You might not know it but I’ve been writer in residence for Northumberland National Park. It was part of a project called Black Nature in Residence.
Led by identity on tyne, four Black writers were in residence across the North-East. As our time comes to an end, we’re ready to share about our experiences.
Come join us for an evening of words and images at our online showcase. Thursday 28 October, 6.30-8pm.
You can find our more about the project
And you can grab yourself a ticket for the event
“My blessings always overflow.” Abiola Abrams
I’m grateful for time away alone in a VW Camper. A dream come true. I’m grateful for the Autumn light on the mountains in the distance. I’m grateful for the sound of the sea shhhing me to stillness. I’m grateful for my babies being well and happy. I’m grateful for the people who come and go in my life. I’m grateful for protected boundaries. I’m grateful for money in the bank. I’m grateful for projects coming to an end, successfully. I’m grateful for the hot sweet potato and pumpkin soup. I’m grateful for the grey heron who’s hunting for fish just in my sightline.
“ You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.” – Friedrich Nietzche
In the shape of a tree,
my scar is painted with code.
Through the letting of blood, I wait
for the sound of my screams.
But what I do not plan for
is the mashed up sycamore spinners,
the trampled copper conkers
and the singed bramble bushes.
Graceless and broken,
I get high on the thoughts
of owning myself; the plumage
of starlings embroidered
on an intimate mind.
when the wind moves
between the seasons on a moonlit night
there’s just enough space for you to lie down
too narrow rooms and too narrow
keep you trapped beneath glass
ground you ( like a freak of …)
it draws blood from your hips to stay
everything in this world you’ve touched you’ve tried to love
yet your sticky sparks dare
anyone to come close
My heart is clear
listening to my gut
allowing space for my mind
to catch up
the sea is air-force blue
and speaks to my soul
in a hushed whisper
the same sound and softness
from my clear heart
Climbing trees, juicy mangoes
pliant flesh and ashy elbows
to be running free through the long grass
and burrs sticking to legs, gaze widening
no thought for shiny brown skin
causing hate, no thought for others
white starched lace dress
sweat between breasts
so out of place it’s painful
at one time, just exotic plants
traced on paper, here
they touch their wide glossiness
intruders but still
the belief of ownership
I learn to watch, watch and learn,
to stay safe, to stay alive
I know them better than themselves
and yet I’m the primitive one,
the spicy savage
a transaction in their day.