POEJAZZI UDDERBELLY // DDREAM/ROYAL ALBERT HALL
22 JUNE // CITY STATE // YOUTUBE: THE WHITE HOUSE
POEJAZZI UDDERBELLY 15 JUNE//
There's a purple cow on London's Southbank. It's E4's Udderbelly, an inflatable venue usually pumped for Edinburgh's fringe fest but this summer it hosts eight weeks of comedy, theatre, music, circus... headlined by Joan Rivers. I was asked to write a poem for the launch event last Thursday and in the shadows of the cow, rammed with the who's who of purple-cow-importance, I apologised to the audience (my poem contained one expletive) then launched into its conceptual narrative where I describe stars as 'indifferent twinkle tips and stoic mother**ckers*. Poem went down a treat. No... two treats. I introduced Jude Kelly - artistic director of the Southbank - who gave a short rousing speech, then Joan Rivers, who mooted my apologetic sentiments by swearing profusely between breaths before cutting the Ribbon. But this ain't the real news.
THIS IS: On the 15th of June, I shall be dropping words inside the Udderbelly. We, the legendary Poejazzi team have conspired with E4 and the Udderbelly to present a star-studded event hosted by Scroobius Pip. Feat Afrobear, Sound of Rum & Benin City. Between their music sets Catherine Martindale and I will read poems. Come, I bet you my Self, nude, on a silver platter, you won't regret it.
DDREAM/ROYAL ALBERT HALL//
Daydream Mag of which I am lit editor for is also a hub for visual artists. We've taken over spaces like the Tate Modern, Design Museum & M&C Saatchi, releasing street artists onto white washed walls, spray painting, drawing as they go. This month, we are taking over a big one, The Royal Albert Hall. Okay, not all of, just the loading bay, but still. The exhibition is called 'LOAD'. See below for more info. I've been commissioned to write a lil something for it and will be reading it at the Private View at the RAH. But there's an itch. The private view is on the 15th of June, same as the Udderbelly so I will be hurtling cross London to make both events. LOve it. On Monday 22 June, the exhibition located 3 floors underground, will be open free to the public so swing by. More info? I got you:
22 JUNE//
If you could time travel to this day in 2003, go to the Aroma Cafe - a stone's throw for the National Portrait Gallery. You'll find me in an event called 'AromaPoetry', nervous at the back, wondering if I got guts enough to join the open mic. This was the first time I ever read anything aloud in public. Thought it went horribly, was set to flee the café and abhor all things literary but a lady called Makeda pulled me aside, whispered 'that was really good'. That made me stay, write and return (thanks Maki). This day is my poetry birthdate. I want a present. I am accepting thumbs ups - so before the 20th of June, take a photograph of your right hand in that gesture, mail it to me and I'll make myself a computer desktop bkg with all of them. Thanks!
CITY STATE//
I have been published in a spanking new anthology. Penned in the Margins have released a rather beautifully designed, crisp, clean collection of London poems. The cover is of London's underground tube map seeped through a thumb print, on a white matt finish. Featuring the lick of London's lit elite: Jay Bernard, Laura Forman, Jacob Sam La Rose, Ahren Warner, Heather Phillipson, Wayne Holloway-Smith and oh so many more... buy a copy:
YOUTUBE: SPOKEN WORD AT THE WHITE HOUSE//
Yes... you read right! We are still scrabbling with the media for attention, trying to be recognised for our art form, but it is ubiquitous in the states. So much so that Obama - in his ever revolutionary way - has done it again, turned the white house black, hosted a Music, Poetry & Spoken Word night. Prime Minister, in the minutely miniscule chance you are reading this, I am calling you out, do something similar at Number 10, I'll programme, design, flyer and even host it - free of charge! All together, there are 9 Youtube clips, these are 1&2:
Number 1:
Number 2:
That's all Folks!
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Inua goes to Glasgow
2009-05-07
Travel Diaries.No1 23 April.
In typical freelance fashion, I get an email inviting me to Glagow to share new work, anything, they just wish to have me there. And in typical freelancer fashion of grabbing any opportunity with both hands, arms and thigh death-clutch (see James Bond's Goldeneye) I jump on the opportunity, pack an overnight bag and speed towards the highlands, harr!
I loved Brave Heart, anyone Scottish reading this will want to decapitate and stuff my skull with haggis, don't get me wrong, I don't expect to see kilt clad barbarians charging around with swords, but I am exited about the land of macho skirts who throw trees for fun. As the train pulls outta London's Euston St at 8:30 and I settle into Coach B, seat 34a for the five hour journey, London's concrete mountains and tarmac hills slowly turns green and this elusive place called 'Outside London' breathes me in.
The coach is loud and full, I sit opposite a man named 'Phil' who complains of a headache but I tease from him: a job with BT and his loyalty to apple macs before the noise from the guys further down the isle in matching pink shirts, cackling loudly and air-kissing each other between sips of champagne gets to him. I smile at the stereotype, Phil puts his head in his hands and holds it there for the next 45 mins until he gets off.
Shunt.
It starts again, stops at another station, much in the way of trains, fills, empties, swallows, swells till the monotony sends me to sleep. I wake up in Carlisle. The coach is empty except for two raised heated voices I try not to listen until I pluck the word 'Arches' from their tirade. The Arches is the name of the venue in Glasgow I am to read at so I tidy myself up, approach them cautiously, Hi, my name is Inua...
Five mins later we are talking to the dozen, she wonders how on earth I slept through their much louder first argument, -isn't it a coincidence we are on the same train, you are playing the Arches too? you know Angie? - They are Nigel Barrett and Louise Mari. As Louise talks, Nigel chomps on Sushi. Lou reaches out, plucks a fallen piece of fish from his jumper, parts her lips, chews slowly and I know, before they tell me, that they've worked together for years and arguments are muck-common.
Arrival.
It clocks two when we pull into Glasgow Central. I want to explore the city so leave my new homies, load up Google maps on my mobile phone and trace through the city. Glasgow, like New York, is built in a strict grid system and the streets could easily be name4th Avenue, 5th Ave etc... Thankfully the Scotts guard their culture with brave hearts (sorry) and opted for actual street names. My goal is the Glasgow School of Art, to get there I pass 'Sauchiehall St', pronounced, I kid you not 'Sucky-hole' street. The child in me giggles to the surface and I walk into Sainsburys, TK Max and Superdrug asking each checkout girl, straight faced, 'erm.. sorry, what is the name of this street?' I turn right then left unto Renfrew Street, walk up the hill and I am the school of Art. It is a bustling place, resplendent in student chic, tight jeans and bleached hair, but I want to see their creations even though I know I can't ask for a guided tour.
I was once told by a creative consultant, “If you've got it, flaunt it, if you don't flaunt it more”, so I waltz through like a third year student, taking random lefts, rights, double-backs and walk through the first set of doors. It a studio where half born paintings struggle through canvas, sculptures freeze mid-forme. The darkly beautiful, green eyed girl behind a laptop tells me the good stuff is across the street near the café. I leave, cross the road into a white walled room stuffed with installations and sculptures... but find I prefer the half finished works.
Strong enough?
I end up in the student bar. It is red walled, well lit and half filled. I grab a tray and join the food queue. The guy behind the counter whose smiles like a welcome mat names himself Douglas. He says of his long list of rubbish jobs, this is the least rubbish and asks we where I am from. I tell him I am a writer from London, come to tell a story at the Arches, can he recommend something to eat? Like an MC calling out his crew, he points to steaming pots, listing off virtues, finally chooses the 'Mushroom Stroganoff' on a bed of noodles. I add chilli till its strong enough to take out most men, Douglas' jaw actually drops and I reply 'It's okay, I'm African'. I exit the bar and sprint towards The Arches.
The show.
'The Arches' does what it says on the tin. Very similar to London's Shunt, the venue is a series of well lit wide spaces under railways arches. There are 4 acts tonight, 2 per half. One comprises of four performers, the other, roughly twelve. Both experimental, brave performances.
2nd half. I am first up. I choose to read 'Knightwatch' a 15 minute story about gun/gang culture, friendship, loyalty and violence set in a stylised South London Estate. I perform slowly and deliberately, flitting between the three characters till the end. The moment after is interesting...
The brief between the narrative and the audience's response, where you wonder if they GOT you, is the real-est place to be. It lasts a few seconds, but in it you question... why am I here? why did I tell this story? have I just alienated these guys? does that even matter? These questions flood till the lights change. When I surface, there are whoops, boisterous hollers and the Arches echoes with such thunderous applause till I bow a second time, a third.
The guys from shunt get on to perform a hilarious 7 minute epic with video, sound effects, smoke, talcum powder and nudity that totally rocks the show. In Glasgow, the Londoners hold our own.
Home.
After the show, we go to the closest club which plays techno and bad dance. Too loyal to hip hop head, I won't rise to the occasion but chat happy till closing time. Outside, Glasgow's calm and the dark streets feel like London to me. Slightly tipsy, I tooter till the hotel, climb into bed and drift. The sun creeps in. I shower, eat a huge breakfast of croissants, fruit salad, mushrooms, sausages, hash browns, grilled tomatoes, eggs, muesli/cornfalkes and Oj on tap, rush through Glasgow Central's 9.30 train, part read, part sleep till London's Euston welcomes me home 5 hours later. A days passes where the swift of London life sweeps me up again, but through my website, an email comes:
“I felt compelled to leave you a message after seeing you perform in the Arches in Glasgow yesterday and even though I was lucky enough to thank you briefly afterwards, it just didn't seem enough for the amount of time and energy you crammed into your 10 minute masterpiece.
Maybe it was the way you spoke about city life - so emphatic and beautifully that I'm sure even the most estranged country bumpkin would have no trouble transposing your lucid metaphors into urban imagery. Or perhaps it was the fact that I felt I could relate to a lot of what you were talking about - growing up in South London can be pretty grim when you have no interest in social hierarchy and only use knives for buttering toast and sharpening pencils - but by the end of your performance I had tears in my eyes and dreams in my head.
Please keep doing what you're doing.”
This is battery enough to last me a month.
It is all worthwhile. Till next time.
Inua Ellams
x
x
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Satanic Verses
2009-04-24
Finally, I am reading Salam Rushide's master piece, the Satanic Verses. Gotta say I ma loving it, the dude is certainly gifted with the gab and am looking forward to Midnight's Children which apparently effortless shadows this. Such sculpture, such fine! He is wild with it. The section where he describes Saladin Camcha's face is titanic, and before that, where he talks of Gibreel's copulatory escapades, ending with “their forgiveness made possible the deepest and sweetest corruption of all... that he was doing nothing wrong” left me breathless.
Anyway, swaying in the world of the book, I was jolted back to reality last night on the Northern Line by a lady who interrupted saying “Sorry to interrupt you, but that book is offensive and should never have been written, should not be read, it is offensive to the Muslim faith, to Prophet Muhammad, Peace Be Upon Him... that's all I wanted to say.”
I was shocked on a number of fronts. This was not a Muslim speaking, she was a white, early to mid 30s woman, blonde streaked brown haired, lil' too much make up if you ask me, red lipstick drawn over the cusp of her top lip, rich cockney accented lady, seething with righteous indignation. After confirming that she wasn't a Muslim, and telling her that I used to be one and did find is too offensive book, I ask her if she had read it...
No.
So how do you know it is offensive.
Because of what I'v read about it, it offends Islam and the prophet, Peace be upon him.
But you have not read the book?
... No
Well erm... art is subjective, I watched an interview of Salman Rushdie's and all he wanted to do was write a novel, a work of fiction about two men reincarnated as symbols of heaven and hell, infused with his heritage. People read it, took sections out and loaded it with their own ideas and interpretations of his intentions.
Yeah but it should not have been written.
At this point I got a little peeved thinking about Ken Saro Wiwa, Wole Soyinka and the freedom to write. We kept arguing till her stop came, she got off. I wished her a good eve but as the doors closed and the train slipped into the darkness, I got un-peeved...
because of the irony... she was defending Islam, of which the same extremist factions that declared the Fatwa on his head, looks on western women with utter contempt and disgust, and secondly, that a book, a Magical Realist Novel written over 20 years ago still provokes debate.
That's wassup!
Here is the interview:
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News April 09
2009-04-09
News from Inua Ellams. 09/04/09
I get up at 6.30 every weekday. In the winter months I hold take with urban foxes. These days the sun wakes up before I do. It is definitely spring now, nature bursts back to life, to growth, to its basics. So, inspired, this month's mail is about themed: The Basics.
