deconstructs its structure: three short stories within a story. They come here once or twice a year for its atmosphere. Where else in the piazza had they visited? Regents Gifts. I follow their trail.
And it is a little shop of wonders winding out from a small staircase. It sells glass sculptures, hand-painted venetian masks with brass bells, scented candles, porcelain cats, leather jewel boxes, hip flasks and hand crafted cufflinks, there is something Aladdin-cave-like about it that counters Florence’s accent. She is French and speaks with the flourishes of her language. After introducing myself, we briefly talk about the Christmas period and her hopes for the New Year. A gentleman, older than I, buys a gift and I slip after him downstairs, back towards the pit where an opera singer has replaced the string quartet. I brush past a couple clenched and kissing, romanced by the tenor’s voice, turn left, left again and come against a crowd gaping at yet another street performer. This time it is a girl a pink leotard on stilts, juggling knives. There, I walk into Ludivine, introduce myself, but before I can speak to her, there is a sudden throng of human traffic and I am swept into an army of push chairs and laughing kids and hear snatches of conversation.
The lady immediately in front of me chats to her friend about a dress bought the night before. Two teenage girls discuss boyfriends. A man in grey slacks says to a boy in black jeans ‘do you know the nicest thing to do?... A young lady declares to an even younger one as the walk past, ‘you do not need anything, just masks, and you can tell stories’. A boy in bright yellow shoes shouts the word ‘sweet’. A man in a brown bowler hat points at the giant baubles dangling from the roof ‘look at these’. An older lady in a Russian ushanka says ‘I am not leaving yet, there’s so much to see’ and immediately to my right, a photographer captures the scene as I do: moments in time, snatches of life seized with his fingertips. There is still a lot to be seen here, over 300 languages are spoken in London, not counting the different inflections of English - from SouthLondon street-speak to East-End cockney, most pass through the piazza’s cobbled streets. Perhaps this is what Dunia means; It doesn’t seem like A part of London. It is ALL parts of London, all the time. I’ll miss this of the residency, these vistas of life, my vantage point to write and and the belief that strangers will share their lives. As I finish, a boy in a hooded sweater stops before me, asks what are you writing? I take down his name, where he’d come from, “this” I say, and thrust my notepad into his hands.
Inua x
ps, here are some shots from Covent Garden's Anniversary Celebrations. [nggallery id=22 template=inua]
Fresh off the boat!a poem heavily based on a poem of the same title by Billy Collins. This is his. // This is mine:
Directions - after Billy Collins
You know the wild bushes at the back of the flat, the ones that scrape the kitchen window the ones that struggle for soil or water, and fail where the train tracks scar the ground? And you know how if you leave the bush and walk the stunted land you come to crossroads, paved just weeks ago hot tar over the mangled roots of trees, and a squad of traffic lights, red-eyed now stiff against the soot stained fallen leaves?
And farther on, you know the dilapidated allotments with the broken sheds and if you go beyond that you hit the first block of St Thomas Street Estate? Well, if you enter and ascend, and you might need a running jump over dank puddles into the shaking lift that goes no further than the fourth floor, you will eventually come to a rough rise of stairs that climb without railings to the run-down roof as high as you can go and a good place to stop.
The best time is late evening when the moon fights through drifts of fumes as you are walking, and when you find an upturned bin to sit on, you will be able to see the smog pour across the city and blur the shapes and tones of things and you will be attacked by the symphony of tires, airplanes, sirens, screams, engines and if this is your day you might even catch a car chase or a hear a horde of biker boys thunder-cross a bridge.
But its tough to speak these things how tufts of smog enter the body and begins to wind us down how the city chokes us painfully against its chest made of secrets and fire how we, built of weaker things regard our sculpted landscape, water flowing through pipes, the clicks of satellites passing over clouds and the roofs where we stand in the shudder of progress giving ourselves to the vast outsides.
Still, text me before you set out. Call when you reach my door and I will walk you as far at the tracks with water for you travels and a hug. I will watch after you and not turn back to the flat till you merge with throngs of buses and cyclists, heading down toward the block, scuffing the ground with you feet.
Hitting the road next week!
Just watch!
