A burst of yellow
related to the sunflower
a joy of its own
Finding Yarrow
poem
Finding Fog
an early walk
no one else around for now
welcome the moment
Black People’s Day of Action, 2 march 1981
“13 Dead, Nothing Said”, the rallying cry rings out.
walking with dignity, arm in arm, a protest, not a riot nor a mob.
a powerful display of unity and resistance. “13 Dead, Nothing Said”,
in the face of adversity. of racism, police conduct, and social justice,
the New Cross Massacre Action Committee respond.
treating black victims as criminals themselves, “13 Dead, Nothing Said”.
on 18 January 1981, Yvonne Ruddock celebrated her 16th birthday with friends,
when a fire tore through 439 New Cross Road in south-east London.
“13 Dead, Nothing Said”.
community solidarity, in the midst of racial tensions and police mishandling,
they marched, 20.000 strong, from the scene of the fire
to the Houses of Parliament to present a petition. “13 Dead, Nothing Said”.
the loss of young black lives barely noted by the media,
no words of condolence from maggie, and to this day, no one
has ever been charged with starting the fire. “13 Dead, Nothing Said”.
who has #womensrights?
In March the United Nations issued a report about Israel’s systematic use of sexual, reproductive and other forms of gender-based violence against Palestinian women since October 2023.
Those who shout long and hard about #womensrights have said fuck all about this abuse.
Perpetuating a system of oppression through gender-based violence and undermining self-determination is not coincidental.
But those who profess to be standing up for #womensrights say nothing.
Sexual and gender-based violence perpetuated across the Occupied Palestinian Territory is a strategy of war by Israel to demoralise and destroy Palestinians.
Those who shout long and hard about #womensrights have said fuck all about this abuse.
Israeli forces have destroyed sexual and reproductive healthcare facilities across Gaza. Medical support and equipment for safe pregnancies, postnatal care and neonatal care are decimated.
But those who profess to be standing up for #womensrights say nothing.
Women’s and girl’s reproductive right and autonomy as well as their right to life, health and dignity have been erased.
And yet these people, mostly white women, such as JK Rowling, who harp on about #womensrights and the so called threats posed by transgender people, say nothing about the Palestinian women and girls who are subjected to violence right now.
The deliberate starvation by Israel of Palestinian people has a devastating effect on pregnant women resulting in anaemia, malnutrition, miscarriages, stillbirths and undernourished newborns as lactating women cannot produce enough milk.
And yet these people here for #womensrights say nothing.
It would seem that those who claim to be champions of #womenrights pick and choose who has rights as women, fuck it, as human beings.
Confronting Fascism
What are you most worried about for the future?
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.
[history]
Write about your first crush.
[history]*
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.
Writing as resistance, reclamation and ritual
From Eleanor over at The Wildheart Papers:
“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”.
Self-Portrait as a Writer – Day 29
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.
Revision, Rewind, Recognise – Day 28
You said you would paint my nails. Red. Because red would looks good on my skin. Purple even. This man. You blew so much hot air up my arse I was floating. Floating on fucking air all the way down there. 260 miles. 260 miles of Soca hits, blaring out the mini speaker. Getting me in the mood to wind up my waist. I’ve never felt so much carnival in my blood. Jouvert, jumping up in the midnight light, throwing paint, bodies slick with sweat, couldn’t beat the heightened anticipation of our meet. Lips thick, juicy enough to suck on. Like pork belly off the bone. Thick and sweet. They could become addictive. If only you’d check your attitude. Rude. And you think you elevated. Wise beyond your years and I better listen. Educate. Please! You better check yourself because this arse is moving out faster than when I got here. As I recognise, you might not be so much one of those bots, but you sure can scam. Making out you’re the jealous type and now I’m off the market because I’m yours. Excuse me, but our time has to come to an end sooner than you might have been planning. You mighty fine, but I’ve seen your ugliness and I ain’t buying it no more. To think I wanted to suck on those lips for eternity. Fool that I am.
Living Wild Studios 