The Formula: 4 News Items / Smthn frm YouTube:
THANKs // ARTICLE // DAYDREAM // BIC BIRO & INTER PEN //
YoutTube: I MET THE WALRUS//
THANKs: THE 14th TALE//
You'd think a show with just a torch & chair for props wouldn't have any hiccups? Well, you are right! Everything ran smoothly, even the late comers; the dude who walked through the stage three minutes after it started, the hospital light blowing up on the last night, it all worked, the 'vague order to things' rose. A relentless thank you to Michael, Thierry, Tom, Fuel, The Arts Council and all who came to The 14th Tale. Your warmth & willingness to 'go there with me' contributed to the show. I work well when the crowd and I breath together, enough to be teased with pause and poetry... All the nights were sold out. There is a lot of talk about the show, it'll be touring and stuff... I'll speak more when the time is right. But... thanks, I could not have asked for a better run. I am infinite with gratitude. Check out these 3 reviews:
ARTICLE//
Very briefly. I battle constantly against the trend to pigeonhole poets, to label 'em as 'stage poets' or 'page poets', tis not good. As a result of this split, I know of so labelled 'stage poets' who refuse to read page works and 'page poets' who turn up their noses at those who work the stage. I am lucky; my work seems to cross the divide, but it is partly because I do not believe such a divide actually exists. Attempting to address this, I wrote an article for Culture Wars. Please follow link, read, add to the debate, lets talk about it: http://moourl.com/e6ls9
DAY DREAM DD06 //
Under my editorship, 'DD06', The 6th Edition of Daydream Magazine, theme: 'Back to Basics' (I kid you not) is out. It hits the digital shelves on Monday 13th and tonight is the Launch Party. We have been busy preparing the brand new studio/gallery titled 'The Carnaby Project' at 33 Marshall Street, London. It is a fantastic space with two floors of orginal artwork, photography, prints, books and lots more. It'll be open till the 25th of April. On the 23rd, we will hold a little Live Lit Show. Drop in. Literature contributors include Gemma Weekes, Naomi Woodis, Warsan Shire, Miriam Nash and Joe Kriss. It is 4 quid worth of words and gorgeous visuals. Get a copy from Monday. See Link. http://moourl.com/apiix
Liv Lit Show: 23rd April, 7.30
'Daydreaming at 33' Cost £3 Quid
33 Marshall Street, London W1.
Insulting Cabaret: 17 April, 10pm. Cost: £6
Place: Southwark Playhouse, Shipwright Yard
London, SE1 2TF, UK
YOUTUBE: I MET THE WALRUS //
Things that stand the test of time are simple, basic ideas. Like a message of 'HOPE' or a Bic Biro. Equally simple was John Lennon's timeless message of peace. So check this... in 1969, Jerry Leviatan, a 14-year-old Beatle fan, armed with a basic reel-to-reel tape deck, snuck into John's hotel room and interviewed him. 38 years later, Jerry produced a film about it. Using the original recording as the soundtrack, director Josh Raskin wove a visual narrative mixing Lennon’s words with multipronged animation. Raskin marries the genius (BIC?) pen work of James Braithwaite with digital illustration by Alex Kurina, resulting in this vessel for Lennon’s wit, and timeless message. Sit back, chillax a little, watch...
Stay Cool, Keep Warm.
Inua Ellams x
Out.
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News Mrch 09
2009-03-09
News...
I was about to begin with the 'can't believe we are in March, three months into 2009, ohmygod it is December already and Obama's radical conservatism hasn't cancelled itself out' introductory type talk.... but I can actually. I know exactly how time flew, why it did, that I wished it wouldn't, that you can find bits of it behind your sofa, bits of it if you kiss properly, and bits in a small dog called Sammy. But lets look to the future shall we?
The Formula: News Items / Something from YouTube
LONDON WORD FESTIVAL // DUNDEE LIT // THE 14th TALE / THE 14th VERB // YOUTUBE: INUA ELLAMS
LONDON WORD FESTIVAL //
Following '08's roaring success headlined by Saul Williams, Anthony Joseph, Joshua Ferris and Josie Long, the London Word Festival returns with an even more cacophonous, obscure, brave, boundary pushing line-up of the tragically cool London's East End Shoerditch chic ilk. (I've been practising that.) Tonight, comedian Phil Jupitus and poet Tim Wells discuss vinyl rarities and poems. Wed 11th sees 'Shakespeare in Shoreditch' five writers reinvent some of the bard's best works (e.g. King Lear becomes a Vain Hoxton Rockstar ). Sun 22nd - 'Webstock' is geek tailored, focusing on things 'bloggy, webby and whatnot' with comedians and poets fiddling with their digitalia and on the 24th, Ox Tales is strictly not for vegetarians. That is all I am saying. BUT THERE IS SO MUCH MORE. Stop by the website, find out and come, for the love of word, come.
LINK: http://www.londonwordfestival.com/
DUNDEE LIT //
My literary new year resolution was to send out more work to magz, anthologies and not fear rejection. Have to say it has worked. 80 percent of my submissions have been accepted online & print. This is one of the most recent... New Writing Dundee is a magazine published by the University of Dundee for the Scottish Population. I sent in a few poems and prose pieces and 'Leather Comets', a narrative about playing basketball in Dublin, was accepted yay!
In June I will be going up to Scotland for the Dundee Literary Festival, for the major launch party, but before then, after the 26th of March, NWD can be purchased for £5 at the Dundee Borders and Waterstones as well as online.
LINK: http://www.dup.dundee.ac.uk/order.html Get it!
THE 14th TALE! / THE 14th VERB //
TWO WEEKS AWAY! My first full length show, The 14th Tale on the 18/19/20th of March will be a part of the London Word Fest. Major rehearsals begin today and for the next 9 days I will be in the thick of things, a good few days of 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. rehearsals, repositioning, redrafting, the show must go oning and all sorts. I am looking forward to the challenge. Now, the world will try to distract me, that is its job, I accept that, but I'll stay steadfast and try to tie everything into the show.
The first distraction is a welcomed one. The show was born of two things: pressure from Roger Robinson and a writing assignment set by Roddy Lumsden who taught me in poetry at City University in London. On Wednesday the 11th, I will be discussing the play and reading bits of it for BBC Radio 3's The Verb. The other featured writer is, unbelievably... Roddy Lumsden! I tell you, there is a vague order to things... The show goes out on Friday and will be available on BBC Radio 3's website for 7 days. Make sure to listen, Roddy is quite a dude.
DETAILS for THE 14th VERB
9.15 // Friday 13th March
BBC Radio 3 // www.bbc.co.uk/radio3
DETAILS for THE 14th TALE***
The 14th Tale // 8.15 // 18th, 19th, 20th March.
Arcola Theatre // 27 Arcola Street E8 2DJ
£9/£7 // Bx office No: 020 7503 1646
Bx office Web: http://moourl.com/end3y
Facebook: http://moourl.com/4w1om
YOUTUBE: INUA ELLAMS //
YEAH! About time I show one of mine... In 07 I met Jason Brooks, a film maker. I worked on a project for him lending my vocal chords to voiceover a short doc about cultural destabilisation caused by NGOs in Jomo, Kenya. We worked well together and wanted to do so again. Two years pass, The 14th Tale comes and after an hour of rehearsals, an hour of filming and three hours of rushed, pressured editing, (Jason travels a lot now) we teased out this excerpt , this taste of The 14th Tale. Sit back relax and watch. See you at the show x
Inua Ellams x
Out.
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News Feb 09b
2009-02-25
News from Inua Ellams
Reminder about The 14th Tale, my show at the Arcola Theatre in London, 18, 19, 20th March. The photos above were taken by Ed Collier of Fuel Theatre.
SPIEL //
“Breath in.... Breath out...” This has become my mantra over the last few weeks. Tis funny how everything seems to happen all at once. Lupe Fiasco, one of my all time fave Hip Hop artists rhymes thus: “struggle! another sign that God loves you” Tis the constant want to make meaning out of meaningless, to explain away all the rough stuff that happens and see light at the tunnel's end.
Now, how does this affect the play? Well, amidst the hordes of darkness life chucks at us, check this... the space The 14th Tale will be shown in is completely different to the Battersea Arts Centre's (BAC) where the scratch was held last year. I was looking forward to relaxing into rehearsals, but no no.... at the BAC the audience sat in rows directly facing the stage. I'd look straight ahead and there they were, simple. Next month at the Arcola, the audience will be sat in 'U' formation, straight ahead as well as on my left and right. Drastic.
This means that instead of directing voice, drama, song etc in one direction, in front of me, I have to do this to three different sides. This means a lot of the show will change. From character placement to my psychogeography, what we can show, to whom, when and how through the story's journey. Essentially, the play takes place in a hospital. We are now considering setting this diagonally across the stage, using imaginary walls for the fight scene, placing the tree stage right instead, and other mammoth bits and pieces. Arghhh...
But if I do my job right (and I will) it'll be smooooth.
THE DETAILS //
Again, here is what you need to know:
The 14th Tale // 18th, 19th, 20th March.
8.15pm // Cost £9/£7 // Bx Offc: 020 7503 1646
The Arcola Theatre // 27 Arcola Street E8 2DJ
Bx Offc: http://moourl.com/end3y
FUTURE + DESKTOP*//
Lots of bits are in the pipeline. We are working on publishing the play, you should be able to purchase the book at the event, I will be reading parts of the show on BBC Radio 3's 'The Verb' literature show (more info coming in the next two weeks). We filmed the first 10 minutes, very soon to be edited and Youtubed, stay tuned. In the mean time, I created this for you lovely folks, it is a Desktop Bgk featuring the poster for the show. Download in Standard and Widescreen.
Go to or Click: www.phaze05.com/The14thTale.zip
Stay Cool.
Love and Light.
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News Feb 09
2009-02-09
News
I didn't mailout in Jan so this is me belatedly Happy-New-Yearing you, wishing you had a good break, lots of cheese, port (discovered I like this) and guilty mistletoe love. The year started with a bang in love, life and finance, I discovered a euphemism: “creative banking” to describe miniscule money management, everything is changing... but such is life's dynamism, its only promise, is not to. Its constant is inconsistency. We inhale, exhale and trust tomorrow to better today...
The Formula: News Items / something from YouTube
The 14th Tale // Calling Maywell // Sara Shamsavari // YOUTUBE: GUINNESS
THE 14th TALE //
Save the dates, March 18th, 19th, 20th. Yes yes y'all. To ye who saw it last year, the story is finshed. To ye who missed it completely, The 14th tale, my first full length narrative is round the corner. After last year's scratch run at the Battersea Arts Centre, Tom Chivers had whisperings with me of showing the finished story at The London Word Festival. Later that month, I had whisperings with Fuel, theatre company. We have now combined forces and are unstoppable. Captain Planet can't touch us.
Publicity says: “The 14th Tale is a free flowing mellifluous narrative that tells the hilarious exploits of a natural born mischief growing from the clay streets of Nigeria to the roof tops in Dublin, and finally to London. Inua vividly recreates the characters that punctuate his upbringing in deft and beautiful poetry, while challenging the audience’s expectations of what it is to be a young, black male in London today.”
It begins... “I'm from a long line of trouble makers, of ash skinned Africans, born with clenched fists and a natural thirst for battle, only quenched by breast milk.”
Come see! Look for it on Facebook. Details:
The 14th Tale. // 18th, 19th, 20th March.
8.15pm // Cost £9/£7 // Bx Offc: 020 7503 1646
The Arcola Theatre // 27 Arcola Street E8 2DJ
England.
CALLING MAYWELL //
Last year, I started a 10 week course on play writing, just to experiment, try other written art forms. There were 16 others on the course run by the Soho Theatre, and it was real. I mean 'real' in the street speak sense. Hard core, fast paced, demanding, deadlines, the thick of things. I eventually churned out a 2 character, 20 minute script about a poet and his friend/nemesis/antithesis. I thought it was.... okay, so was completely shocked when it was one of the six chosen to be staged. A 'rehearsed reading' (pretty much exactly what you think it means) of the play happened at the Soho Theatre on the 26th of Jan and it was quite an experience.
Usually, when I write, I work out rhythm, intonation, breath control etc as I go, knowing I will read the created work. I tried not to do so on this occasion, to leave it all to the actors to sort out themselves. I had two brilliant award winning actors, but the gentleman playing the poet had by far the greater challenge and unfortunately could not quite get to grips with poems he had to 'perform'. I have never felt so naked on stage, and I wasn't even on it. It was revealing, I never saw the tightly structured, yet strangely loose way I write poetry until I heard it from the lips of another. There is a possibility of the play being developed, in any case the director of the project advised me to stick another feather in my hat. I am now a playwright. I want to do it again. Commission? Anyone?
LOVE IS CHANGE //
I wish I could romance a camera, its ideals parallels poetry: both are concerned with capturing a moment, celebrating it and what is captured can only be of the present... they footnote and journal us. I subscribe to photography blogs as I can't keep up with real exhibitions, but one photographer I've followed is Sara Shamsavari. Last year, the lensed lady flew to Chicago to shoot just after Obama's victory and exhibited her findings in TopShop, Oxford St. London. The work was GOOD, colourful, vibrant, inclusive, real and her next exhibition begins today, Monday 9th, titled 'LOVE IS CHANGE'
Press release: “This exhibition of photography reveals love manifested in physical form. It provokes viewers to reflect on the particular conception of love expressed, and to consider how this relates to their own experience of love. In contemplating a photograph, our mundane perception is challenged: we see the world through the eyes of another and our understanding is transformed in the process. Love is Change!”
So at tonight's launch, I have been invited to read a poem or two on the theme of Love. Sara invites visitors to write down their thoughts on the power of love and these will be added to show, so go down over the next two weeks, check it out.
Details:
Love is Change! // 9th-22nd Feb //
63 Broadwick Street // London, W1 //
England
YOUTUBE: GUINNESS //Limerick:
There once was a black man in Dublin
Who'd bet on horses stumbling.
He died his hair blonde
When a bet went wrong
Now Guinness is what they call him!
I am a Guinness man. Extra cold. It sits in the belly like a meal. Musa Okwanga, Joshua Idehen and I have spent many a time over a pint of Guinness pint discussing pints of Guinness. The limerick above was written for a song during my ill fated attempt at rapping as part of Musa and Josh's band 'Benin City'... My father was a food technologist in Nigeria who worked to develop home grown ingredients for Guinness. They support a lot of Africa-related events, worked with the legendary Roger Robinson to release a cd of poems... anyway, it was my wish to be the first poet to do one of those cool Guinness adverts but a fellow poet beat me to it. But he is a friend, we have the same publisher, he did a great job, I bear no bitterness. This month's offering comes from Ainsely Burrows, Sit back and enjoy.
Stay Cool
x
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News Nov 08
2008-11-04
24. 23. Future? Hope. Election. Pencil. Nald. Southbank. Obama. McCain. Winter. My Birthday. Love. Life. New Apple Macs? Opera. The Last Genie. Rushdie. Fatwa. Seraphin. Winchester. KnightWatch. News. Lilly and the Ladybird. Things Lined with silver... snap shots of my October, what are yours?
The formula: three news items and something good from YouTube: My FUNNY VALENTINE// THE LAST GENIE // BATTLE OF IDEAS // BARACK OBAMA.
