poetry

[history]

| Sheree

Write about your first crush.

[history]*

peony

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

| Sheree

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

| Sheree

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

| Sheree

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.

How To Have Dinner With Your Ex and Not End Up Killing Them- Day 27

| Sheree

It would help if the get together is for some occasion.

Say a birthday.

Something involving the children and then you are honour bound.

This somehow helps in softening the annoyance and the avoidance.

Stay away from alcohol.

If you still need the courage try zero beer.

Still the light floral taste with bubbles without the poisonous buzz that would loosen tongues and resentment.

Keep the conversation light and centred on the children.

Avoid eye contact at all times.

Try not to be left alone at any point in the proceedings.

At this point, they tend to ask personal questions like they still have a right to know your business.

Smile and be aversive.

Keep your life and goings on close to your chest.

You are no longer theirs so you owe them nothing especially your heart.

Your life. Your light.

Skip desert. Split the bill.

Definitely make your own way home to your own safe space where you no longer have to deal with their shit.

Breathe.

Blossom Diptych – Day 26

| Sheree

1.

Blink twice and I miss you. Not wanting to make this mistake again, I watch for your arrival. Then once here, bask in your delicate beauty. Each bursting cluster unique. Soft and curled petals, blush and flush, fuchsia, rose, and pink.

I pray for the wind to stay away, to go away as with each gust you are forced to separate from your centre pistil and disperse like confetti. Floating upon the air to land anywhere. And then it’s over for another year. Short-lived gone in the wind.

2.

Each year you return with an open palm, gentle and vulnerable. I see you watching me. I wait for my time. I put on a display of tight fisted pink buds as a promise. A promise that soon comes. To blaze in my glory is a gift I cherish. As soon gone. Drifting off in the wind to become more in time.

Still/ Just Writing Out – Day 25

| Sheree

Going down is the sun. Still warmth to be had. Precious.

Let me sit in its grace and give thanks. A moment. Spring.

Blossom. Lambs. They look at me as if they want to say something.

Make a connection. I see you and you see me.

Running after mum, grabbing at her teat. Kids.

Always demanding something. Mine are both beautiful

inside and outside. I say this all the time. But what do I mean?

I take no credit in their beings.These birds are singing out

their lives, building nests before they can rest.

But when do you ever rest once you have kids?

What a worry. What a responsibility.

Yet, they have forced me to grow. To step into this thing called

mothering. Like a pink bud, still clinched like a fist, there is more

to learn upon this journey.

Giving Myself the Right to Refuse – Day 24

| Sheree

I give myself

the right to refuse.

The right to refuse

what has already

been refused to me.

These rules, standards,

boundaries and barriers, I refuse.

I’m taking myself

outside.

I refuse to be labelled

and placed in one

of your boxes. I refuse.

And when I think about it, from being a child,

asking questions

and taking the beats for them questions,

I’ve always occupied

this refusal, but I never

had the words for it,

the language to hold

it up to the light

and investigate.

To amberfy it.

Until now.

Thank you Fred.

Thank you Saidiya.

Thank you Dal.

I refuse to take up

the subservient position

of ‘black’, to play

the good slave,

to kiss your boots

that continue

to kick me in the face.

Nah man! I refuse.

I refuse the choices

you offer me

and I carve out my own. I refuse

your parameters

and (re)imagine

other possibilities.

I’m tapping into

my own desires

which you could

never claim

or tame. I refuse what was refused me – rights,

responsibilities, respectabilities,

and stepping into

the rapid rivers

flowing fugitivity.

I’m ceasing up my body and running,

outside,

escaping

your oppressions.

Ode to Kiwi – Day 23

| Sheree

Kiwi, my love. Let’s celebrate the love we have for each other.

Just over a year together and we have been places. Seen the seas,

oceans, mountains and streams. Moonrise and sunrise, we have

witnessed with each other. Thank you my love, for allowing me to ride by your side.

We’ve both seen some years play upon our bodies. We are both

worn and rusted. Speed will hear us protest loudly, as we ricket

over potholes and obstacles. But neither stop us.

I’m learning to read your sounds, your warnings. Creaking while

stationary, rocking to and fro when I walk within you, and then

you roll back. Handbrake on truly on.

Rattling while climbing a hill, crawling almost on out knees, slip

back down a gear and then we cruise. I hear you humming,

singing all the tarmac and I feel your joy, matching mine.

Kiwi, little sage in colour. My love. Maybe this is a colour I would

never have fallen in love with. Too pale, too fickle. And yet on

you, I accept it all. Got a lot of extra paint to touch you up when

you fall and scratch yourself. Of rather me. I’m sorry about that

lamppost. To be fair, I couldn’t see it around your fat arse. But I love

your behind, your front, your sides and all.

I love everything about you Kiwi, because I think through our time

together and I adventures, base and far, I have learnt out to

navigate this big and ugly and brutal world with you. And

because of our partnership, I have grown in confidence and wisdom.

Daily, when we go outside to there, as one my love, I learn how

to appreciate the beauty of this world, once more.

And I can only thank you for this realisation.

Thank you Kiwi.