POETRY AND ME
I have written poems and songs since i was about 10 years old, but never thought I could do anything with them until I moved to Brighton and experienced the astonishing world of performance poetry and open mic, where anyone is welcome to get up and express themselves. At the turn of the Millennium there was an amazingly vibrant performance culture within the city. I went to gigs and met some of the most inspirational and engaging performance poets, who are still performing today. Paul Stones, Justin Rhyme, Michael Parker, Bernadette Cremin, Yvo Luna, David Hunter, BrainYak...these were just a few of an ever-changing pool of poetic genius that made me look at my own skills again and hold them in more respect. I was a class teacher at the time and I brought these poets into my school to inspire the kids, and they did...especially the boys! I started writing poetry again and set up a poetry club in my school: Poetry Posse. It was amazing...still is in fact! I was lucky enough to work with most of these poets in one way or another, either performing with them or working alongside them on poetry workshops. Through my company, "gyroscope" (now gyroarts) I was able to find work for many of them on poetry projects in dozens of schools around Sussex and Kent. I still work with them from time to time. They inspired me to respond to my own life experiences with poetry and I always find that when I read back my poetry, there is more of the feeling and emotion of the event captured there than in my journals. I even write poetry on the back of my canvases, inspired by an Aboriginal artist whose poems I discovered when I turned over a canvas to find the price. I still remember the feeling that I had discovered hidden treasure when I saw that poem there. Over the past 10 years or so I have written pages and pages of poetry to inspire my students. Here are a selection of my poems, both personal and professional:
I have written poems and songs since i was about 10 years old, but never thought I could do anything with them until I moved to Brighton and experienced the astonishing world of performance poetry and open mic, where anyone is welcome to get up and express themselves. At the turn of the Millennium there was an amazingly vibrant performance culture within the city. I went to gigs and met some of the most inspirational and engaging performance poets, who are still performing today. Paul Stones, Justin Rhyme, Michael Parker, Bernadette Cremin, Yvo Luna, David Hunter, BrainYak...these were just a few of an ever-changing pool of poetic genius that made me look at my own skills again and hold them in more respect. I was a class teacher at the time and I brought these poets into my school to inspire the kids, and they did...especially the boys! I started writing poetry again and set up a poetry club in my school: Poetry Posse. It was amazing...still is in fact! I was lucky enough to work with most of these poets in one way or another, either performing with them or working alongside them on poetry workshops. Through my company, "gyroscope" (now gyroarts) I was able to find work for many of them on poetry projects in dozens of schools around Sussex and Kent. I still work with them from time to time. They inspired me to respond to my own life experiences with poetry and I always find that when I read back my poetry, there is more of the feeling and emotion of the event captured there than in my journals. I even write poetry on the back of my canvases, inspired by an Aboriginal artist whose poems I discovered when I turned over a canvas to find the price. I still remember the feeling that I had discovered hidden treasure when I saw that poem there. Over the past 10 years or so I have written pages and pages of poetry to inspire my students. Here are a selection of my poems, both personal and professional:
|
THE ELEPHANTA FERRY
“Come, come…” Invitations to follow To buy tickets Blessings, Guidebooks Spirograph A slow boat ride Through sludge Plastic bottles And shards of wood Coke cans And unidentifiable Clouds of brown Detritus. The spirograph seller Misses his leap onto land And instead travels with me. He has given his baby daughter To his mother in law. He prefers sons. A Delhi couple Travel with their daughter. Mother works for City Beaureau of Investigations And laments The slow disintegration Of Indian culture Under the onslaught Of bold, brash US tv But Chandrankant The jewellery seller Loves this invasion Of white skin And uncovered breasts And short skirts. Bold women Are his cup of tea Which is why, maybe, After he has had no success with me He explained how he’d catch a movie And a prostitute But only after midnight, when it’s cheaper. KAY WALTON 2005 GOD’S COUNTRY Sitting by the window On the Thrissur - Bangalore Express I am secretly shocked By the