At the same time as trying to break free, create and embody a life of my own making, on my own terms, I’m still embroiled within this insidious society called white supremacy culture/ racial capitalism.
At the same time as trying to get free, and so spend my time doing what I want to do rather than what I’m expected/supposed to do/be, I waste energy in pulling away which I’d rather spend in pushing forward, pushing on.
At the same time as trying to be free, breathing deeply, resting and dreaming of other possibilities, I’m still meshed into the lives of other people, who are not interested is taking flight or even dropping the protective cloak of scoring victim.
At the same time as I take flight into the unknown, I realise my resolve and reserves have been depleted in the fight, in the pleasing of others, in trying to fit in, in trying to be loved on my own terms.
At the same time as trying to save myself, I know now that I have to let go of my hold of you. The hold on what could have been instead of what is that is crying through my bones and blood’s knowing.
Resistance, Steve McQueen, National Galleries of Scotland, 2025
the undercurrent has always been present, simmering like lava just below the surface ready to rise up at weak points, at moment of disarray and hopelessness. hate shimmers like jewels to those who have little but promised more. clinging to the sharp edges of hate because it’s something to feel, to use as a weapon against others instead of the self. hate with fear, a lethal concoction corroding within as well as without.
1936. October. With a chill in the air, the blackshirts ruffled through the East End of London, snaking their territory, their Ayran rights. With Police fronting, they still couldn’t take the streets. Jews, Irish, Communists, Blacks, Labour activists, workers unite. Stand firm. Shoulder to shoulder, they shall not pass. Blackshirts, angry scrunched up faces, hearts riddled with hate and fear, shall not pass.
when archie rowe asked me out in middle school, he wanted us to keep our courtship a secret. we met behind the garages, through the school yard. he kissed me & played with my tits. [did i just use the word tits? there i’ve done it again] tits. i was well developed for me age. full blown blossomed boobies. boys will be boys. behind the garages, sprigs of pussy willow wept. shhh it’s his secret. too ashamed to be seen with a Blackgirlwoman.
*taken from a longer piece called, ‘Playing Palimpsest’, which appears in my full collection Darkling.
“This week I’m joined by the inspirational Sheree – writer, creatrix, and space holder – whose work is steeped in ancestral memory, fierce tenderness, and a deep reverence for the wild, both within and around us.
Sheree walks the edge between the personal and political, the sacred and the embodied, calling forth the untold stories that live in Black women’s bodies and lineages.
In this soul-stirring conversation, we explore:
🌿 Honouring a daily writing practice while moving with the seasons of creativity 🔥 Reclaiming voice – how writing can be both resistance and healing 🖤 The story behind for black birds pushing against glass 🌊 Writing beyond structure, beyond ‘shoulds’ – from a place of truth and essence
This episode is a balm and a call to courage for anyone who longs to write from the wild, rooted place within.
🎧 Tune in now wherever you listen to podcasts or head straight to the Feral Words page.
And don’t forget to explore more of Sheree’s work over at Living Wild Studios – especially her regularly updated blog, which is a rich and reflective companion to her creative work”.
I might also be forgiving if you don’t write every day. I drafted these essays in half an hour. There was something very pleasant about that—to have a little exercise. It’s not like you’re trying to write the best thing in the world. —Ross Gay
These past 30 days have flown by. If I’d stopped and really thought about it before this month, I probably would have talked myself out of writing a poem a day. I’d been in a dry spell and not reallly doing anything to be inspired.
I’m glad I didn’t give myself any time or space to think about it as I’ve so enjoyed this challenge. And as the quote says, I wasn’t trying to write the best poems in the world. I was just trying to write and enjoy it again.
So mission accomplished.
The final task for the month is to look over the creations and to see if there’s any themes or connections to pull them into some kind of whole. It doesn’t have to include everyone. But if it was going to be a collection what would the title be?
Initial thoughts – something that includes ‘Blossom’ as it’s been a reoccurring image/ focus I think throughout the month. Just saying ‘Blossom’ reminds me of a black and white movie I watch with my mum one Sunday afternoon when I was a kid. And it was about a Welsh mining village and a black man comes to work there. Of course there’s a pit accident and the black man is killed saving the others, if I remember rightly. Anyway the black man would say ‘ Blossom’ but like ‘Blossssooomm’ really exaggerating it.
I must find out what that film was called. Hold on …
Nah, can’t find it. Found Proud Valley with Paul Robson but I don’t think it was that. But I think there was singing in it. Does this mean I have to watch the film to see if he says ‘blossom’ in it?
Blossom is only here for a short time and I don’t want to waste that time on a black and white movie when I could be enjoying the delicate textured colours of real blossom.
So the title of the poems form the month would be titled: when lush becomes blossom
they say poets are reluctant to call themselves ‘poets’. well at least the ones that aren’t famous.we all have to come to the blank page. collections, awards, residencies whatever, we carry the fear of never being able to repeat that measure of success. or that we are never ever gonna write that good again. BULLSHIT. i don’t buy into self-depreciation. there’s enough of it out there without adding to it, by piling on myself. just give me a moment, to breath, to open my body, to listen to the whispers within and the world without. then i’m bound to create something. the trick is to remain open. to have no expectation. to drop the comparison trap and to just play.practice. dive into the process and {BE}. and before I know it I’ve got this singing imagine, this hook, this solid rock stance of intuition that I’ve just nailed the essence of a poem.
Living Wild Studios 