My FUNNY VALENTINE //
So. (I like beginning messages with 'So', it denotes a straight-to-business approach don't you think?). So, the Terrance Higgings Trust is the leading, largest HIV and sexual health charity in the UK. It has been running for 26 years, reaches out to 50,000 people year and does truly inspiring work. As a charity, the organisation runs on donations from nice, kind rich people, or everyday salt of the earth types wanting to do some good... In this light, lemme introduce Nick Bailey, a cheerful, charming, chap who has organised two fund-raising events for the trust; two Back to Back evenings of Classic Jazz, Great Music, Singers, Food, and I'll be there to drop a poem or two. ALL Proceeds go to the trust, there is a multi-prized raffle you qualify for when you buy a ticket, and you will get that warm fuzzy feeling we crave this time of year. Here is what you need to know:
Show: My Funny Valentine.
Date: 29th & 30th November.
Tickets: £10 - (for charity)
Doors: 7.30 pm, Show: 8pm
Contact: nick_bailey@hotmail.co.uk
Phone: 07921 550 820
Venue: Pizza On The Park
Add: 111 Knightsbridge, London, SW1
Tube: Hyde Park Corner.
BATTLE OF IDEAS.
On Sunday, I read at an event called the Battle Of Ideas at the Royal College of Art in London. It is an annual festival where intellectuals, leaders, students and all in between meet to argue about topical issues. Debates raged on America's election tonight, to the 'Credit Crunch', Malthu's ideas of over population and birth rate reduction, Education, Youth Crime etc... I read at the Poetry debate chaired by David Bowden, with Tom Chivers, Glyn Maxwell and Shirely Dent. There were five other poets reading who I was familiar with except a lady from Chicago, she read a short beautiful poem, I got to speak with her very briefly afterwards and found out she is currently a professor at the University of Chicago, her name is Leela Gandhi, she is Mahatma Gandhi's granddaughter. Yeah.
I mean, that in itself doesn't mean anything, and I am not so low as to name drop for the hell of it, I just thought it surreal that in a festival of freedom of speech, two days before THIS year's USA Presidential Election where Obama echoes Martin Luther King whose politics was heavily influenced by Gandhi, in this current 'Credit Crunch' which is at its cruxa debt crisis, a variant of third world debt spawned from colonialism, against which Gandhi fought, I read with his granddaughter.
All the debates were filmed and will be uploaded to the website, I encourage you to browse, listen and get angry about things. http://www.battleofideas.org.uk/
THE LAST GENIE at ROH //
Remember the Libretto I mentioned writing last month? Well, I met the deadline of the 20th of Oct and for the last fortnight, I have watched it become an Opera. During the half term holidays, there was a week long intensive of rehearsals and development. The main characters now have motifs and melodies that float them into mind wherever I am... the songs are coming together, the choreography, the actors are taking to their roles... It's been fascinating seeing essentially a long poem set to music by the terrific team and the forty brilliant younglings starring in it... but here is the real news: The tickets are on sale, there are four shows over its three day run, come see, buy one.
Name: The Last Genie
Dates: Dec 18th- 4pm, 19th- 4pm, 21- 2&5pm.
Tickets: £8 / £4 concessions
Buy at: http://www.roh.org.uk/
Venue: The Linbury Theatre, Royal Opera House
Address: Covent Garden, London WC2E 9DD
Tube: Covent Garden.
YOUTUBE: BARAK OBAMA.
Yes. I want him to win. I won't sit you through my reasons. At the Battle Of Ideas, I heard opinions for and against him, spoke with a poet friend based in Chicago for an hour discussing her choice, read a little, but watched a lot on the net, this is one such video. These artists got together of their own vocation, set his speech to song and pumped this across the net... It is perfect, simple, effective use of virals. One aspect of Obama's campaign was his embrace of new media, an attempt to reach young people on their own grounds. The fact that this was a central campaign strategy shows a willingness to listen, to try new things, to be radical and if that doesn't speak of progress, I dunno what does? Anyway, you may have seen this before... this months youtube offering has been viewed by more than 11 million people across the world. On the eve of the election, sit back and watch: Yes We Can:
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News Oct 08
2008-10-05
News from Inua Ellams. 05/10/08
I love slightly palindromic sentences like, “At the start of the human problem, is the problem of the human heart.” or ones that need only slight changes. In summer I said something like: “What the hell happened, summer left in 2 weeks” and I can tweak it to: “What the hell happened? winter came in 2 days!” - I think I dwell on the weather too much as introductions to newsletters. For the next two months, I will think up spiffy comments on America's Presidential Election. Promise.
The formula: three news items and something good from YouTube:
FREE GiG: NPG // THE LAST GENIE // BARBERSHOP CHRONICLES // ROAD RAGE.
FREE GiG: National Portrait Gallery//
Sooo, the 1354 Collective's installation I curated in July and my Ltd. Edition book (view here - http://piurl.com/SPY, buy here - http://piurl.com/Oi2) were the first projects where I got to play with the visual and literal sides of me... this is the next one. On the 9th of October, on National Poetry Day, I will be exploring personal portraiture in a Painting Tour / Poetry Performance through the 16th - 19th Century Rooms at the National Portrait Gallery in London. Sounds nice doesn't it?
For an hour I will lead a group through the gallery, speak briefly about certain paintings, elaborate on themes, settings, history and read a poem that is linked. It is open to the public and it is FREE, but ticketed on a first come first serve basis, so after work or before dinner on Thursday, spend an hour with me for poetry and paintings.
Thurs 9th Oct. // 7pm // Free, 1st Come, 1st Serve.
at: N.Portrait Gallery, St Martin's Place London WC2H OHE
BARBERSHOP CHRONICLES //
The moment I first decided to get up and read a poem in public came after I saw late on Channel5 (2003) a poet called Mahogany Browne reading. Behind her, a woman danced nude, erotically, in a bathtub. I logged online faster than you can say something fast, found and frequented an event in St Martins Place (opposite the NPG) called Aromapoetry. 2 months later, I was given my first ever headline spot shared with... Mahogany Browne. 5 years have passed and we still be cool, she's doing many beautiful things in New York, hosts the biggest night at the legendary Nuyorican Poets café, and has just published a new anthology called 'The Barbershop Chronicles'.
I was published in this anthology with Jacob Sam La Rose and Nicholas Makoha, but I also designed the cover of the book, it is online and buyable, see - http://piurl.com/aLs for details.
THE LAST GENIE // Thief of Baghdad
Last month, I mentioned the Thief of Baghdad project - East London Dance in partnership with the Royal Opera House. (Damn, I feel ostentatious, I'll refere to them as ELD and ROH, cool?) Last night, deep in the bowels of the ROH, I sat with K.G. the director, J.B. the music guru, and N.K. Choreographer debating the title of the piece. In poetry, trying to find a word that is loose enough to mean everything or specific enough to mean one thing, is what the burning-of-the-midnight-candle is about.
The title was whittled down to: The Feather Guardian, Feathers and Dust, Children of Dust, The Last Genie, and The Genie's last Disciple. Some were instantly ruled out, including my suggestion of - 'How Zabby got her groove back.' (brilliant right!? - the genie's name in the piece is Zebarack). Feathers and Dust was ruled out; though we liked its musicality, it conjured too much the house keeping implement. The Feather Guardian was taken out as well. I spoke against Children of Dust, felt it gave an idea that was too allegorical of death, it was hotly contested, but K.G. sealed the deal saying 'The Last Genie' was definite, snappy, more 'Christmasy' than the others and it sounded well with the main feature: The Last Genie & The Thief of Baghdad.
I am on schedule to deliver the libretto, my deadline is on the 20th of October, after which the fun begins, seeing it come to life. Show is on 18th, 19 and 21st of December. Tickets on sale soon, watch this space.
YOUTUBE: ROAD RAGE //
Lately I have be journeying in cars. My lady drives and has revealed some darkness that further textures her personality - I like it. but even she would be cowered by this. Tonight's youtube offering shows the mastery of age, the knowledge of one's humble weapons against an ever impatient world and what happens when grannies go bad. Sit back, click, watch and guffaw with me. - -http://piurl.com/aLr
That's all folks.
Stay cool, keep warm.
Inua x
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News Sep 08
2008-09-10
News from Inua Ellams. 10/09/08
So sorry! I apologise for the distance; I posted nothing nothing last month because I was taking a breather, a lot of you were on holiday and I had spammed you through July about 'The 14th Tale'... but I am back and in my absence, hope you remembered the formula... (with a slight amendment.)
The formula: three news items and something good from YouTube:
THANKS // LIMITED PRINT // THIEF OF BAGHDAD // WOMEN ARE HEROES //
THANKS // The 14th Tale
Thanks to all who made the 3 night run of the show at the BAC, seems so long ago now! The 1st night went stupendously well, the narrative, all the little jokes and characters, all received warmly. I was warned of the curse of the 2nd night but I laughed it off claiming to be exceptioned from the rule, but... yes it did not go as planned. I received positive feedback again, but for me, something was off. But on the last night my family came and the show went very well. For y'all who missed it, I am in talks and planning, next year, it will be finished and shown again. Stay tuned.
LIMITED EDiTION PRiNT //
This has been a LONG time coming. I wanted to do 3 things with the 1st book. 1) Record some of its poems for a Limited Edition CD, 2) Illustrate the poems & exhibit (which I did in July) and the finally, 3) republish the book with the Illustrations. And here it is... in black and white, matt-finished, soft back print.
The New Book has 13 illustrations (12 new) that are so inspired by the poems that to be fully enjoyed, you gotta flick between as you read. I am doubly exited because I laid out and designed the book. For the first time, my words and images are together in a collection. But there is a twist...
We printed 313 copies. Nothing more. They have all been signed, dated and numbered by me and I hope in a decade or so, when poetry rules the world, snot nosed geeks and enthusiasts will bid-war for them on Amazon/Ebay... They each sell for £6.13p (the 13p is of prime importance, more so than the 6) and are available from - Flipped Eye, click here - http://piurl.com/Oi2 -
OR you can get them from me. Please, if nothing at all, stop to look at the book, here is a link to what it looks like, & the first few illustrations. - http://piurl.com/SPY - enjoy.
THIEF OF BAGHDAD //
East London Dance in association with the Royal Opera House, once a year run a project called 'Street Stories' where they devise a show to be staged at the ROH in London, during the Christmas period. This December will see the retelling of The Thief of Baghdad by Opera Maestro Will Tuckett, and ELD have to produce something inspired by that piece. There's an impressive team of choreographers, composers and vocalists on the project, but to eek out, write and structure a story, they needed someone and yours truly is on the case. I have to teach poetry, guide and tease out text from the young cast, take it home and sculpt it, but essentially, I am writing a Libretto for the Royal Opera House. I am actually gonna write an 'Aria', ME, amazing. As I did with the SLAM project earlier in the year, I'll keep you posted as it develops and let you know about tickets for the show. x
YOUTUBE: WOMEN ARE HEROES //
I am often asked the question, 'Where do you see yourself in the future?' and I answer detailing how I'd like to travel the world on behalf of the British Council / NGOs / UN / Charities / to interact with communities, teach poetry, learn from & experience as much as I can and report back having created illustrations & written poems/prose about my experiences to be published. I'd try to leave copies and exhibit the work I create in each place as a small token and legacy to its people.... But this video best shows what I mean, its is simple, powerful and beautiful. (I'd really like to travel with them). This month's Youtube offering moved my lady to tears, 'Women Are Heroes'. Sit back and watch -
Thanks.
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News July 08
2008-07-07
News from Inua Ellams. 07/07/08
AHh, just when it seemed summer was underway, last Wednesday began with clear skies, temperature highs, moved to rain, then ACTUAL HAILSTONES... curiously, it mirrors work patterns, clear direction, things heat up, suddenly a downfall and madness. But enough of that shizz... down to bizz...
The formula, four news items and something good from YouTube: TALKING IN TONGUES / LONDON LIMING / FRESH OFF THE WALL / LYNK REACH (prt3) / STOP ME /
TALKING IN TONGUES // Show - 13th July.
The London Literature Festival got underway last Friday at the Southbank and I am taking part in a couple of events. I have been talking non-stop about the scratch performance of my show, The 14th TALE, at the BAC on the 31 July / 1 & 2 of August. BUT the first time I perform it will see a 10 min segment on the 13th of July at 'TALKING IN TONGUES', an event this Sunday hosted by Sifundo Msebele, curator of Africa Beyond. At the Southbank, I shall stage-share with Ebele, Charlie Dark, and Bries who have also cooked up new pieces for the date. Come see. //
Date: 13th July, 6pm //
Purcell Rooms, Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Centre //
Tickets £9 // http://tinyurl.com/4be7oww
LONDON LIMING //
After my performance, at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Artist-In-Residence Lemn Sissay and Tilt present brilliance, 'London Liming', a show I will attend, featuring Ursula Rucker, Brian Patten, Shlomo, Patience Agbabi, Stacy Makishi and Louis Antwi, Curated by Melanie Abrahams. //
Date: 13th of July, 7.45pm //
Queen Elizabeth Hall. Southbank Centre //
Tickets £12 // Concessions 50%
In The Front Room at Queen Elizabeth Hall, 5pm, you can catch Broadcaster Kevin Le Gendre talking to Ursula Rucker about her career and influences. This one is before my show and FREE.
FRESH OFF THE WALL //
Something completely different... I am graphic designer / visual artist as well as a writer. Constantly, I strive to merge the disciplines. The first realisation of this is the Limited Edition reprint, just 313 copies of my collection featuring graphic interpretations of the poems. (More info to come) But the 2econd is the Visual Art Installation at the Queen Elizabeth Hall Foyer. This is the first Visual Art Event I have curated! I invited 10 artists and colleagues to exhibit with me. Over the next two weeks, evolving from a blank canvas, the space will become a visual documentary of the Festival, an exciting mix of textiles, graffiti, photographs, video and performance as artists create the work in real time. The space is the Queen Elizabeth Hall's Foyer, free to enter and open till 10.30 / 11 most nights. Please stop by and check it out if you are in the centre over the next two weeks. Cheers.