steady stream of rubbish Thrown through the door And onto the tracks. Newspaper and plastic bags No second thought About where the litter lands It is just not in their hands Any more. And this is “God’s Country”? Their own slogan dares them To defile this sacred place. Does God not mind The man made detritus Spewed from trains Taxis Cars Shops Homes? Is their God a refuse collector? A junk fiend? Does He delight in cardboard and celephane? Does he revel in remenents and plastic packaging? Is He a deified Stig? And is this His dump? Or is He a She Degraded and defaced Along with so many other females Locked into this land? Is mankind here deaf and blind To a screaming landscape? Turning their faces too skyward Too see the horror of their carelessness. And are they chanting their prayers too loudly To hear the moaning Of an abused land? KAY WALTON 2005 Water at Woodsmill Water Raindrops, like moonstones, hanging on a branch The surface of the stream, shimmering and trout-like Beneath the mottled algae shroud on the deathly still lake Hiding and showing the twisted reflections Of sleeping trees. Water The surface of the pond, An unfolded atlas of an uncertain, shape-shifting world The rushing, rippling river Cold as a witch’s soul and twice as shallow. A thousand thundering hooves Crashing down into the storm drain The roadside slush The stagnant puddles Wintery tears. Jan 2010 The Wrong Path Do you remember the time When we took the wrong path Turned left, when right seemed More certain, Disobeyed reason, defying the chill wind, Preferring the pinching of cold on soft fingertips To wearing sensible gloves? Do you remember that day? When the smudge of blue sky Opened up grey clouds And for a brief few hours The sun was almost free, And walked with you and me Along woodland paths. As I recall A blinding white circle of light Burnt through the aged haze On that day Slipped through the haw’s thorny grip And illuminated the sideways lean Of broken branches. It could not be held back But ran ahead and we had to follow Alongside the catch-me-if-you-can rush Of river water And past the snowdrop sentinels, still and silent. Glancing up We caught the kestrel’s spitfire body As it glanced against the breeze And we climbed old trees Laughing at their gnarled and weathered forms. “Run!” you shouted, “Don’t hold me back! Don’t stem my flow Don’t dam me So I stagnate! Don’t cut me down! I will not be a fallen home for emerald moss I am alive!” I smiled at your defiance And loved you for it. Feb 2010 FIGHTING TALK YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM ME FOR I AM THE STORM YOU NEED TO FEAR ME FOR OUT HERE, THERE IS NOWHERE TO HIDE ON THE FROZEN DESOLATE MOUNTAINSIDE AND I WILL USE ALL MY POWERS TO FIND YOU WINDS SO STRONG THEY CLUTCH AT THE CLOUDS LIKE OLD, NEVER-TO-BE-WHITE-AGAIN GREY DISHCLOTHS TEARING THEM FROM THE RAGGED HORIZON AND HURLING THEM ACROSS THE HEAVENS WINDS SO STRONG THEY STEAL THE CONTENTS OF EVERY TINY TENT TOSSING THEM ASIDE I AM THE HOWLING TODDLER’S TANTRUM AT THE TOY’S TEAPARTY RIPPING ROPES AND SQUASHING CANVAS FLAT YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM ME FOR I AM THE STORM YOU NEED TO FEAR ME FOR OUT HERE, THERE IS NOWHERE TO HIDE ON THE FROZEN DESOLATE MOUNTAINSIDE I WILL FIND YOU WITH MY FREEZING RAIN MY PELTING HAIL OR BLIZZARDING SNOW HIDING EVERY LANDMARK AS I GO COVERING EVERY TRACK SO THAT YOU WILL NEVER KNOW PAST PRESENT OR FUTURE FOR I HOLD ALL OF THAT IN MY POWER FOR I AM THE STORM AND YOU NEED TO FEAR ME FOR OUT HERE THERE IS NOWHERE TO HIDE ON THE FROZEN DESOLATE MOUNTAINSIDE I CAN BLOW UP FROM NOWHERE TAKING YOU BY SURPRISE NO TIME TO PLAN YOUR DESCENT THERE IS NO DESCENT AND ALL YOUR ENERGY WILL BE SPENT CLINGING ON HANGING ON HOLDING ON HOPING ON INTO THE NIGHT AND THROUGH EVERY WIND AND RAIN AND SNOW-WRACKED SECOND AND MINUTE AND HOUR AND DAY AND NIGHT UNTIL... I SUBSIDE AND LEAVE YOU COLD AND NUMB AND GONE AND WHEN I AM BLOWN OUT, IF YOU ARE STILL CLINGING ON HANGING ON HOLDING ON STILL HOPING WHAT WILL YOU DO THEN? SCURRY DOWN TO LICK YOUR WOUNDS AND PARCEL UP YOUR PRIDE IN COTTON-WOOL CANVAS ON LOWER SLOPES? OR WILL YOU SHOW YOUR PALE AND PUNY FACE PUFF YOURSELF BACK UP AND ASCEND TO THE TOP OF THE WORLD? YOU DECIDE – IT IS NOTHING TO ME FOR I AM THE STORM AND YOU NEED TO FEAR ME FOR OUT HERE THERE IS NOWHERE TO HIDE ON THE FROZEN DESOLATE MOUNTAINSIDE. |
