Poetry & Pieces of Soul

   As last summer came to a close, back when I had first begun submitting that rather rambling first draft, I started to attend some poetry nights. I had become aware of the scene via my terribly talented friend Moden and slowly the enticement won over. My prose style had always had a poetical leaning, and this creative transition was to mark the beginning of a refinement in my writing style. I think. I hope.

And poetry has that habit, of coming from a much rawer place within.

Which contrasts strangely with that next uncomfortable realisation: the confrontation of an audience. When you are writing long form you have to get lost in your world, your narrative, in the story. It is easy to lose sight of the outcome of publication. Being that people are going to read the bloody thing.

And that seems like losing a valuable insight, a way of writing aware of impact.

Because there they are, these faces; anticipating, shuffling beyond this strange, intimidating contraption that is the mic. As you may have guessed by the saturation of adjectives that this situation makes me rather nervous. The first time I shook like a leaf in changing winds, turning colours and twisting on an uneven stem. I read a prose-poetry extract from Song of Sorrow to the wonderfully supportive, lyric twisters of Fenspeak, a group run by Elaine Ewart and Leanne Moden, with Atlier East. I explored the scene a little more with Allographic hosted by Faye Roberts. Slowly growing more comfortable, confidant enough to enter a slam or two at Russel J Turner's The Birdcage in Norwich, and Hammer & Tongue. Starting to memorise poems, to shed that barrier of paper.

I want an audience to be spell bound, to rouse that fire and let it burn bright...

Fire there was in plenty, born on the darkside, following an experience of sexual assault. Another, and I doubt the last. And so I thought of this, trying to remember hope, scratching scraps of words on envelopes, stuttering and starting with the final chapters of the book. Remembering to take time and breathe, embrace routine and easy moments.

An opportunity came up for a set on the Wild Strawberries Stage at Strawberry Fair. I took it. Planning to perform, from memory, Naturalising and the new poem I was working on.

As Anthem began to coalesce I also thought of 'we', of what feminism meant to me, to others. Of the need. Of the hundreds of missing Nigerian schoolgirls, of pictures of the two Indian girls who were gang raped and hung, of the tumult of shared voices via The Everyday Sexism Project and #YesAllWomen, of the women that were murdered in the Isla Vista shooting.

The morning broke with storms, of course, but the sun burned them off and talent spilled golden. The usual suspects that are always good to hear and talented new voices too; Meg Burrows and Joe Navarro.

I asked the audience to repeat the lines that began with 'we', to catch the rhythm and spit it back at me. The first set went well, they heard, words caught and were called back. Lyrics flowed but my nerves hemmed me in... I also entered a later slam, a smoother performance perhaps though with a greater constriction of allowed time. This time their perception was cooled by the judging process, though I hope my words still stirred.

Anthem

We are hurt
Shot, stabbed, raped
and we are leaving
the false safety of your sails

No longer knotted in conforming
contortions of genteel glamour,
but teeth bared
gritted with a rage that clamours

We are marching
Weary, wary, ready
and we are speaking
denouncing the lies that pale

And I find myself betrayed,
wearing beauty like a blade,
my body made political when
I fight the force of fingers seeking

To strip me from my autonomy.
My sisters,
denying repression, suppression,
this is expression

And you will listen
And we will rise
With rage and words
tears mixed with ink upon the page

Its time for a new age.

We are hurt
Shot, stabbed, raped
And we are fighting
We are speaking

Its time for change.