To celebrate Thanks Giving Day on the 25th of November this year, I stayed up for 24 hours and every 15 mins tweeted something I was thankful for. See list below. #1. I have a warm bed I just woke up from. Most of the world do not. #thankstweetingday. #thanksgivingday
#2. My father is aggressively proud of me, and I write poems for a living. #thankstweetingday. #thanksgivingday
#3. Torch lights. They are modern day light sabers (the force is with me) #creepingtothekitchen #thankstweetingday. #thanksgivingday
#4 I'm thankful that people do the things that I'm not brave enough to: http://www.thepeopleivesleptwith.com / #ThanksTweetingGivingday
#5 I'm thankful for kungfu films. Jackie Chan for life! #ThanksTweetingGivingday
#6 I’m thankful for wifi, the interplay between my mac and miPhone is incestuously good. #ThanksTweetingGivingday
#7 #thankful that I am not an American. #controversial #thankstweetingday
#8 #thankful that there are always signposts to tell me i’m on the right path #thankstweetingday
#9 #thankful that there’s so much documented history to learn from. #thankstweetingday
#10 #thankful that things like this still happen: http://on.fb.me/eRI5Pn #thankstweetingday
#11 #thankful that rap music is so duplicitous, it shows life and vibrancy. #Tpainisstillcrap #thankstweetingday
#12 #thankful for auto tune! Otherwise, rappers would not be brave enough to show their soft sides. #thankstweetingday
#13 #thankful that the planet spins! imagine having sunlight all the time... #childofthenight #thankstweetingday
#14 #thankful that because of youtube, 1000 people have heard my poem today. Thanks Ben: http://bit.ly/dHz5P5 #thankstweetingday
#15 #thankful for apple juice. MMmmmmm #thankstweetingday
#16 #thankful for mature cheddar. MMmmm #thankstweetingday
#17 #thankful for Bob Geldof, despite the BS, his heart was in the right place. #thankstweetingday
#18 #thankful for Neil Gaiman’s novel ‘Anansi Boys’ it grounded my wild narrative thoughts. #thankstweetingday
#19 #I have lived where it is none existent, I am thankful for electricity. #thankstweetingday
#20 #thankful to the NHS for looking after my dad. America, don’t know what you are missing. #thankstweetingday
#21 #thankful for the men in pants who allow boys to dream. #superheroforlife #thankstweetingday
#22 #thankful to D’angelo. I have found myself in your albums many times over. #thankstweetingday
#23 #thankful that I was taught to build a catapult out of pen caps and elastic bands. #poetryweapons #thankstweetingday
#24 #thankful for all 5 elements: #thankstweetingday
#25 #thankful: wind #thankstweetingday
#26 #thankful: fire #thankstweetingday
#27 #thankful: earth #thankstweetingday
#28 #thankful: water #thankstweetingday
#29 #thankful: and the one that unites ‘em all: Thought! #thankstweetingday
#30 #thankful to Terry Pratchett and QBert for teaching me about the last tweet. #thankstweetingday
#31 #thankful that heard melodies are sweet, unheard sweeter still. #thankstweetingday
#32 #thankful for Councillor Troy, I became a man watching you on Star Trek. #thankstweetingday
#33 #thankful to the two Ms, I am because you were. #thankstweetingday
#34 #thankful that somethings are still free. #thankstweetingday
#35 #thankful I was not born in victorian times. #thankstweetingday
#36 #thankful that Kanye told Bush what time it was. #thankstweetingday
#37 #thankful that Salman Rushdie did not back down. #thankstweetingday
#38 #thankful for tea leaves, cocoabutta and the colour blue. #thankstweetingday
#39 #thankful for my mother’s sharp tongue. It is relentless with the truth. #thankstweetingday
#40 #thankful for those who carry bullets so I don’t have to. #thankstweetingday
#41 #thankful for lights and shadows, but the in-between is what counts. #thankstweetingday
#42 #thankful for *Soul Glow. I have built friendships with you. #thankstweetingday
#43 #thankful to Steve Biko, my cost is far far less, but I too write what I like. #thankstweetingday
#44 #thankful for Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car. I once sat in a park and cried listening to that. #thankstweetingday
#45 #thankful for Nolloywood. Stories are predominantly wack, but you are pushing Nigeria to new heights! #thankstweetingday
#46 #thankful to Jodie Foster, your movie First Contact changed me. #thankstweetingday
#47 #thankful to my twin sis from kicking me outta the womb first, been taking leaps of faith since! #thankstweetingday
#48 #thankful to my lil sis for standing up to me that day in Dublin. #thankstweetingday
#49 #thankful to my big sis for not busting my head all those times we fought, 5 yrs is no joke! #thankstweetingday
#50 #thankful to my lady, for showing me who I was already, and who I can be. #thankstweetingday