The Science of Our Baby She started as a thought To make someone From our love Who could be loved And grow. And that thought became A bundle of cells Dividing and subdividing A miracle of mathematics and chemistry Each cell somehow knowing what to do How to multiply and become An arm, a leg, An eyelid, a fingernail A tongue, a heart A human. And even then, before we could tell He from she She knew what she was An x chromosome from her mother An x chromosome from her father If he had provided a y chromosome She would have been he. And then she grew Inside me As unconscious as the me who was growing her. My body was performing miracles every day That no school had taught it Feeding, nourishing, Growing this new life My body was perfectly doing What scientists struggle to do With their formulae And complex chemistry If you showed me the scientific method For making a baby I would shake my head and say “You’ve lost me, I don’t understand. I could never do all that! I have trouble making something That looks like a person Out of clay or plasticine… And that’s just one material. Don’t ask me to make all the components Of an eyeball, Or a mouth, Or a hand, With no equipment No materials And no instructions. It can’t be done. Not by me anyhow. You’ll need to find someone Who knows what they’re doing!” But my body knew something more Than my mind My body had no doubts No fears No anxiety. It knew that this was what it was made for With the millions of eggs stored up Since its creation In my own mother’s womb. And I had to trust it to do this thing To create this child. Just as I trust it to breathe and digest Without my mind telling it how. Nature knows That this first stage of building And growing Was best left out of my control. I’d probably have tried too hard And messed it up! But I knew I needed to get ready I knew that she would soon Be delivered into our conscious arms And trusted to our conscious minds To care for and nurture. A tiny, unique, human A little girl Our baby. 2009 DNA AND ME Just like my mum or just like my dad? The question is, which one is good? Which is bad? I’ve my father’s kind heart, but my mum’s tuneful voice. I’ve my dad’s sense of humour, but it was never a choice To have straight hair or curly, long legs or short ‘Cos the decision was made long before I was born. When I was first growing inside my mum’s womb I was shaping and forming to a code pre-assumed With half from my dad and half from my mum My cells were all jiggling inside of her tum. I was ordered around by the genes in my body And the DNA made sure that I wasn’t made too shoddy, Though if I’m really honest there’s some bits I would change If I could have made my DNA rearrange. I’d have made my nose thinner and my teeth much more straight I would take off the moles from my body and face. My memory would be sharper and my organisation Would have me straight-lining without contemplation. I’d have a super-clever brain that could make me more money And my ability to tell jokes would make me oh so funny! But wait…I’m describing a person I’m not If you take away my foibles and the “weaknesses” I’ve got I would cease to be me, I would cease to know you I would cease to have the family and friends that I do. For each gene that’s switched on, maybe another’s turned off? I’d be organised, yes, but asthmatic with a cough? I’d have a thin nose, but maybe lose the great voice. Am I really so sure that, given the choice, I could make a decision that would make me more happy? I’d rather be artistic and a little bit dappy Than lose all the things that I like about me All the things that now in my daughter I see. And if she has my nose and my spot-spangled skin I will tell her she’s gorgeous and help her begin By loving her DNA, challenges and all It connects her to me and her dad and that’s not all It connects her to everyone that’s ever gone before Parents and grandparents, great-grandparents and more. She’s part of us all and I love her for that So I must also love me, and where my DNA’s at. And you should love you just the way that you are You’re unique, a one off, a developing star. You may not be perfect, but neither am I But you can be the perfect you...and, hey, you can fly Your DNA’s fixed (for now!) but your dreams? Well they’re not! So work with what you have and find the right slot In this mad crazy world where you feel you belong You’re a unique human being, and that can’t be wrong. Kay Walton 2012 Baby Cry cry Smile smile Blink blink Poo poo Cry cry Feed feed Twitch twitch Gurn gurn Twist twist Smile smile Look look Feed feed Blink blink Poo poo Grab grab Laugh 2009 What We Think We Know Stepping back Away From the concrete walls And barbed wire Of expectation That hold our thoughts Prisoner We feel the ideas Melt And dissolve, Become more Elemental. We feel Forces pushing Invisible Out Through the mantel Of our minds Spiraling Infinite. Read Between… They are everywhere These unseen lines Communicating Something Somewhere Between you and me Us and them Now and then Crossing In a moment Time and space And creating a place Where everything Is one Where everything Is energy Where everything Makes sense Where there are no fences No mine No yours No doors barring the way Where everything Just is And we can Simply Be. |