LYNK REACH (prt3) //
WE WON! I've been reporting on the SLAM 08 team of poet kids I have been coaching with Nick Makoha. Talked about seeing the students develop as their attitudes to friends, family and teachers changed, I've talked about the small victories, difficulties and emotionally charged writing sessions. I did not mention the students storming out, mothers threatening to pull kids out for arriving home too late or the star student suspended from school. The sessions were to culminate in a SLAM, where the kids from different schools go head to head an have their poems scored and judged. We were still changing the poem till the last minute! Moving lines in the changing rooms, the suspended student stepped back in and learnt both 3 minute poems in one week! Incredible! We were still working out how to end the poem as we were called on stage...
And we won. Simply. It all paid of, tears, sweat, determination, drama, all that good stuff. The Kids get to travel to Chicago in August to meet other poetry teams. Nick will be going with them. As a shadow, I do not get to travel, but they have promised to rock that city and remember poetry for as long as they live and honestly, this, the flashbacks of this process and what I have learnt, is reward enough.
Besides, I am working on a similar something starting in that month, for the Royal Opera House. :-) Stay tuned.
STOP ME //
Earlier this year, I held a live recording of 6 poems from my first book. Unbelievably, the footage has gone missing, meaning I will have to do the show all over again. I worked hard to put the show together, so am seething with fury and thinking daggers into the heart of the camera man (sorry dude, but it hurts). So much so that I should have nothing but hatred and unrestrained jealousy for Joshua Idehen, fellow PIP, who, without breaking a sweat tripped and fell into a production company who made this film for him. But I cannot, because it is so well executed. This month's YOUTUBE offering is a poem called STOP ME. Sit back relax and enjoy.
cheers.
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Mini News...
2008-06-26
14th Tale Special - Scratch 1 Person Narrative Performance for The BAC.
THE 14TH TALE -
Hey folks, 'tis been bout three weeks since we spoke, but a hell of a month already. Every moment I get away from the computer, I spend it committing the 40 minute script of the 14th Tale to memory...
The script itself has been written, re written and thrown away exactly five time. The first narrative was to be based on the Thirteen Fairy Negro Tales and I created the character of a magical African story teller to deliver the story on stage. If this was a MARVEL film, the storyteller / narrator would be the HULK and I'd be the man who becomes the beast, Bruce Banner. But just as the American Military forces found, the beast is untameable and must be left alone.
Okay I exaggerate. I love the character and will definitely use him for future works, but I found no way to sustain an engaging, hour long narrative with his voice so though it hurt, desperately, I put him to the side and tried a different approach... to write about the man behind the beast, about Bruce Banner.... about myself.
For me, there has been nothing more difficult than this. I sat for long whiles staring at Virginia (my laptop), Virginia staring back with sympathy as I thought about my experiences, what could tie things together, searching for a beginning and end, moments poignant enough for poetry and for a story. By the 5th script, I considered throwing the towel in. My mentor swore at me saying 'you ain't throwing shit, get back to it...' so I faced the Virginia again thinking 'how did I get myself in this', and a seed was sown...
I thought about all the times that phrase had passed my lips 'how did I get myself in this?', about all the trouble I caused as boy. From the four year old who short-circuited the house with a silver spoon and a Betamax Video player, to throwing tantrums in Nigeria, halting an entire 700 student strong assembly, because I did not win an award and my twin sister did, to being chased through a jungle by a crazed French teacher called, I kid you not, Monsieur Bat Cock! I became obsessed with this, spent stupid hours laughing to myself till I began to take it seriously as a concept.
One evening, I sat with my father and asked him questions about myself growing up, and realised that he had been just as troublesome in his youth, and his father had been before him... I saw a pattern, saw a first line, scribbled it and the story begins thus:
“I'm from a long line of trouble makers, of ash skinned Africans, born with clenched fists and a natural thirst for battle, only quenched by breast milk. They’d suckle as if the white silk sliding between gums were liquid peace treaties written from mums. Their small thumbs would dimple the soft mounds of brown flesh, goose-pimple chests till the ceasefire of sleep would creep into eyes, they’d keep till the moon sets...”
At the BAC, I will be showing the first 35 - 40 minutes of the script. I hope it will be as entertaining for you as it has been for me to write. Please, Keep the 31st of July, 1st or 2nd of August free, come and check out where I'm from.
Date: 31 July, 1 & 2 August
Time: 8pm Cost £5/£3
Venue: The BAC //
Lavender Hill, Battersea,
London, SW11 5TN
Box Office : 02072232223 http://www.bac.org.uk
LONDON LITERATURE FEST
P.s. I will be performing about 10 minutes of the story at the London Literature Festival at the Southbank Centre. I will share a stage with Charlie Dark and Bries, legends of poetry. Date: 13th of July, 6pm, Purcell Rooms, Queen Elizabeth Hall. Talking Tongues
P.P.s Thanks so much for those who have bought the Limited Edition CDs. Out of the 50 handmade copies, 31 have been sold, 19 are left and they are going fast. To see how they are made, please go to http://tinyurl.com/3jeuhh. Thanks.
See you soon.
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News June 08
2008-06-09
News from Inua Ellams. 09/06/08
Excerpt from new work: “I am from a long line of trouble makers, of ash skinned Africans born with clenched fists and a natural thirst for battle, only quenched by breast milk, they'd suckle as if the white silk sliding between gums, were liquid peace treaties, written from mums...” Yeah :)
The formula, four news items and something good from YouTube: THE
14th TALE / SOUNDBLAST / NORTH WALSHAM / M&C SAATCHI / ONETASTE /
THE 14TH TALE -
PLease Pleas Please, keep the 31st of July, 1st or 2nd of August free. For the last few months, I have been working on a show, a one person narrative called 'THE 14th TALE' loosely inspired by the book. It is easily the most challenging and personal thing I have ever done. I will be speaking of this more over the coming weeks, but the scratch performances are on those three dates.
Date: 31 July, 1 & 2 August
Time: 8pm Cost £5/£3
Venue: The BAC //
Lavender Hill, Battersea,
London, SW11 5TN
Box Office : 02072232223 http://www.bac.org.uk.
SOUNDBLAST -
There are two limited edition projects under way. This is the first. Couple of month ago I read at the launch of SOUNDBLAST, the poetry books society's project to sell recordings of poetry. I selected Six of the notorious Fairy Negro Tales, spent a while in a studio perfecting the poems, creating something worthy of purchase. I sent them to and they loved them, agreed to sell it. Now, the original idea was simply to make them on demand but I got to thinking, my fingers got to itching and I opted to hand make everything. Monetary wise, it is a bit more than I budgeted and I'll just about break even, but damn it, they look beautiful! The cases are hand made of soft, recycled
foliage lined paper and the poems are on gloss black Cds. I am making only 50 of these, so get 'em while they last.
If you don't get to purchase a physical copy, but still want the poems, fear not: available (via pay pal) from my myspace page and website.
NORTH WALSHAM -
On 2nd of May, I was invited back to teach creative writing at a school in Norfolk, North Walsham as part of the week of internationalism and diversity. I devised a prose writing exercise where students would have to flick through a series of photographs specific to one of eight countries, eg Cambodia, China, Nigeria, note images, sounds and smells from the country and retell an incident, something that happened specific to the student, but place it in the chosen country... I taught the whole school except year eight students, as they were studying for exams, but the results were incredible. From break dancing on a barge made of flowers in a rice field, to a skateboarding in the Sahra. A girl named Rose O'Connor pushed the boat further and created her own world, beginning, “Once upon a time in Connorsville, on a quiet street called Rose...”
The most touching though was from a student who took the day she discovered she was pregnant, placed it in India's monsoon season and wrote to her future son of her tears stolen by the rain. I love what I do.
M&C SAATCHI -
Sooo.... I am a member of the Daydream Crew, a collective that put out a graphic arts magazine. Last year, the collective took over the foyer of the M&S SAATCHI (infamous art collectors) offices in Golden Square near Carnaby Street, London. They brought a host of artists into the space who graffitied the walls creating Urban art in the mist
unlikely of places. They were invited back to launch the 4th issue of their magazine and I went along to see the new works being created and graffitied onto the walls. I helped a couple of the artist until I was tasked to create something... I sat in a corner for a few minutes, penned a verse and stayed till the small hours of the morning,
grafting the poem to the walls! The exhibition is open to the public 12pm - 8 pm, so if you are in the area, stop by, walk in, see and READ.
Address - M&C SAATCHI // 36 Golden Square London / W1F 9E
YOUTUBE: ONETASTE COLLECTIVE 12 June // Jazz cafe -
Going from strength, this is about the Oneaste Collective. Members of the collective are scattered across the entertainment industry, in all categories, fields and levels. Last year the collective played the Jazz Cafe and this year we return with a tighter more inclusive show. We have been working hard to bring something truly brilliant to the stage and on the 12 of June, we take the Jazz Cafe by storm. To add fuel to the fire, that Night I will be flying from one event to another and should get on the venue when the show is to begin as a short verse of mine set to Samba drums opens the show. Also a bristling tour of summer festivals is underway and to get the vibe and news rolling, we created a short intro to the collective. Look out for yours truly....
More soon. Inua x
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News May 08
2008-05-08
News from Inua Ellams. 08/05/08
Cannot believe Boris won! I'll have to start watching my back now. With this, we enter the 5th Month of the Year... and the 5th use of the formula: four news items & something good from YouTube:
MiD / PROSPECT / FREE WORD / LIVE REC / YOUTUBE:
MUSEUM in DOCKLANDS -
On April 3rd, I was invited as a speaker to a seminar at the Museum in Docklands. The conference was called 'London Sugar & Slavery'. Essentially, it was a gathering of Museum curators, academics, managers and consultants speaking on their experiences last year, creating projects around the Bicentenary of the Abolition of the Slave Trade. My role as a speaker was to read poems around the theme. I read four poems over the day: 'Neverself', 'Clubbing', 'Dustbin Diaries' and 'For the Fighters and lovers'. As a writer, I never think to place myself or my work academically or historically. I just write. But it was interesting, intensely interesting, to realise how seamlessly they complimented the discussions. But this isn't about that. It's about The Museum in Docklands. It is a permanent exhibition of Britain's History, our history, of Slavery, and it is breath taking in detail, scope, form, challenge, humanity. Comprising of paintings, contemporary photography, illustrations, time-spliced projection / animation... I can't begin to describe the place. So just check it out: Museum in Docklands
PROSPECT -
Prospect Magazine has a circulation of 27,000 or so and is one of the leading magazines on current affairs and cultural debate in the UK, alongside the New Statesman and The Spectator, with contributors from both the left & right wings. Contributors have included Nobel Literature laureate J.M.Coetzee, Margaret Atwood, Gordon Brown and more... But one evening A Poem in Between People, my poetry collective (with Johsua Idehen, Musa Okwonga and Catherine Martindale) met Prospect's assistant editor, Tom Chatfield, for a round the table discussion on poetry, spoken word. It took a couple of beers to loosen lips, but the article is cool, if you have the time, please read: Prospect
FREE WORD -
On the 12th & 13th of April, London's Southbank housed the FREE THE WORD festival. (Yes, I know the title is lame). Over the two days, a horde of poets and I created and executed a Word Walk / Literature Tour / Festival Hike type thing, where parts of the Southbank were sectioned off with masking tape into performance areas, and in them, poems were performed to those who followed the trail. It was an experience. The term 'Teen Spirit' came alive in the form of secondary school kids - performers on the tour - chasing down passer-bys to listen to poetry, yelling FREE THE WORD!! Now, I did what I could, but the old man in me shook his head and sighed in nostalgia at the idea that I once had so much faith and energy... The tour, put together by Eastside Educational Trust, was a bristling success. The freerunners, skate boarders, graffiti artist & BMXers did not what hit 'em! As part of the warm up before performing, we were taught an ancient urban hymn I shall now pass on to you and those I teach poetry. It goes...
Black socks they never get dirty
The longer you wear them the stronger they get
Sometimes I think I should wash them
Then a small voice tells me don't do it yet
Not yet, Not yet, Not yet, Not YET!
THE LIVE RECORDING -
Of Six poems from the Fairy Negro Tales, was a fun, laid back night, a perfect valediction to the poems. A warm and attentive audience of friends, writers, acquaintances and strangers came to the show at the Miller. We ran a little late to begin, but I was relaxed on stage, the poems were read, recorded and filmed. The audience stayed around chatting and getting to know each other, well into the night. Special shout outs go to Rory Broadfoot (I know right! that surname conjures the 'what do they say about men with big feet' joke) the cameraman, to John Hendicott - sound and music guru: both guys brought down thousands of pounds worth of equipment to capture the show, finally to Bailey for being herself. The next step is for the recording to be edited, chopped up and YouTubed. Stay tuned.
YOUTUBE: RYAN Vs DORKMAN -
I am a geek. I say this in complete and utter pride. Through my formative years I looked like Steve Urkel (google him), loved and still love Star Trek (was once put on detention of studying The Starship Voyager's blueprints instead of working - there are no toilets on that ship!), I know HTML in-jokes, I even have an anecdote about being a black Milky Bar Kid, growing up in Nigeria titled 'The Way of the Nerd”. Bullies around the world spend decades tormenting the likes of us. From schooling in Nigeria to schooling Dublin and London, the bully / geek dynamic remained constant. But eventually we supersede our muscle bound nemesis and steal the lime light. A great example is the following clip where nerds, my people, show their brilliance, in the execution, action sequence and use of CGI. George Lucas, eat your heart out; this is bloody brilliant:
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Ron
2008-04-21
So.. bout two months ago, I spoke about writing an article for Tresspass magazine. The issue called 'What is Black' came out. And perhaps it was meant to be ironic or someone up there is taking the most visceral of pisses, but about 90 percent of the magazine and pieces written by the darker hued writers were illustrated with...
chocolate!
Once again, I am thankful that I am multi skilled, I chose to illustrate and lay out my piece.
This is what I wrote:
------------
Ron.
