Recently Rhymes With Orange poetry collective, of which I am part of, had an eighth birthday party. I had a five minute slot in it and really wanted to write something to acknowledge Black Lives Matter movement. I teamed up with Tanaka Mhishi, an incredible poet, but the poem we wrote was quite long; while you can view the abridged performance here, the video above is the full version. The theme of the night, which we kept to, was “memory”.
Before I say anything else at all: SILENCE IS VIOLENCE. White allies, we must support the Black Community. Here is a petition to include Black British history in the school curriculum. There is, in fact, an existing social enterprise that aims to do just that – support The Black Curriculum here. There will be more resources at the end.
Now, about me… My name is Rita. I am white and Polish. I come from a country that is racist, sexist, homo- bi- and transphobic and ableist and I, despite efforts, am all of these things, too. I have now lived in London for eight years – eight years of looking at a society very different to the one I grew up in with an outsider’s eye, reading, learning, processing. I will never be done learning – but I am ready to speak and add my voice to support.
Continue reading “Sitting With Discomfort: How To Be An Activist”
Hello again. I’ve been gone. And now I’m back. And this is about the kind of blog this is going to be.
I know that some of you originally followed me for poetry and mental health content. There will still be some of that. However, I’m about to try and change my platforms to activist ones. I have always been politically involved (cursory look at my Twitter would prove that), but I now want to write longish pieces. I now want to write essays. So let’s get into this.
I am a feminist. I am part of LGBTIA+ community (the meditation on my allyship/bisexuality can wait for another day, plus genderfuck and drag). I am an anti-racist and am learning how to be more of an anti-racist. I have been galvanised. Enough is enough.
I am massively annoyed, struck, grieving, terrified and all of the things. You name it. I’m ready to do some work. Hope you’re with me.
Day 30 of NaPoWriMo. It’s been an adventure! I’m so happy to have done it. Such a great way of creating and sustaining a practice. Of course I couldn’t have done it without mates from Rhymes With Orange collective and general support of friends. I learnt a lot and had a place to put my unsettling quarantine feelings. So if you followed this journey and read my poems, thank you ❤️
it’s time to stop now.
won’t make a shovel from a broken limb,
relax white knuckles, wipe red eyes
there will be time enough to fight
breathe. soothe. find love in clean windows
tidy a corner. enough. soul is small
enormous cares about meaning and outfits and
dust. for now I’m a lizard on a rock
see you in the sunny spot.
For though he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
Jubilate Agno, Fragment B, [For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry]
Christopher Smart – 1722-1771
Cat, I adore you for very little reason.
You twine round my calves when mood strikes,
clamber up a diagonally placed plank,
(with little grace, but you make it every time).
Cat, you are black with white tie, white bits
on your paws. Lying in a splash of sunshine. Watching
you soothes me, gait neat and liquid, barely made jump
to the top of the fence, your fluffy presence,
trying to trip me in the kitchen with excess of joy
For all your affection, you look mildly suspicious
Or perpetually surprised.
You hardly speak, but make your meaning known,
You jump on my door handle when you want company.
Some days I pass by an empty room and you
lift your head from a curled up bundle of body-fur
gazing at me calmly, warm, sleepy. Cat,
your happiness is contagious. I breathe in when you purr,
breathe out when you lean into my hands.
I like how much music you make, noisy
for a creature of tiptoes. Sometimes
you catch my hand in your paws and bite gently,
cat, maybe this is home. Or
as home as London gets for me.
what you put in the pot to cook and eat
makes you. you, the cook. you, the pot, too.
some days you’ll eat rot.
sprinkle cheap salt, bitter laughter.
some days, you’ll choke on, navy blue.
poison will snake its way through or kill. oh yeah,
healing’s on you.
you’re given, then you make do. do, make
make best of, live with. you
the pot, the cook, the dish. always
on heat. hot tin stove. stepping slowly, neatly
painting tomato Pollock on the kitchen walls
chopping tar into mozarella balls.
some foods, not forgiven. surviving
is first. swirling taste of lead
in my mouth. Saying “I have learnt to love”
that little trace of tar. forgive, not forget.
what you put in the pot to cook and eat
remakes you. you, the cook. you, the pot, too.
Apples and Snakes prompted on Twitter to talk about my age and this happened:
33. I don’t know how
to birthday. 30th was
kind of perfection. Solo show
first. In later years, I took
bull by the horns and threw
brunches, cooking up a storm, to listen to
friends from different zones of life
try hard. I don’t even know. I
tried hard. 33. Jesus age,
apparently. In the first 3 months
of it. Used to rush in
now I drag my feet. Trying
to get better. The end can come in
weeks, days. It was always so,
but now you can bring death home
from grocery store. I’m sat in sunshine
do not pass go. Billionaires will
get out of jail free. Never thought I’d see
a day just like this. Me,
33. Not very
good at it. who is
Is Twitter real life
or is it fantasy
I don’t know, but I
found meaning today
in a thread of Cate Blanchett
wearing a suit.
dove gray, chequered
loose or tailored
hair slicked back, spike-gelled
collars, décolletage
serious-faced, grinning
parted lips, spinning
posed, relaxed
open jacket, buttoned-up
all I ever want
is a library of suits
so I too
can move
like Blanchett.
box set
I’m sad today
– that’s not quite true
I was sad before
now I’m catching up on sadness of yore.
cookies
I want to make cookies
round vessels of sweet pleasure
get my hands in flour
shape and cut and measure
put sugar on my sour
brain.
climb up my spine like dread
but with your tongue, melt it up
my chest, a spiral staircase
take me on a journey of myself as
you glide around and
around like you’re swirling ice cream, a shot of
mocha in vanilla, you smile, I feel
a jolt inside. I think I
ripped something. A part of me that thought
I cannot be loved
is currently bleeding relief.
.
and I don’t want you to see, I try
to wipe myself immediately, eyes
dry on command, bleeding now contained, internal
turmoil but you read it with your mouth, pull back
to frown at me
are you okay, you say
beautifully confused. I don’t always have
words, (for someone who has
all the words), when it cuts,
tears mostly tell the story. I tell you
I tell you, I tell you all of it.
You don’t leave.
Good Enough Diary 