insomnia was her muse

“I miss hearing you sing,” he told her
and tried to hold her close
but she was smoke
and floated in the air
in a haze;
patchouli-scented
hennaed hair.
He vaguely remembered loving her.

“I miss hearing you sing,” he told her
and tried to mould her image.
But she isn’t blonde
and not that beautiful.
In a daze,
she left: a mess
in a bleached violet dress.
He vaguely remembered needing her.

“I miss hearing you sing,” he told her
and tried fold his heart in hers
but she was wise
and had been there before.
Unfazed.
Silent tears
behind the closed door.
He vaguely remembered her.

(I know it’s not great, but this was written around 2.30am this morning. Soundtrack to sleep deprivation provided by Piccadilly Station’s tannoy through blanket.)

Tar Sands Speaker Tour From this Friday.

Tar Sands Speaker Tour: with speakers from the Indidgenous Environmental Network organised by Jess from New Internationalist and the UK Tar Sands Network.

Details of tour dates are here.

There’s an explanation of the companies involved in the “the most destructive project on earth” on The Ethical Consumer’s website.

And if you’re wondering what the point of boycotts are, and if they’re ever really successful, according to a 2007 report on ethical consumerism undertaken by The Ethical Consumer:

“…the value of boycotts on food and drink products was £1.2 billion” (EC116, January/February 2009:34).

That packs a pretty hard punch to corporations with dodgy practices!

I also recommend that you read the history of IBFAN’s Nestlé boycott.

of sleep and the sea

I am having trouble sleeping. When I eventually enter reverie, my dreams are often strange and vividly coloured. So I have decided to put my strange brain to good use and write some stories. Here’s an excerpt from last night’s offering. (Sparkly flying egg not included; there are some things that are just too weird!)

Of Sleep and the Sea

I lean precipitously. I’m not sure if it was my doing, or the alcohol-sodden man who was clinging around my waist: a concrete lifebelt to drag me off this ledge. I’ve no idea how I got up here, apart from the hazy memory of off-key, singing children and a slash of yellow behind my eyes. It has been years since I was here last: this bridge hasn’t changed at all. Not since the seventies. The triangular granite face and its clumsy concrete feet are a few feet away from me; I could jump onto it if I wasn’t so scared of the consequences. The sea looms below; in the gloaming, the green gleam and white foam is a most frightening sight.

The man leers in my face, his patchy stubble is grey and brown, his breath is Newcastle Brown. He is young, yet the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth have aged him. He is too thin, beer is his main form of sustenance; it is his only succour. His mouth shapes words that I cannot hear, or maybe I’m just not listening as he slurs and slurps too close, too close to my face. Too close to my mouth; kissing distance. An act once so welcomed.

I have to get away from this rancid intimacy. I need to breathe the air again. But it’s only salt, sweat, and stale ale. I need to be in the air. And with that, he suddenly releases me and I let myself fall into the sea. A brief pause, I feel suspended as if paused in the act of dropping. There is a slooshing noise as I break through the waves. I let myself be dragged, pulled in deep and I’m under.

Like plastic detritus that ends up in the ocean, I bob up again. Where has the shore gone? I flail even though I am a competent swimmer. All I see in front of me is an old, green, narrow boat: an alien in this body of water. Grabbing the side of it eludes me – it darts from my fingers, it mocks as it rocks from side to side comically. There’s nothing to grasp and I gasp for air. Floating, I’m carried by the tide. In the distance I hear a cello inexpertly played. The twilight succumbs to darkness. I am exhausted and cannot go on. Let the water do what it may. Let the sea consume me. I just want to sleep.

When I wake, the water laps my ankles lovingly. I am alive. I can scarcely believe it. I breathe saline.

About Thai fighting

In three weeks time, I’m off to South Asia for a month. This is to teach in a school in Chiang Rai, Thailand (which, I think, will involve lots of fun and singing as well as ‘curriculum’ work). I’ll be keeping you updated via this blog when I can.

So, firstly, this is to update you on the political situation in Thailand. There has been some reporting of this on the mainstream news (BBC in particular), however, there has been serious political conflict around the governance of the country. For a quick introduction, there’s a great Q&A on the BBC News website which will explain the difference between the “red and yellow shirts” that you may have already heard about but feel a bit hazy about the situation.

So the 2006 coup led to the eventual exile of Thaksin Shinawatra. Amnesty International had already expressed dismay about Shinawatra’s leadership, with special regard to illegal killings on his war on drugs. The New Internationalist called the take-over “one of the world’s most laid-back military coups”. However, it was recently reported in Private Eye that the gap between the middle classes (tending to be yellow shirted) and the rural poor (red) had increased leading to the recent uprising.

According to the BBC, at the end of June, Shinawatra spoke to a sea of red-shirted supporters; the ructions look set to continue. As the situation looks to be simmering with the potential to boil over at any time, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office are advising people not to get involved in any political gatherings (which will be a toughie for me – but I do like living, so I promise that I will not get involved and write about it instead).

Leaves – a villanelle

This poem was inspired by someone who changed my life – you know who you are (and I think you’re amazing with what you’re now doing with your life). I started to write it about two years ago, when I still wasn’t quite over it, with the line: “and when I remember you, I think of trees”.