I arrive early for a poetry event in Camden. Not much is going on save the rumour of music rising tiredly from instruments as musicians flex and test sound levels. I greet the guys, hi-five Ash the organiser, tell him I'll be back in five, want to pick up a penguin (I’m peckish), and sprint along the Camden high street, past McDonalds and into a Subway. Two pounds later, I munch a sandwich of grilled chicken, cheese, lettuce and jalapenos, finish in five minutes flat, bin the wrapping and consider returning to the venue, but the glare of a McDonalds calls to me. I step in, not to eat, but to make use of tables and chair in the well-lit area, to write something until the show begins.
I sit and sink into 'the zone'. Scratch that, try to find the bloody thing. A man walking towards me from the cash register, cradling a cup, hails me with a bristling 'You look like a fine gentleman, can I sit with you?' I am so jolted by the unusually formal greeting, I stammer...'of, of, course, yeah...' He sits down opposite, and in an instant, I am staring into the most brilliant blue eyes I have ever seen. Starting from the rim the iris is an azure/cobalt blue, which seems to fade to a light grey, then a semi-turquoise, with streaks of sky arrowing into the black holes of pupils, the florescent lights lie on them like flat diamonds. His face does not match his eyes. Nothing shines it. His pale white skin is dirty, partly unshaven and an unruly hay field of graying hair aggravates its way out of his skull, falls down the sides forming a loose frame.
He introduces himself as Ron.
And asks where I am from.
I usually answer with 'Nunhead', and follow the baffled look with a 'it is a small place in South London, fringing Peckham'. Then I get the - 'No, where are you From FROM' question. A lot of my friends (if not all) who are of darker hues and are British will get pissed at this point, but I never do, as I am not British. I answer 'Ahh, I am Nigerian'. But Ron ignores this and just scowls after Nunhead, tells me he doesn't like crossing the river. I ask why. He stops moving for about four seconds, actually stops moving, sits completely still, stares into the distance, he is frozen. Then motion returns, he cheshire-cat smiles at me and says ' That's a dubious question!' He has a voice that crackles like fried gravel, it crunches out of him, much like his hair. I can just about understand what he says, and try to keep the conversation going. He is clearly in some stage of homelessness, his hands, filthy, are in stark contrast to the clean white table.
Why is it dubious? I ask,
It is though, sure it is. Don't like Hackney, I lived there you know, Diane Abbot was the MP, saw her all the time back then. She's a black beautiful woman, little dolly bird. She has more bottle than you.
Okay. Where did that come from?
Diane Abbot? I ask, Did you know her?
He freezes at my question and stares into the distance again, stills again, moves after four moments and replies with a satisfied, 'That's a dubious question'...
At this point, I think he isn't... all here, perhaps a touch of dementia or something. The stares-into-distances are intelligent, as if looking at data on a computer screen, trying to process it, but the information is lost in translation.
He keeps talking about Diane Abbot, says that she was a fine woman back then, still lovely, she is not prejudiced, that he loves her, and she loves him, really. I ask how he knows this as he attempts a sip from his cup. He splutters uncomfortably at the liquid, slams the cup on the clean table, and says 'I can't drink that', opens the lid and it is a pint of tar-black coffee, steam chimneying out. I belly laugh in surprise and advise him to let it cool a bit. He winks, 'you have a point there',
then returns again to Abbot, - she has a son you know? Probably thirty years old, something like that. I ask him how he knows, 'Are you the father?' he does the unblinking distance thing again and 'dubious' answers me, clasping his hands. Then he asks about my religion. I ask about his, he replies 'Church of England', pauses for a second then finishes with 'or Jewish'.
when are you Christian or Jewish?
depends on who buys the food.
And I laugh again, at the frankness, at the childish honesty. I imagine he's got nothing to lose in talking with me, as I have with him. A car's horn blasts outside, I look up to notice Ron and I are attracting attention from others in the room. Before I decide on what to do, Ron leans forward, whispers, 'can I ask you a question'? I am lean forward too, and reply,
sure, go for it.
why do black people have a chip on the shoulder?
Again, I am jolted. Why would this question even be on HIS mind and why is it important enough to ask? I consider trying to cram a brief history lesson, anthropological theory, economic and geographic breakdown of the UK in a sentence, give up and pass the question back, 'why do you think Ron?' and he answers:
because they were treated badly in the past.
and I like him for it. Not because he has said anything in any way profound, but because in his little madness, he thought this through and came up with an answer with some shred of truth, of recognition in it. I ignore the others, carry on speaking with him. He asks me if I knew he was once an officer, I say no, and he is incredibly surprised at this! Says he left the army in the eighties, that the bravest soldiers he fought with were all...
'gays, all of them, they committed suicide though, couple of them drove off a cliff in a motorbike'
The conversations chugs on, his gravel voice steaming with sips from his pint of coffee. It goes to Sammy Davis Junior, 'greatest singer ever' Ron says, 'he'd go on stage with the rat pack and steal the show, but have to go back door to get a cup of tea' to Mike Tyson, 'greatest fighter ever, I would like to meet him, he'd probably buy me a cup of tea, I'd shake his hands, but he won't want to get in a ring with me. Why? cause I fight dirty'. All the while, I am scribbling furiously. His stream of sentences are punctuated with the mention of Diane Abbot, his 'dolly bird' having more bottle than anyone, and his blank stares into nothing.
When the conversation lulls naturally, I glance at my watch and realise we've been talking for twenty minutes, I tell Ron I have to leave and stand up as he thanks me for talking to him. He reaches out his now coffee-wet dirty hand - as dark as the inside of my palms, lets it falter in mid air, not sure if I will accept. Do I take it?
Course I do. Grasp it warmly, glance into those Atlantis eyes and sprint down Camden High Street with two things on my mind. One, the fastest route to a bathroom, I need to wash my hands. Two, Ron. I can't fathom what series of events shaped him, a homeless veteran. What does he see in the distance, what war was he involved in, what dreams of Diane Abbot have come from living on Camden's streets. And to be honest, I would not have cared, but the old boy charm, mixed with the shoulder chip thing endeared him to me. As I take the stage, I silently dedicate the performance to Ron, and regret not running back to ask him what he thought was black.
Inua x
---
News April 08
2008-04-06
News from Inua Ellams 07/04/08
...and thus we march into April, like to pause to nod to my new mailing subscribers, cut the chitty chit chat,
recap the formula; {four news items and something good from YouTube} Off we go:
BORIS JOHNSON / LYNK REACH (prt2) / LIVE RECORDING / GIGS / SKATE BOARD
BORIS JOHNSON (for the Londoners)
This is the last time I mention last month's Time Out Article. My most ineloquent moment was when asked about Boris Johnson's campaign mayor, I replied... “eurgh”. At the time of said interview I lacked facts on the man and his policies. I know more now & wouldn't change 'eurgh' for the world; it sums up my visceral reaction. I admit, Ken Livingstone's had his problems, policies have side-effected, regular media clashes, he is imperfect. Both men promise pretty much the same things, so the election becomes that of the lesser of two evils. Now Boris is a man who in an article for The Telegraph called the people of Congo “piccaninnies” saying about the Queen's visit; “...the tribal warriors will all break out in watermelon smiles” since then he apologised, patronisingly, “I do feel very sad that people have been so offended by these words...” Note*, not for what he said, but that it UPSET people... incredible. London is the most culturally diverse, most vibrant city in the world, I haven't impudence enough to suggest which evil to vote for on May 1st for but... Boris?
LYNK REACH (prt2)
Recap: In Feb's mail out I mentioned Lynk Reach's project, a six-school poetry slam, where the highest scoring poetry team go to Chicago for a week. I have been teaching with Nick Makoha. Two weeks ago, we whittled the team from the original 17 or so, to 9 kids. Have to say, it was the most emotionally charged day of my year so far. Over the past weeks, we have tried to teach more than poetry, we deal with behaviour management, attitudes to work, to family, school, how they influence self expression, relationships... We've had other teachers in the school stop and ask what we do, why the students have come to apologise suddenly for of past bad conduct... I found out recently that 70% of the class are fatherless, so the relationship dynamic is... interesting and at times, fragile. One such kid (who is on the verge of permanent exclusion) pulled out the most touching performance that Wednesday, a narrative poem on burglary, being arrested and sent to youth detention.
The 1st phaze ended with 'Community Building Day' on the 29th or March, where all six schools gathered to write, read, see other poets / poet coaches and to get a feel for what the Slam final will be like. The second phaze is where I feel the Real work begins, the moulding, the find tuning of poems and the priming of performance. Stay Tuned.
LIVE RECORDING**
I am trying to exhaust my first collection, Thirteen Fairy Negro Tales (available £4 from Amazon). It has been graphically interpreted, set to music, animated, being staged for theatre, Six of the poems have been studio recorded for sale (more about all those in the coming months) but I want to have a live audio and video recording of the performance of those six poems, So I am really exited about this show:
Date: 29th April // At: The Miller, 96 Snowsfields, London Bridge, London SE1 3SS
Doors: 7pm // Show: 8pm // End: 9pm // Cost: £3.13p - please, bring exact change!
The Deejay will be spin, I'll record three poems, Deejay will spin again, three more poems, the end. Should take no more than one hour. The venue only seats 60 people, so I'd advise arrive early. I made a flyer for the show:
GIGS:
Again, a few coming up, so listing the first five:
9TH APRIL - Lazy Gramaphone £5 //
20.00 - The Macbeth, 70 Hoxton Street, LDN N1 6LP
15th APRIL - NewBlood - £5/£3 //
19.30 - The Poetry Cafe, 22 Betterton Street, LDN WC2H 9BX
17th APRIL - Behind The Mic - £6/£4 //
20.00 - The Cavendish Arms, 128 Hartington Road, LDN SW8 2HJ
21st APRIL - Sticks & Stones - £3 //
20.00 - Strawberry Fields Bar, 159 Woodhouse Lane,
Leeds, LS2 3ED
YOUTUBE: SKATE BOARD
Four yrs old, I taught myself to ride a bike. That summer in Nigeria, I borrowed my neighbours mustard yellow / navy blue BMX and circled my house for days till I made it round without falling or stopping, I remember staggering into the kitchen, torn shorts, torn skin, sand streaks, with the purest, smile on my face. My dad managed to control his pride, asked me to clean up for lunch. Two years pass and the craze was skateboards, by then I had discovered the magic of a pencil and paintbrush. After two failed attempts at mastering the board, abandoned it and concentrated on becoming exceptional with my fingers...
So, when I saw this on the tube, I marvelled at what I may have become. The story, the way this is shot, the slow-mos, the settings and tricks... spectacular. Sit back and watch.
---
Something to Love
2008-03-15
Four days ago, last year, 11th of March, my father had a stroke. The next few months were... hard. I learnt of how unstoppable my mother is, how much I have in common with my father and the responsibility that comes with being the only son. There were bouts of staying up lates, crying, staring into nothing, re-discovering how fickle all this is. My father is back on his feet and has been so for a while, has been back to work and the grind of London, the pace of work means we forget about those days. Last night, we (the family) went to a Church to thank God for my father's life, a year after the incident.
When the blood vessel burst, it stopped on its own and did not flood the rest of his brain. The doctors do not know why this happened, my father thanks God. In all honesty, faith has dwindled, I sit comfortably on the 'want to believe but .....' line. Tried to define myself through my work, to believe through it, but it should be the other way round, the belief should fuel my work. Half way through the prayer, I glance up, and all the heads are bowed, the bright lights bathe everything, like faith, sinks into the heads of the balding men, glows like a dim-beneath skin halo, and the preacher is in tears...
His voice cracks as he thanks God for the lives of men. And always, when I am presented with incredible moments like this where the belief in something undefinable, abstract, necessary and unnecessary moves one to tears, I wish I could swap places, I envy the conviction. I wish for tears.
After this, the preacher gives a long weird babbling sermon, all I take from it is a theory I will try to explore in the future, that happiness needs three things: Something to do, something to love and something to hope for. I think I have two of the three covered, maybe just one, but I was wondering just how many of us have all?
Lemme know:
something to do
something to love
something to hope for
Inua x
---
News Mrch 08
2008-03-04
'Sup homies, hope your Feb went well, mine was a month of Mondays man, another hectic one, from recording an E.P. in three hours! to catch a deadline, to covering Bjork, gate crashing parties, stages, workshops, acceptances, rejections, I grumble, but deep down, would not have it any other way. The beautiful Struggle.
So.. the formula, four news items, and YouTube link.
TRESPASS / TAWIAH / PUMA / GIGS / MAC
TRESPASS:
I attract freaks. This is as factual as the statement 'water is wet'. It is necessarily true. I'm trap myself in conversation with some pretty... kaleidoscopic people. I always find something in common (which says a thing about me), forget the strangeness, chat as if we go way back and reflect on the bus. So far I have documented three such incidents. The first is as a poem in my first collection 'Dustbin Diaries' currently playing on myspace page. Second, I turned to a short story, recently moulded into a ballad (poetic form) called 'The Ballad of Abdul Hafiz', the third, took place in Camden before the Remedy/Bjork show. It involved a war veteran called 'Ron', the M.P. Diane Abbot, and a pint, I tell you, a PINT! of hot coffee. I can't give away the gist because the entire incident will be published in the next Issue of Tresspass Magazine, available from 1st April. Where to buy? check out: Trespassmagazine.co.uk
p.s. if you went in search of my Time Out article / interview, it was put back, but I've been assured it is coming out this week.
TAWIAH:
As well as word work, I am a graphic artist, design for the poetry community, music industry, illustration and commissioned portraiture, installations here and there. One of my recent clients is also a good friend, singer by the name of Tawiah. She is quite incredible. Has toured the world with Mark Ronson - who is everywhere at the moment, she holds it up for West Africa and is one of the most charismatic live performers I have seen. Her E.P. called 'In Jodi's Bedroom' just came out, the lead song is called 'Every Step'. The song begins simple, with a driving rhythm, then her voice drops like smoke, builds, layer by layer till it becomes an epic wall of psychedelia, drums, and all that good stuff then suddenly cliffs off, and ends with the starting simplicity. But listen for yourself, 30 sec samples on itunes. The E.P. is available from HMV, Virgin, iTUNES etc and I designed the cover.
PUMA:
Following on from the news above, Tawiah is sponsored by PUMA, and the good folks there got all hot and bothered when they saw the cover I created, and reproduced it on t-shirts! Basically, PUMA made limited edition runs of my design. I ran down to her management offices and secured some of them -
// Womens - White - size 10 x 2 / size 12 x 1 }
// Mens - Red - size XL x 1 / L x 2 }
// Mens - white - size M x 3 }
This is what they look like: ttshirt
And I am giving them away to you guys, FREE! (I'm that nice). All you gotta do is mail back detailing which you want and come get it at my next show. Simple. First come first serve.
GIGS:
Quite A few this month, So I will just list the next five:
March 5th - WORD // 8pm - Bambu, 21 Welford Road, Leicester, LE2 7AD //
March 7th - PERFORMANCE + Q&A // 7 pm - Oxford Road, Manchester, M15 6JA //
March 10th - NIGHT VISION // 7:30pm - Media Center, Northumberland Street, Huddersfield //
March 11th - LDN WORD FEST // 8 pm - Cargo, 83 Rivington St, London, EC2A 3AY //
March 15th - RADIO SHOW // 6.30 Life FM - 103.6 or from www.lifefm.org.uk //
More events on myspace.com/phaze05 and the tour page of this website.
YOUTUBE: UNIQLO
I am an Apple Mac head, I cherish these things, I mean, I look at PCs in contempt. I have a lil 12 inch powerbook I call 'Virginia' and in Motown - Mrs Jones style, 'we got a thiiinng, going on'. We have a healthy symbiotic relationship. This year Apple released the Mac Book Air and it is a stunning machine, I lust after that thing. So much so that I refuse to watch its adverts online on Virginia, because she'll get jealous and I'll have spend nights convincing her that she is the only one for me. The Mac Air is equivalent to a 'younger blonde woman' with a ridiculously thin waist, and big.... hard drives. It seems like others share some resentment towards the new Mac and made parodies of it's iconic - fits-in-an-envelope advert. This months YouTube offering comprises of four clips each under 90 seconds, beginning with the original ad, they are hilarious.
1) - original.
2)
3)
4)
Yeah!
---
A week on Holiday
2008-02-23
Title is not what it seems...
So I am hanging out in Dulwich, ACTUALLY hanging out on Dulwich. Don't get me wrong, I love south london, love the people, the vibrancy, but I never ever hang out here. Most of my chill out times are spent across the river in houses or backstage things. Anyway, hanging out with C Bailey (you don't know who she is), and we are complaining about the week disappearing, 'where did the week go?'
then Bailey asks, 'where will you go if you were a week?'
brilliant concept right? so I say...
'probably go to New Zealand, hang out there for a while, just stay low, you know'
but Bailey mean IN TIME...
so I say, prolly go to the prehistoric, nestle in with the boys in April, see what the dinosaurs were like... but it gets more interesting, say if you were that week and you traveled back with everything that happens in you, and they still happen, how would it play out?
e.g. if I was the week when Bush won the election, and I traveled back in time, would I let a T-Rex bite his head off? what would be the repercussions? and what would be the voice of the week? would it be an old man's? a kid, a teenager? what accent?
now imagine writing a monologue as a week, talking about what happens in you, in time, then time traveling...
hmmmn, my pen itches...
just need the time now!
---
News Feb 08
2008-02-05
What the hell happened to January, month went faster than Greased Lightening on Speed. Anyway, down to business, thanks to those who wrote back with comments from the first mail out, really appreciate the words of encouragement.
Remember the formula? Four News Items and one Youtube.
TIME OUT / LYNK REACH / ONETASTE / SHOWS / UNIQLO
TIME OUT:
30 years ago, Legendary Poet, Linton Kwesi Johnson's record - Dread Beat an' Blood was released to critical acclaim, an album of political poetry buttressed by the powerful beats of reggae. To commemorate the anniversary, there is to be an event at the Barbican on 9th of March, featuring Jean Binta Breeze and Dennis Bovel. At about the same time, Penned in the Margin's London Word Festival, (20th of Feb to 14 March) will be in full swing, where yours truly and a host of other word warriors such as Saul Williams and Anthony Joseph, will be performing. For the next few months, there will be verses in the air...
Yesterday Morning (04/02) I sped into Brixton to meet Linton and interviewer: Tamara Gausi, for a discussion on the coming month, London and a touch of Politics. Later that night, the questions were posed to Saul and the article up will be featured in Time Out Magazine on the 18th February's Issue. Look out for it. During the photo shoot, I was wearing my favourite scarf. (Thanks Kim)
LYNK REACH:
Lynk Reach is a charity dedicated to providing opportunities for young people, they run the London Teenage Poetry SLAM. Created by Jacob Sam-La Rose, it is a performance poetry competition across six secondary schools, where poets are stationed to generate work in schools, culminating in a dazzling final at Stratford Theatre, riddled with tears of joy, pain and all that life stuff... It is truly a magnificent thing to behold. Last Year, I worked with poet: Charlie Dark at Kidbrooke Secondary in South London, and met the most amazing kids. A bristling Jamaican girl told an amazing story of arriving in London alone, identifying a father she had never known from birth, only by the song he sang, in an airport. One kid, asked to describe a noise played to him wrote: 'It is the after sound of a bee's heart humming'... just casually pulled it out of nowhere... nuts.
This year's Slam is about to commence and I will be stationed in The Lammas Secondary School in Leyton, with Poet Coach - Nick Makoha. I will keep you posted as it goes...
ONETASTE:
Aaaaaaaaaand Were BACK! I imagine you've heard of the Collective. Last Year, an article published in the London Paper on Live Lit talked about the top ten shows, and the three that I co-organise / Graphic Guru / and occasionally read at, all made the list, NewBlood at the poetry café (20th of Feb, come) was 6th, Poejazzi (PiP, PiP!) was 2nd, ONETASTE was 1st! Last year was incredible for us, over 100 shows, scattered across the UK, a tour of the summer festival circuit, front pages, releases, our own festival, a sell-out jazz café event, and we began this year in style. Again, the 250 sitter sold-out-event on Sunday gone in Balham, saw the word works of: Roger Robinson - reading dazzling short stories, Excentral Tempest the lady rapping like a beautiful battering ram, singers, the naturally, talented MADness of Mark Hole, new to Onetaste - John Kenzie, and our very own, Jamie Woon (nuff siad).
for a taste, check out:
http://www.Onetaste.co.uk
SHOWS: FLOETICS / REMEDY
My first reading/performance of '08 was at the PlayBar in Oldstreet on the 27th of Jan, a laid back affair, really nice way to start the year. Feb begins with two babies in quick succession. First is in Brighton on Wednesday at 'FLOETICS' on 6/02/08 -
8pm // Venue: Redroaster Coffee House - St James Street, Brighton // Wallet Damage - £2.50
and the second is on Thursday, in London at 'REMEDY' 7/02/08 -
8 pm // Venue: Oh! Bar, 111-113 Camden High Street, London, East NW1 JN// Free before 9, £5 after//
At the 'OH! BAR' I will be working with a Live band. A poem of mine 'Candy Coated Unicorns and Comverse All Stars' has been adapted to a jazz version of Bjork's 'Come to Me', and 'Older', written for a beautiful acoustic guitar arrangement, will be revisited. Have to say I am terribly exited about both shows, especially the live Bjorkage. To listen to both poems before the show, stop by: http://www.myspace.com/phaze05
YOUTUBE: UNIQLO
I am by no means the best dressed male poet. The titled is passed back and forth between a certain Tim Wells who moonlights as a stockbroker and David J, whose style is only outdone by his verbal gymnastics. However I do get a fair few nods and words of encouragement complimenting, my choice of colour, attire etc. I have three sisters, (I learnt the heard way). But today I reveal to you my formulas, 1) I stick to five colours, mix and match, 2) H&M and Uniqlo. I am found somewhere between these fine establishments.
I am affiliated with a dance collective called Avant Garde. They don't let me dance (!*?&ards, kidding! u kno I luv u) instead only want me for my word and graphic skillz. I have spent time watching incredible dancers, summersaults, holds, tenses and well toned bodies doing things mine can't, so I know a little about street dance and its cross over with ballet.
Putting these topics together, you'll understand why I wasn't half exited when I watched this clip. This month's youtube offering is an add campaign from Uniqlo. Sit back and Jaw drop.
Keep warm, Stay Cool...
Inua x
---
Only As Old As You Feel
2008-01-11
So, I was racing for New Cross Station to Embankment to meet a recent infatuation of mine (might as well be honest). I slid through the rain, bought the £2.30 ticket from the train station, jump in when it comes and ride it all the way to Charing Cross, but I over hear a conversation by three older women. I sat listening and smiling a little as the talked of the weather, the hospital, etc then I heard and whipped out my note pad laughing, had to write it down.
'you know, you are only as young as you feel Margaret, it is all in the head, because my walking stick reminds me that I am not as fit as I used to be, but without it, I still think I'm in my seventies!'
priceless.
I am gonna remember to say that in the future, when I rock a walking stick shaped like a pen, on a monorail in future London.
For those who went to the event at the Foundry, I apologise on behalf of the organisers; it was running about two hours late, and I had to go before it eventually kicked off.
stay cool.
Inua x
---
Happy New Year
2008-01-07
Happy New Year!
Highlight of the 7 days surrounding the 25th & the 1st, apart from food friends and general madness, was making my household watch the hour long Doctor Who special on Christmas Day, the Ice cream party on New Years Eve and the party on New Year's Day where, I was at some point, in a room full of musicians, pretty much singing backing vocals for a trio singing 'I'm every woman'. Surreal!
New Year Resolution include maintaining my mailing list, sending out something once a month and regularly updating this blog/news section of my website, I really didn't let you guys know enough of what I was up to, that will change starting now.
A&S TWO FIVE
One of the stages I graced in December was Cargo's in East London at an event hosted by Apples & Snakes (the reputable promoters / producers / possey / people). They've been going strong, pushing boundaries and opening doors to bigger platforms for 25 solid years. The event was a celebration and launch of a poetry album produced to commemorate the years, featuring poets they had worked with. I was commissioned to collaborate on a poem-song with Yemisi Blake, Jay Bernard and Joe Coehlo. The event was a sold out massive success and the album will be out in March on Vinyl, CD and will be downloadable from itunes.
STRATFORD THEATRE
I was recently appointed a writer / performer in residence at Stratford Theater, in a project called 'Spoke Lab'. Spoke Lab is an exciting coming together of artists, who, along with Roger Robinson (Writing Coach) and Dawn Reid (Associate Director at Theatre Royal Stratford East), want to explore the art forms of Live Literature & Theatre and see how the two might collide and inspire. It is a year long residency and there is a possibility of a Collaborative Showcase at the end of the residency. Other writers include: Nick Makoha, Jasmine Cooray, Ebele and Sifundo. spokelab
DAYDREAM
They say power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. This is my first taste of it. Daydream is a graphic art magazine published quarterly. I was published in the first two issues, featured as a Graphic and Word artist - the first time I was featured in both lights - (this year I strive to do more of that). But I was recently appointed Poetry Editor for the Mag - insert manic laghter - and the first issue out under my editorship features the work of Zean Edwards, Jasmin Cooray, Jay Bernard and BrotherMan. The magazines are visually stunning and the poems stand their ground against their thousand-worded counterparts. Daydream also hold regular graffiti battles where street artists live-paint to a given brief, the audience screaming and a sound meter determine who wins, its is fascinating watching these sometimes 7 by 7 foot canvases unfold... Daydream
INDIEFEED
If you log into Itunes and search for poetry, Indiefeed should crop up. In February, it will get it's one millionth download, which is pretty good going for a poetry show don't you think? On the 24th of Dec, amongst all the madness of that period, I was featured on the show, the poem 'The Truth' was put out there for the world. If interested in poetry from around the world, I strongly suggest you subscribe to them:
link to my show: Myshow
link to the indefeed website: indiefeed
YOUTUBE: HITCHCOCK
Alfred Hitchcock was a genius. This is a fact as undeniable as sunlight. The fact that movies such as The Man Who Knew Too Much, Vertigo, Psycho, The Birds are still dropped in conversation as some the greatest movies ever, are testaments to his talent. In this incredible ten minute clip, Martin Scorsese (another genius dude) makes a movie of Alfred's - that was never made. Confused?
Click, sit back and watch:
Hitchcock/Scorsese
That's all folks!
Again, Happy New Year.
I wish 2008 to as productive a year for you, as I intend to make it for me.
Please stop by the website for much more regular news and events.
---
HASTINGS WORKSHOP 08/11
2007-11-20
HASTINGS WORKSHOP 08/11
On Thursday the 8th of November, I was tired. My nose was filled with more mucus than a thing filled with a lot of mucus and the weekdays before were spent designing for Apples & Snakes and for the Oneatste Festival - clothing, books, desktop wallpapers etc. I was excited about going to Hastings, but my bones acted otherwise. Mind over mattering, I persevered, rolled out of bed, onto a bus, into a Clapham Junction Train Station, into Hastings and into the friendly face of Jennifer, my first contact of the day.
A quick lunch later, I was at The Grove school teaching a group of gifted kids poetry. We only had an hour, so we warmed up with a couple of games, I read a couple of poems and we got into the process of writing. I have a little poem that deals with identity through objects, we broke down its construction and I had the young ‘uns write about themselves. Have to say I was wowed by what was written. A girl wrote about her father tending to her wounds, one of the Daniels wrote about silence, and a girl who asked to be called ‘Dave’ wrote about her family.
After The workshop the teachers told me they were astounded ‘Dave’ wrote in the first place, and could not believe it when she read her work. Poetry Power.
The next day, the workshop was at Hastings Museum, we pretty much sat and talked about ourselves for two hours. The writing exercise was more about generating ideas and using imagination than about writing Poetry specifically.
PERFORMANCE. 09/11
That Friday night, I walked into the green room of the venue - The Sussex Hall, White Rock Theatre - to a home-cooked meal of rice and peas. (They know how to treat poets in Hastings). I helped myself, and made a set list until I was called to the stage. I read five poems and stepped off to a roaring applause. The audience were warm, friendly and they listened to the surreal metaphysical trips I deal with in my work. I stepped off the stage feeling a lot better about poetry than I have in months.
Linton Kwesi Johnson came on… and was… Linton Kwesi Johnson. The Style, the confidence, the experience, the philosophy, the history and culture flowed effortlessly from him. The Audience at points began applauding at the mere mention of poems like “Sonny’s Letter” and “Five Nights of Bleeding”. I met some ladies who had last seen Linton read thirty years ago. My parents hadn’t even met then. Imagine.
I think one of the successes of the night was the contrast. Me, of Hip Hop and Metaphor, Linton of Reggae and Reality. Afterwards we shared a drink in the hotel bar and Linton told me of Nigerian poets I am ashamed I never knew of. I have been doing my homework since.
Hastings and the people I met there helped me realise that London stifles the nomad in me. This coming year I want to travel, read and teach more outside of London.
I could not resist taking some photos. These are of the Museum, and the sea front.
Check 'em out.
Stay Cool.
But keep Warm :)
Inua x
---
Steve Biko
2007-10-30
Today I read at Islington Council's black history month end celebration.
I was not as prepared as I should have been, hadn't found out who was reading, what was being read or who I was reading to. Just sorta turned up in the blind faith all would be okay. I power walked down Upper street to the town hall and ran the flight of stairs into the main chamber were the event was to be held. A swarm of kids stood fidgeting surrounded by seated adults. I panicked. My work never goes down well with kids, it demands too much attention...
The children turned out to be a choir. Their's was the opening slot of the event. They sang songs I imagine a teacher thought were suited to a Black history events, one about drinking coconut juice and the hit single Disney song from the lion king 'in the jungle'. Ahhh. The sound of stereotype from the mouths of children. but alas, as the saying goes..."Ours is not to question why; ours is just to do or die." Scratch that, I am supposed to. Right? but I won't.
The kids left shortly after their rendition and the real event began. A friend of mine took the stage next and sang a couple of gospel songs, followed by an Education Consultant and a History Major from SOAS who was to me the most interesting and lively of the lot, but I have to say, the most astonishing presence was that of Nkosinathi Biko, the wife of Steve Biko and his son.
(I reiterate, I had no idea who would be present) If you do not know who Biko is/was, fear not. I did not until about a year ago. A year before that I was given a T-shirt with his face on it and the slogan : I write what I like. I wore the t-shirt for a while, just revelling in its beige colour and its bounce of light on hot days...
Until someone said to me:
'I have read that book'.
'huh?'I said
'Your t-shirt I have read it'
'yeah, good wasn't it?' I replied
Before googling the name to find out what the hell we was speaking of.
Steve Biko was an anti-arpethide activist in South Africa, a student leader who was murdered in police custody. He founded the Black Conscious Movement. He was a writer. While living, his writings and activism attempted to empower blacks, and he was famous for his slogan "black is beautiful", which he described as meaning: "man, you are okay as you are, begin to look upon yourself as a human being"empower blacks, us, me.
I was speechless, stood up to clap and wondered if those around me knew who was before us, what sacrifice had been made, what effect it had in South Africa and subsequently, the world. This has an ending seeped in ant climax, as I could not hear the speech well enough, and before I could make my way to introduce myself, they had gone...
All I have is a t-shirt that has become more real to me than ever. This is the global climate, where legacies, people become fashionable, worn for no reason, save style. And I am guilty of such. I wonder how many have donned a Che Guevara shirt without knowing of the man, of his work.
This has no moral, or conclusions, just me... pondering in type.
Inua
---
The Universe expands left. No1.
2007-10-22
Last week I saw a Hawaii - Born Chinese performance poet,
make love to a cabbage and give birth to a brussel sprout.
-no explanation save a name - Stacey Makishi.
The Universe expands Left.
Inua x
---
PiP featured on TIMES
2007-10-04
YEah, A couple of weeks ago, Josh, Musa and I hit the streets and recorded some poems for the Times Online newspaper! - Check it out now!! Click here
---
NALD
2007-10-01
For all you Literature Developers Out there, this may be of interest. I am attending for the full three day going ons, it will be brilliant. Click and read.
This is so freaking cool, I am gonna make one just as long, any volunteers?
---
Reading List, Ross Sutherland and Tolkien
2007-09-23
Wha blow,
So in my last post, I spoke about my reading list, it has all gone to plan and I have not been disappointed once by my choice of books. Lover's Liar's Conjurers and Thieves' was an absolute delight to read, so much so that I will name-check it something I will write soon ish - after the other epic stuff in the process. I am writing a verse to be dropped in a hip hop track, yes people, my first actual foray into that world is on a track called "Rubbish", stranger than fiction I tell you. After that I am working on a three part story with my PiP possey, you will find out more of that in the future, I will publicise that sh*t, believe.
One book I read not on the list has not been published yet. I caught a sneaky peek at it on fellow Gen Txt Tourer - Joe Dunthorne, It is the manuscript of one Ross Sutherland, member of the UK's Aisle 16 crew, (Poetry Boyband, the lead singer is Luke Wright). Now, I was told once, that in the group, Ross was the 'writer' the most talented wielder of words and a hastily sent e-mail to him asking for the manuscript, and a reply with the book in tow, led to me reading all if it in two hours (spread over two days) and realising the rumour was true. The book was COOL. Just steady deftly handled trips into the known and pushing it into the unknown, subject matters from Pac Man to a delicate look at Ikea, an exploration of Swear Words, to a X-Ray'd Love poem called Second Opinion. My favourite has to be 'When Paperboys Roam the Earth' I sent this in response:
'When Paperboys roam the Earth'
This was quite vivid for me. I mean, I was never a paper boy, but I wished i was. I had a feeling there was a magic to it, it is ALL here. First line - Perfect.
"your scrappy Reeboks are the first to break the frost"
The first stanza is cinematic, I can see the boy poised at the top of the street, one foot on the pedal, second on the road, the camera begin with a close up of the Reebok, zooms out and travels up past his back, shoulders, head, then goes to the rows of houses picking up "the debris of play things"...
Look out for it, I really hope it is picked up by a publisher. The next few books: 'The Fire People' and anthology of Contemporary Black British Poetr edited by Lemn Sissay, // On the Edge of an Island by Jean Binta Breeze // Shakespeare's As You Like It, and occasional dabbles in John Milton's Every man's Poetry collection // after this will be The Silmarillion, Tolkien's epic novel on the history of middle earth. I read the first 3/4 when I was tour. It inspired so many poems and ideas that i had to stop reading it. 1)because I did not have the time to write the poems 2)I did not want it to end.
Yes, I am a nerd. So what?
I journeyed into a park to take a swift arty photograph of the book in its context. Here it is.
Silmarillion.
speak soon.
Inua x
---
The Way it is
2007-08-30
Hey, dudes, I have not posted here in such a while.
I have good excuses however, massive hiccups in my digital and analogue life, couch surfing for a good few weeks, mistaken identities, bank account cancellation, it seemed the gods were against me!
But I triumphed, slayed the digital dragons, taught demons a thing or two about darkness, took them to the pit and left them to contemplate their own morbid existence. Ha! Be Gone Vile thingybobs!
I lost you right? It happens, that is why we have steering wheels, so we can turn backwards. So I am now going back to the basics, to survival, eating and copulating (with regards to literature) I am reading a lot, keeping all the new info inside, sketching out ideas for other things to write. Recent list includes Paul Auster's - 'New York Trillogy', Malika's Kitchen's - Storm between fingers', Kim Trusty's - Darker than Blue, Khalil Gibran's - The Prophet (I will revisit from time to time, the dude was A DUDE) Nii Parkes' - Shorter, Next is 'Lovers, Liars, Conjurers + Thieves' by Raman Mundair, and after I will delve into the world of Octavia Butler baby. :-)
It's like that,
and that's the way it is.
Hope you are well. Will be getting back to grips
with my mailing list soon, so join if you have not.
Inua
---
Prodigal
2007-06-14
All candles are cousins of the sun
the moon their foster mother
the waters, like some sorority sister
pledge to always reflect her light
dust are daughters of the giver
of life, all grandmotherd by nature
hugging tight. In this patch work
order, this twinkling night
all men are prodigal sons
we alone journey to spirit city
yet earth remains our home.
Lets pretend they weren’t plastic.
Let’s pretend those one-inch toys named Billy the kid, Clint Eastwood and John Wayne, were more than drastic attempts at escapism; that nestled in my front pocket, they tore open the terrain. Let’s pretend my belts were horse reins and the mop between my legs was a black bronco named Buck. Let’s pretend its mop top were horse manes that flicked wild to my hummings of rolling rolling rolling raw hides! Let’s pretend the flattened bottle tops cellotaped to my trainers were riding spurs that’d make the bronco buck wild. My backyard was Texas, all tumble weed, no grasses and you would catch a glimpse of me, gold rimmed glasses, shorts too short, knees scuffed, mother’s pride and joy, ten years old, scrawny arms, Nigeria’s first cowboy;
Whilst the others believed in Thunder Cats, He Man and Turtle Power, mine was the Grand Canyon’s sun settling across rocks formed where nomads scour.
Everything then was cowboy themed; those trainers were purposefully campfire singed. School books were saddle bagged, paper’d with wanted posters, strapped with horse hair, wrapped in cow skin, wrestled from a coyote, one vicious and lean and my pen was no simple implemental thing, ‘twas a cactus spike its tip - fine hay, I’d dip into venom mark posters, plot ways through English classes mastering the western drawl, to math lessons where gold was a hundred’s haul, to lunch times when juice was a liquor filled flask, I’d lapse into lands of bulls and hay bales; spent months hidden in these wild west ways,
Till one midday, when the dust divided, three unprovoked shapes ambushed then chided, their shadows formed a premature night. None could hear me calling through their fists flying past, those dudes were wild Indians, the moon was a traitor, left in that dark side, crater faced and feebled, punched floundering, almost unconscious, I accepted the bullies’ riddle: I’ll never know the reason why such wicked boys be. To cease the pain, I took the name; they labelled me “The Nerd”, the logic being glasses framed the word, no quibbles.
And beaten in that brawl of a peaceful cowboy’s tragic fall, heard a subtle something, a desperate mantra playing: he who lives to run away, lives to fight another day, (this mantra holds the nerd way). So my pen, still cactus spike, its tip - fine hay, dipped into backbone, stirred the marrow till boiling bayed, fought through legs to these elder brighter days. And still I am bespectacled, still good to run away, but now I know sometimes, fists bring forth the day, still pockets full of cowboys, ride least thrice a day, once for metaphor, twice for simile, thrice so reading, rhythm stays, still juice, now apple cider, books bagged in satchel old, which holds this tale, none finer, of this trial I struggled through.
---
PuRplE RaiN - A Dream
2007-01-25
I am secretly learning how to fly.
This mainly involves practising while I am dreaming, meaning the possibility of dying is greatly reduced (then again people say if you die in your dream, you die in waking life as well – see Matrix movies) - we all gotta start some where. So, flying in a dream once, I came across a storm cloud dressed in sheep’s clothing, I immediately saw through the disguise and zapped him with my pen. It rained purple. My wings got so wet I had to land and shelter under a banana leaf. When the rain had stopped, the sun came out and dried up the land. The water went but the purple remained. I saw choirs of Cheshire cats meowing in unison, their white fur stained, rebel chameleons casting ultra violet shadows, Violets venting pollen at the world for taking their individuality. Purple, a colour associated with the supernatural, so readily available, caused spontaneous small miracles to burst forth: wines were re-watered, vines pulsed with Evian. Leather chairs sprang to life and immediately ate its inhabitants, glass revoked its transparency, parrots developed their own language, snails out ran cheetahs, humming birds discovered opera – never will their wings beat sweetly again.
Flabbergasted at the destruction my careless penmanship had caused, I set about trying to rectify the situation, flying to cloud communions, asking if they had seen a lilac water congregation, a semi bluish fog, a pink mist, anything. They all declined to answer; news of my escapade had reached them. As I left their presence, and old cumulous took me aside and told me of death. The storm cloud having lost its colour, flew to the sun and died.
So everything purple that isn’t naturally purple is a remnant of that cloud- its only evidence of existence.Everything purple is meant to fly.
Yeah,
I didn’t get the dream too.
Inua ~ Phaze
---
Joe O’Brien
2006-12-26
Work In Progress Number One.
This is SO Overdue,
here are the first few verses...
Joe O’Brien
------
There’s a thing to cotton that is unforgotten by the breeze.
In its absence, the loss of wool wearies all who’d else
stand fast. Filled with flecks of boulders and bales,
that breeze will blast past the shoulders of slaves
and masters alike; reminding that regardless of status
and might, all must face the cold.
now, we be the pheasants that pasture as the breeze blows;
we never sleep. With bodies bold and ways ever forward
we hope that all chaos found folds.
In our ends, where daily crime notices mark the roads
I know a young boy called O’Brien. He is a character
that cotton missed, one played out in street corners
in after school detentions and tired police cells
in the hollowed centres of solitary hours where
none save music keeps the brain’s sane well -
back pack filled with spray cans, eyes piercing
to stare, head nodding to that preserve of sanity
pockets filled with air...
stay tuned,
and happy Newyear.
Inua ~ Phaze
---
Like a star
2006-12-22
second work in progress.
----
All poems are daughters
of dust; they don’t fear death,
They are the end-of-things given breath.
Like seedlings become saplings to siblings
yielding… like bricks to buildings which
crushed become dust again,
these daughters don’t fear death;
they are the end-of-things given breath...
----
stay tuned.
and have a good Christmas.
Inua ~
---
Entry
2006-11-25
I am teaching myself to be epic.
It begins small.
-Trying to draw a pencil tip whilst using the pencil tip.
-Asking seeds to grow inside me, then swallowing them.
-Pretending to be 1/5th of the wonder.
-Trying to breath between heartbreaks.
-Writing the beginnings of theories as text messages,
-Then texting them to Yemisi.
These things serve mainly as filters,
that when the rush of everything I don't control (which is pretty much everything) comes, they take lessons from pencil tips and seeds and come in small sizes. I can't deal big. Anymore. It takes training now. What happened to the fearlessness of that 19 year old that claimed to juice the Muses?
Or the 21 year old that claimed to have mistaken Bud-wiser for the Milk-way?
I am too young to be this old.
And too old to Catch myself at 22 (geddit?)
So to combat,
I am trying to be unafraid of the fearlessness,
to be epic again.
It begins small.
-Drawing tails under every full-stop, so the sentence never stops;
-trapping stars in pinhole cameras
-echoing echos
-echos
-
Inua ~
---
light
2006-10-20
In the graveyard of candles,
you will find: only their wax works
For wicks belong to the sky.
life owes us oxygen
for acknowledging its existence,
Inua~Phaze
---
Blink:
2006-09-26
erm...this I guess is just a story-esq thingybobwhatumightcallit.
The last time I blinked I blue-tacked mirrors unto the insides of my eyelids so I could see myself un-bathed in light. The secrets I saw averaged the rites passaged by many men before me, we men are known for our majesty in keeping emotions un-flown, so unsurprisingly I saw (in the eternal solitude of a momentary blink, I saw) the uprisings of friends I am yet to make amends with…
Three unspoken ‘sorry’s hung in mid air, three beacons beckoning that I be man, and dare to speak them. The sorry story that stood out the most was a tale ghost-written by the guardians of things-not-meant-to-happen, I now know that hope is a drug that blurs truth’s be, this one involves she…
She… had lashes that lazed the world, hair that cascaded crazy, these locks that kept me captive, I did not seek freedom, wanted to stay captivated by long looks and the flowing mane of wild stallions born of powder puffs and pouts, she was gorgeous, thus the story stood out.
We met on a night ordained by the ordinary. The stars reflected in the windowpane dribbled mere suggestions of light, mingled with the rain. Told her that I would like to see her again and lip printed her left cheek, a week later, sheltered from the still-lazy rain, we first-kissed; our tongues – like dancers, lips – the dance floor, heart - beating the backing track to tongue-tip-tango. Kissing as though sent from Shango, sending small sweetened lightning bolts between us, like firework-flavoured mango. In this fruit frenzy and lightning shift, she tells me she doesn’t do relationships. That should have sent alarm bells ringing but I was caught between wild stallions and electric mangoes, I remembered was a ‘comma’ in a cascading kiss.
Besides… honestly, no-strings attached loving was a luxury this boy could not miss…
So I’m like “Yeah! Bring it.”
It is three weeks later.
I now know her mind to be greater than her fine body’s form. I want to be the duvet that keeps her warm, to be there when her brain waves collide so I can ride the after surf till the morning comes. She senses this change in me, reminds me that she doesn’t do relationships, and I reply: “Yeah, I know”. But harbouring fugitive fancies of us with entwined shadows; I did not want to let go. It started with me holding on long after we’d stop kissing, with waking up at night to watch her chest rising and falling and perspiring forehead glisten, with whispering her first name with my surname, just “making sure it fits”.
She, sensing this change growing, started un-sowing those lightning seeds till our bouts became sparse forays where my heart showing would cause her to freeze. I tried giving her space to breathe that a graceful absence might make her see that though laced with thoughts of lengthening light seeds, I’m still the storm’s son of ease…
Till one night, one willowed eve, she told me she’d been sowing somewhere else. The unspoken words intoning that I had pushed past the fields of friendship, tried to grow something greater, - that type of feast, she just couldn’t cater, me getting so mad, to the point of starting to hate her: this lady I shared enlightened mangos with, I could not bear to see; that memory, mere… strange fruit, swinging where we ought to be.
And though knowing that I caused our friendship’s cold, I doubt if I’ll ever let her know. I’ll follow the footprints of men, and keep this emotion un-flown. I’ll back track past lightning lips, dance floors and powder puff pouts, paint myself a barrier and riff through it unashamed -This is the art of knowing one is guilty yet keeping one sane – if it starts to get too hard, that ‘sorry’ starts to strain, I will un tack the blues, blink again, again, and again.
---
Veronica
2006-07-27
- Work In Progress-
Veronica
- is the most magnificent woman
in the world; I've seen her bench-press
my family like Atlas does the world
she is a drum soloist on the door steps
of doomsday, holding back the beat
she is a lamb with the soul of a lion
daughterd by earth sighs and wind say
...
will keep y'all posted.
Inua
---
Abdul Haviz
2006-06-30
The Following is an account of what happened to me on the 5th of March 06.
----------------------------------
Soo...
I am chilling at the bus stop in my mock b-boy stance right?
Watching the traffic crawl by. Peckham high street – midday/morning/sun – armies of secondary school students with far too much testosterone, flocks of females in short spring skirts fanning the testosterone-fuelled fire, bus rolls up.
I get on, find a seat and prepare to write about all of those things…
Two stops later this cloud of alcohol and stale sweat hits me. I look up and I see an unshaven, dirty face scanning the crowd of passengers. I look back down immediately. Too late. The seat directly opposite me is filled.
With him.
I swear to Apple Trees! I attract freaks on a bus. It’s like they get on, scan the crowd, spot me in that –ahh! On of us! – kind of way and magnet their way towards me. Anyways, I am sitting down trying to write and not breath at the same time, the can of beer in the drunk’s pocket catches the bright light in the sunny spring day and glints as if basking in it’s own presence. The two old ladies sitting behind us grunt their disapproval. The drunk clears his throat looking directly at me:
- Who owns the bus?
I dunno? Er.. Ken Livingstone
- Does Jesus own the bus?
I dunno… what?
- Does Mohammed own the bus?
Then it dawns on me…I think “Dude, Do not get me started on theology, it is far too early in the day and I don’t have enough apple juice in my blood stream.” Instead I reply:
Your answer is as good as mine. I can’t prove or disprove any of those.
Are you a Muslim? He asks.
I have a faith, and it’ll end there. - I reply, really not wanting to discuss this at that moment, especially with a drunk stranger on a bus and the beginnings of a poem running through my head.
Good- he says dribbling slightly - you have made a point that is better than nothing.
I peer at him through the fog of dried sweat and alcohol. He is wearing a navy blue baseball hat with white markings and text printed on the brim, a dirty cream jumper, an evil smelling brown leather jacket, and black thick rimmed sunglasses.
He asks about my background,
I am Nigerian.
- How long have you stayed here?
Too long
He laughs at my short answer, revealing two perfect rows of burnt brown teeth, disappearing into a strange, almost knowing smile.
-I am Abdul Havis, I was born in Algeria, moved to France, lived there until I was 21, then came here.
Okay.
-But I don’t like it here, too much trouble, chaos, I want to move somewhere more peaceful, where the weather is better, you tell me, what is good about London? about today?
I look into the flashing streets, past the fire station and burnt buildings on Camberwell road, past the brown walls and faded posters, oil spills..
The sun is shining.
The strange smile dances across his face again…
-Yes you are right - He says disappearing into his beer can.
Finally! some silence. I bend over my open book and begin to jot down the idea for a poem. For about 10 seconds, there is the pretend of peace… then interruption.
-what are you studying.
Nothing. - I reply quickly, loudly, exasperated
-I am trying to talk to you- he says, a flash of anger staining his slurred speech
I am not studying, I am a writer, writing, these are my thoughts I am putting down.
-what do you write? -
Short stories disguised as poem, or long poems disguised as stories, thoughts, feelings.
For a currently drunk drunk, his questions are coherent. One of the old black ladies beside me gives the mildest of sniggers, and I check myself. This is Peckham. Despite Camberwell college of art sharing the same area code, a black guy into the arts is considered a weirdo. I attempt to steer the ‘conversation’ away from me…
Where are you going.
-to see my solicitor; where are you going?
To the west end, I have a meeting. Why do you need a solicitor?
-everyone does after a while; you need one in London.
…
I am puzzled now, intrigued, still trying not to breath him in. He says the last line effortlessly, that strange smile returning to his face again. I stare at him more intently, at the almost black neckline of his jumper, dirty from a long lack of washing powder, at the huge red in-growing-hair puss-filled bumps on his neck, at the dried saliva at the corners of his mouth, thinking “eughh…” yet every part of me wanting him to explain about the solicitor. Nothing. No noise from him. Finally I think “whatever man, alcho asshole probably doesn’t know what he is saying.” I bend back to my book.
His throat clears:
-My son died of cancer when he was fifteen. After that I started drinking, I know this is not an excuse, I know. But that is the way it is.
The way his words ricochet across my skull.
My face crumples. The mocking look in my eyes drip past my lashes and splash across the bus floor. My stomach becomes this grand canyon of nothing. My heart goes limp, gasping at itself. I swear silently, wanting a stiff drink myself, not knowing what to say, or think, or feel… that strange smile of his beginning to make sense. We sit like this for the next five minutes, me, not daring to break silence.
And his bus stop comes…
-it was been nice speaking to you- he says,
stepping off the bus, into the dying day,
as another book I had judged
by it’s cover.
...
Inua~Phaze
---
Waterloo
2006-05-26
Sooo…
I am in Waterloo station to catch a train. For the umpteenth time I am wondering what *Pp (the current subject of my infatuation) would smell like if she allowed nature to take it’s course and morph into the titanium-tipped-flower she was meant to be; walking along, minding as much a business as is mine, when all of a sudden, this montain of a man shoulder charges me.
I spin on my heel, watching the stranger swagger away like he has just defeated Goliath. He stands at least a head taller than me, looks about twice my weight, beer gut to match. He is the kind of bloke Portuguese-football-fan-death-wishers Want to meet in a dark alley in England.
My first instinct is not to tangle, to shrug it off and keep walking.
I comply taking a few steps away… then something kicks in.
I stop suddenly: “you know what homie, naaa, go back, stop him”
So I do soo,
I trot after the ‘gentleman’.
“excuse me, Excuse ME”
“wot?”
“you just walked into me”
“ no, you walked into me”
“no, I did not, I turned around to apologise, expecting you to do so…”
“no mate, you fucking walked into me”
“no, I even tried to move out of the way for you”
“no, I was walking on my… you watch… erm… fuck you, you wanker, Take THAT FUCKING SCARF OFF!”
and he walks away, still swearing at me over his shoulder, me standing still flabbergasted, puzzled and spluttering - for a second.
Then Day breaks.
It seems my scarf offended him.
I was wearing this around my neck- scarf.
The man thought I was a Muslim and proceeded to display his intolerance.
Now, being judged by the colour of your skin is one thing, I’ve had experience, I am used to that shit. But being judged by the colour of your cotton is just ‘Fucking’ ridiculous.
What do you say to that?
The scarf is called a Shemagh.
It is of Palestinian culture, not Islam, Palestinian.
I guess this is not common knowledge, but it is still no excuse for the assumption, and greater still, No excuse for an action of that sort, Whatsoever, regardless of… WhatEVER. If I wore a kilt would that make me Scottish? My sister ties her hair back with chop sticks, she wears those little slippers with beads on them from India… mayne, I don’t even need to elaborate on this. Those of you reading this see how pathetic the situation is.
It just…
sad.
You know?
Judging Islam by the activities of Al-qaeda is like judging Christianity by the activities of the Klu Klux Klan.
Anyways,
Later in the day I was walking through Vauxhall station when hope happens.
There is this teenage kid dressed in a jet black Nike hoodie, hood up, swaggering like the ‘gentleman’ but this time with three of his friends. A perfect 2 by 2 formation. We are walking towards each other. As we get closer I remember the reports. The news reports will tell you that kids like this will mug you faster than it’ll take ‘em to drop 16 bars over a beat. Kids like this are watched as soon as they walk into a mall because they want to steal- naturally. Kids like this are likely to break the law. Kids like this have A.S.B.O.s, a kid like this, walking towards me, broke formation and bowing slightly and smiling said:
“Asalam Alaikum”
To which I instinctively replied:
“Walaikum salam”
Yes, perhaps he did assume I was a Muslim as well, but there was a degree of knowledge, there was understanding, whereas in the experience earlier, there absolutely nothing.
…
Karma reasserts itself,
a boy counters-sways fascism,
And I tell you what,
the balance was beautiful,
I smiled for the rest of the day.
Our children are learning to name themselves.
This is for hope.
One.
Five
Inua~Phaze
---
Summer's coming.
2006-05-05
Summer’s coming has been a long time… coming. yesterday I decided to do no work whatsoever. Anyone who knows me will tell you that this is incredible; my work is my hobby, the line between work and play is blurred. I spent the day hanging with friends, ‘rolling wit the homies’ you know… pretty uneventful things happened to us. We talked as guys do, you know, just stuff, our conversations revolved mostly around women and music.
It’s weird, when I sit down to write something, I immediately think of the global subjects, of the broken hearted many, the faceless ones, and tend to write about them. But in everyday conversations among guys, I find I don’t talk about it unless a woman or music leads on to the topic. It just happens that way. Perhaps it is right that the way is such. If we all preoccupied ourselves with the dark sides of life, who will be there witness the light?
Stephen Camden, Polar Bear of the Urbanian Quarter’s baby came on Tuesday. He has a little boy. To the backdrop of this, The BNP did very well in the last elections, Labour came of scarred, and the Conservative party are on the rise. Bird Flu is growing, more troops are being deployed in Afghanistan, and the situation at home (Africa) is getting worse.
I have not had the honour of holding my friend’s baby yet. But when I do, when I grasp his little fist in mine, I will look to Yael, the new mother and to Stephen, a musician, with nothing but the best of wishes to their future.
There, my thoughts will once again revolve around a woman and music.
Life goes on.
Inua~phaze
...
work in progress…
"lady,
you are a honey-
combed back,
that it's juice
may run,
freely.
you are
a slice of
smoke-soft-marsh-
mellowed
by turqoise flames.
you are a cupped
palm of apple water,
chilled with ice cubes
of ambrosia, daily
I delve into your center
and drink you
