Thank goodness for the long light nights. They’ve been pulling me outdoors. Even after full days of activities, I’m finding solace in evening walks. Alone with my thoughts. Alone with my feelings.
I appreciate these spaces and places I roam. Allowing my senses to land upon some beauty. Some part of nature to hold my attention. To hold my hope.
Thank you.
In the dream, he comes back to me, whole and young.
He was always young in my eyes. When I used to ask him at each birthday how old he was, Daddy would answer, 45.
He was always 45 in all the years I knew him. All the years I was living, he was dying.
In the replaying of images, I play it differently.
I keep my distance until he asks for me to bring his slippers or newspaper. I offer them with bowed head. I don’t throw them at him as I used to. Escaping his rage, escaping the beats.
I keep my distance, but I want to be close to him. To hold him. To feel his love for me. Then and now, still needed after so many years gone.
To serve, he brought me up, to serve. Instead of getting the vacuum clearer out, he had us on the floor picking up the bits of fluff and crumbs. To hear his pride at a job well done was enough.
When I enter the chapel of rest, it’s like I’m floating on air, light as the flowing curtains concealing a prize. I see him now, as then …
he‘a surrounded by gold satin, his mahogany black skin shines, relaxed and unlined, sea-black lips wave-curled and still.
He looks younger than 45. Even though the plaque on the coffin lid reads 1920 -1981 – he was 61. And the time he was dying. I was living.
I totally forgot yesterday, My head was down as I concentrate on my essay I’m writing. But today I remember. And I’ve signed up. The Rise Up Rooted Symposium is live. Check out the schedule for the free virtual symposium about about nature, connection and rewinding.
My conversation is live tomorrow then I share about my relationship with the sea and the healing properties. But there are some ready to be watched now. It’s free to join. Just add your emails and start watching. You can upgrade to an all access pass which means you get to watch all the videos in your own time and pace. I’ll get a percentage of the fee. But no pressure. Watch for free and tell me what you think.
Mine is out tomorrow and can be watched for 48 hours afterwards for free.
International Collage Day, saw Split Milk Gallery launch it latest online exhibition, Cut, Torn & Mended.
I was grateful enough last year to be in residency within the gallery for a week in August, that set me up well for my contribution to the BALTIC’s Hinterlands Group Exhibition, The Country Journal of a Blackwoman (Northumberland).
“Cut, Torn & Mended is an online exhibition which celebrates the contributions of (m)others to the collage community. With a range of different styles and techniques, this exhibition allows us to explore the diverse ways in which contemporary artists use collage in their practices. With many of the artworks for sale at affordable prices, it is a wonderful way to add to your collection and support these wonderful artists to continue making.” Lauren McLaughlin, Founding Director.
To accompany the exhibition is a limited edition Cut, Torn & Mended Zine.
A5 (210 x 148mm) Full colour zine, 42 pages, perfect bound with laminated silk cover.
Each zine includes an A3 full colour cut-out sheet so you can make a collage inspired by the exhibition!
Pre-order your copy before 21st May and get 20% off with the code COLLAGE20. You’ll get it for £8 instead of £10.
There are 30 artists featured in the exhibition. My piece is within the Mended section. The artists include:
Adele Annett, Amy Whiten, Alexa Mazzarello, Alexandra Kiss, Ashley Fotheringham, Beverley Hood, Diana Salomon, Ellie Shipman, Emily YCL, Jan Ferguson, Jennifer Milarski-Stermsek, Jessie McNeil, Jodie house, Kate Cameron Reid, Kate Marsden, Kathryn Rodrigues, Kim Hopson, Kirsty Whiten, Lauren, Evans, Lynn Murphy, Megan Jacobs, Montserrat Serra Nonell, Rebecca Clouâtre, Sally Butcher, Sana Burney, Sarah Shotts, Sharon Lee Hart, Sheree Mack, Twiggy Boyer, Yagama.
Go check out the online exhibition for yourself. It’s wonderful.
Isn’t that what a poem is?
Elizabeth Acevedo
A lantern glowing in the dark.
Just as dusk is falling, I walk. Affected by the elements,
head in pain from the wind, I force myself out into the dim light,
believing moving my legs will strengthen my heart.
Motherly care, higher forces in radio silence. Walk
The moon pale blue and silent. But still there. Always.
Like the ancestors, guiding. Allowing me to find my own way. Tonight.
To falter, make mistakes and loop back. Remaining open.
Trusting these windows of silence as still inspiration.
Hope holds optimism. Optimism holds joy.
The touch of joy, fine-grained dark jasper, I search for along the path.
This spiritual path of putting pen to page, again and again.
Like one foot in front of another. An act of faith.
“We are not the idea of us, not even the idea that we hold of us. We are us, multiple and varied, becoming. The heterogeneity of us. Blackness in a Black world is everything, which means that it gets to be freed from being any one thing. We are ordinary beauty, Black people, and beauty must be allowed to do its beautiful work.” Kevin Quashie describes in Black Aliveness, or, A Black Poetics of Being.
Sometimes we can be our worst enemy. Sometimes we allow thoughts and feelings to invade our calm, our peace. Why?
Something I fail to understand or have a handle on. All I can do is practice. Have faith and trust.
So this little list of gratitude is practiced with the intention of appreciating what is right in front of me instead of skipping to the end and getting all the wires and paths crossed.
Today I am grateful for rest.
Today I am grateful for coffee.
Today I am grateful for the page and pen.
Today I am grateful for the time and space to commune with myself.
Today I am grateful for hot buttered toast.
Today I am grateful for the music.
Today I am grateful for the dawn chorus.
Today I am grateful for the sea.
Today I am grateful for the earth.
Today I am grateful for the light.
Today I am grateful to love and be loved.
(Speaking about Robert Lowell’s poetry) “Lowell removes the mask. His speaker is unequivocally himself, and it is hard not to think of Life Studies as a series of personal confidences, rather shameful, that one is honor-bound not to reveal.”
M. L. Rosenthal’s article “Poetry as Confession.”
I’m taking a four week confessional poetry course with midnight & indigo. Founded in 2018, midnight & indigo is a small publisher and literary journal that provides a space for Black women writers to share their narratives with the world.
Tw weeks in and I’m loving the course, Tell Me Something Real: How to Write Confessional Poetry. Not only is the tutor, Schyler Butler knowledgeable, and thorough providing great examples for poetry within this genre all from Black women, but the group of writers signed up for the course bring it every week with their insight and feelings around each poem we read and discuss.
And then we get to trial out what we’ve learnt through these close writings within our own writing, as the sessions finishes with time to write a first draft of a poem and then share it with the group. I’m enjoying what I’m coming up with after being inspired. Because in all honesty, from time I’ve been a confessional poet but have never smashed the term on it.
Confessional poetry in essence can be distilled to 4 main components.
I’m working on a new body of work now. So still in the draft stage but I’ll share a poem from time here, as evidence of my appreciation and dance with this form of poetry.
White Women
Within my family, there are white women.
White women who married black men. I forget,
neglect the fact that their blood flows through mine.
Trace the past, a sea of faceless white is mine.
The black men forefront, a mist of women
behind. Their names, I don’t know or forget.
They are the enigma, shadows. Forget
the cleaning and cooking, their duty and mine,
they went against the grain, steadfast women.
In the corner of the frame, you white women
are not forgotten. Your spirit is mine.
Family Album, 2011
Living Wild Studios 