Pinning the poem down, and writing it using the poetic form of villanelle, was a right bugger; they look so easy and have a lovely song-like quality with the use of refrain – don’t let that fool you! Being a bit of a free verse free thinker, I’m not used being constrained by structure. However, I found that by having structure this forced me to really think about the poem: its meaning, the language, ensuring the rhyme wasn’t forced etc (I don’t think it’s too forced – do let me know what you think).

I think I was inspired to use the form from one of my favourite poems: Sylvia Plath’s Mad Girl’s Love Song.

Finally, on a personal note, this is the laying to rest of the formerly monikered: The Man Who Broke My Heart; I’ve forgiven him.

Leaves

Back then I loved to watch the bees
buzzing in lavender; I felt I was there again,
and when I remember you, I think of trees.

The sky was bluer than all the seas
I gazed upward avoiding the yellow flame.
Back then I loved to watch the bees.

I climbed a sycamore, felt the soft breeze
carry the smell of growth: the green spring rain
and when I remember you, I think of trees.

I tried to hide behind the star-shaped leaves
willed them to fall in short-lived fame.
Back then I loved to watch the bees.

On that wooden floor, I wished time would freeze:
like us, branches entwined, became the same
and when I remember you, I think of trees.

I kissed you and you tasted of memories.
Bitter-tainted. Never to happen again.
Back then I loved to watch the bees
and when I remember you, I think of trees.

22nd February – 3rd March 2009

London Free School this weekend!!

If you’re in the South this weekend get yourself to the London Free School. DIY workshops, skill sharing, films and food. Looks like it’ll be ace!

Hate fascism? Detest the BNP? Live in the North West? Good, then VOTE!

And preferably vote Green, here’s why:

Merrick explains why, in a far more erudite way. If you live in NW England just vote, OK?!

Yes, I’ve handed in my anarchist badge for this week

Grating expectations

A bit of bellybutton observation, and introspection, whilst I’m writing up my final essays and E-learning presentation for the PGCE course I’m doing.

This is a displacement activity; I feel a need to pointlessly purge my soul at you – you lucky readers, you!

As some of you out there in Cyberland know, I split up with my partner of three and a half years back in mid-March. I’ve been feeling a little teary on and off (my fault – shouldn’t listen to anything by Regina Spektor). But I know that it’s OK – and it’s perfectly normal – to feel a little sad from time to time, even though it was the best thing to do.

That aside, certain relatives keep pointing out my lack of relationship (yes, I know after such a short time too!) stating the following facts:

1. I’m thirty (well done, your maths is astute)
2. I’m not married (again, well done, your powers of observation are unsurpassed)
3. I don’t have any children (well, there’s none that I know of!)

It particularly grates as it’s really, really not that unusual to be any of the above three things!

I think it’s the expectations that some of my older relatives who are trapped in a certain social and cultural contexts. This comes complete with commentary and questions such as:

• “You’ve had how many boyfriends, Jennifer.” (none of your business!)
• “Don’t you want to own your own place?” (um, not on my teacher’s bursary, and I don’t particularly want a mortgage hanging around my neck like the proverbial Coleridge albatross)
• “Do you not want to have children?” (yes, but not quite yet)
• “Why don’t you have a career?” (my life is my career, thank you very much)

All of this is incredibly annoying!

Hints and tips on how to deal with these – rather than my usual trick of: nodding, smiling, and gentle explanations rather than sarcasm – are most welcome!

Back to work now!

New poem – Fall Out.

Wrote this today for this evening’s Creative Remembrances event. This event was a fundraiser for Amnesty International and the Disasters Emergency Committee. This was held in the characteristically shabby, yet atmospheric Platt Chapel Arts and Community Project nestled at the top of Platt Fields Park.

Fall Out

And then there was silence;
A solemn stillness.
Dressing the ground, the desiccated debris
Of café, house, school, shop
Shimmered like silica and fell to earth
Almost as if in slow motion.

And then there was silence;
Before then, a sonorous sky
Sounded out the tak-tak-tak of gunfire;
The fist fall of rockets glazed the night;
Frightening: but deathly beautiful was the light:
A fallout of illumination.

And then there was silence;
Slivers of silver
Stud the wall, the stars reflected;
Light refracted – mirrored by the eyes of families
Wandering the streets like walking wounded
Quietly tending to the dead and damaged.

And then there was silence;
Silken and strange;
An unexpected eulogy both innocent, and silent:
Soft tears submerged the eyes of those that were left.
Then the screaming began
And that broke the silence.

6th May 2009

Choir conundrum!

It’s Choirfest in July, and this year it’s in Whitby. Last year, the street singing festival was in Brighton, and it was amazing. I wasn’t in a choir either, but I blagged it by singing with the Sea Green Singers and, through cunning costume changing, Côr Cochion Caerdydd.

I really want to go again!

I may have to clone myself.

EDIT, 6th May – Due to a change in personal circumstances, I don’t think it’d be a good idea for me to go this year However, if you can make it, it’s a great weekender

Highlights from last year:

• Praise You outside the library.
• Guantanamera again, outside the library.
• All Will Be Well – on Brighton sea front!