#51 #thankful to Mr Achebe and William Butler Yeats. Things do fall apart. #thankstweetingday
#52 #thankful to L.Hill. Your Miseducation changed music. #comeback #thankstweetingday
#53 #thankful for Gravity, we would look like upturned eggs with legs otherwise. #thankstweetingday
#54 #thankful to Occam’s razor. I use you to end arguments. #thankstweetingday
#55 #thankful for cold clean running water, I have lived where it is in short supply. #thankstweetingday
#56 #thankful for Luke Cage, essentially an AfricanAmerican Colossus. #superheroesagain #thankstweetingday
#57 #thankful for Raphael, Michelangelo, Donatello & Leonardo. Aged 6, I wore a cardboard box & was a mutant turtle too. #thankstweetingday
#58 #thankful to Steve Urkel. I was you growing up, I WAS YOU. Watch: http://bit.ly/hzQYhK #thankstweetingday #fb
#59 #thankful to Voltron Force. (http://bit.ly/eRNDhJ) You taught me team work. #tvaintallbad #thankstweetingday
#60 #thankful to the Paul Robeson for paving the way. #thankstweetingday
#61 #thankful that the UN, Red Cross and MSF exist. #thankstweetingday
#62 #thankful to the Irish, they began my love of hip hop. #thankstweetingday
#63 #thankful to my editor for always going beyond the call of duty. #Ghanianareokaysometimes #thankstweetingday
#64 #thankful for the Yes Men. Google them! #thankstweetingday
#65 #thankful for Marvin Gaye, it is amazing but sad that ‘What’s going on’ is still a relevant song. #thankstweetingday
#66 #thankful for Fela Kuti - he who walks with death in his pouch! #thankstweetingday
#67 #thankful that my english teacher thought I was worth bullying to do homework. #thankstweetingday
#68 #thankful for pidgin english, de language fine sha e no be smol ting at all at all, no shaking! #thankstweetingday
#69 #thankful for the students protesting, please be level headed and do not rise to your provocateurs #thankstweetingday
#70 #thankful for The transport system in London. Have lived where the equivalent is ridiculous. #thankstweetingday
#71 #thankful for these at bus stops! Suspense is overated. #thankstweetingday http://twitpic.com/3a2qfg
#72 #thankful for all the chicken shops in South London! #morelysbrixton #thankstweetingday
#73 #thankful for all that the Marleys have sung and chanted. #thankstweetingday
#74 Thankful for the Welsh gentleman in front of me on the phone who just exclaimed 'Peckham IS nice!' #iliveinnunhead #thankstweetingday
#75 #thankful Hulk Hogan body slammed Yokozuna back in old wrestling days. Thought after that, anything was possible... #thankstweetingday
#76 #thankful for the tall French one - though he thinks he is English. #thankstweetingday
#77 #thankful for GREGGS and NANDOS! #yeahisaidit #thankstweetingday
#78 #thankful for Waterloo and Southbank. Fave place in London. #thankstweetingday
#79 #thankful for Christmas, yes tis commercial etc, but it brings people... #fact #thankstweetingday
#80 #thankful that my job tonight is to write about couples kissing in Covent Garden. Far worse things to do. #thankstweetingday
#81 #thankful for the kindness of strangers; it is always there. #thankstweetingday
#83 #thankful that I waltzed through the hospital club. No questions asked. #connections #thankstweetingday
#83 #thankful that I waltzed through the hospital club. No questions asked. #connections #thankstweetingday
#84 #thankful that I am among the Onetaste crew again. Good great people. #thankstweetingday
#85 #thankful that I am not a celebrity. WayneGate is still alive. #thankstweetingday
#86 #thankful for guitar and the naked raw voice. Nothing more soulful, nothing more stripped and powerful #thankstweetingday
#87 #thankful for Daniel. #thankstweetingday
#88 #thankful that poetry is not and will never be cool. #thankstweetingday
#89 #thankful for Magners Irish Cider, I don't drink much, but love apples... Mmmmmmmm #thankstweetingday
#90 #thankful for choirs and choir claps. Gonna O.D. this Christmas. #Thankstweetingday
#91 #thankful that Christmas carols have such beautiful melodies. #thankstweetingday
#91 #thankful for Guernica by Pablo Picasso, Groundbreaking, that all works of art be so powerful... #thankstweetingday
#92 #thankful for Guerilla Gardeners. Saints, all of you. #thankstweetingday
#93 #thankful that the world never halts in its capacity to amaze and bewilder. #thankstweetingday
#94 #thankful for all the variations of Tea, from Early Grey to mint, lemon and honey, herbal etc... Thaswassup! #thankstweetingday
#95 #thankful that something like Twitter actually exists and is free to use!! #thankstweetingday
#96 #thankful and finally thanks for following and reading my list guys! I'm off to sleep. Good night! #thankstweetingdayDONE!
Love this!
It's here! Poejazzi's grand finale of its Year of the Poet season: