...hmmm.... yeah.... right....???
i'll take it from here then, shall i?
Drawing by Zena Edwards Dec 2010©
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Friday, 14 January 2011
IF DADDY - A Poem for my Absent Father
All too often we hear about young boys, particularly ones of African descent, not having father figures and going off the rails. We hear about them either ending up as fodder for jail, aimless wanderers with no idea how to behave as men and/or winding up being absent fathers themselves, with no sense of responsibility. Well guess what, sometimes those fatherless men end up with fatherless daughters because these women have no idea what it means to have an entity around the house being a father or a man either.
If there are no other male role models in their lives - friends, uncles and such - then the journey to knowing what a 'Man' looks like is distressing.
Men are NOT the same as women purely because of that macho patriarchal socialization, programming and training of what a man is supposed to be. Posturing Rap stars, magazines like FHM and bolshie arrogant banking city and media types have a lot to answer for. But even then I think that idea is a confused misnomer. Who knows what manhood looks like these days when men can buy calf, bicep and pec implants, have as many cosmetic products as women and expect women to pay their way out of spite for all the years they had to. Ok, maybe I'm being harsh there.
Men are NOT the same as women purely because of that macho patriarchal socialization, programming and training of what a man is supposed to be. Posturing Rap stars, magazines like FHM and bolshie arrogant banking city and media types have a lot to answer for. But even then I think that idea is a confused misnomer. Who knows what manhood looks like these days when men can buy calf, bicep and pec implants, have as many cosmetic products as women and expect women to pay their way out of spite for all the years they had to. Ok, maybe I'm being harsh there.
What I think is important though, is that there is a human responsibility to the nurturing of the future generations. Boy AND Girl children need good female and male ideals around them. Not perfect cos maybe that's too much to ask sometimes but they need people around them who are seen to at least be trying to do the right thing. Kids are smart. They can tell the difference when someone cares or not.
Little girls need to feel the vibration of a man's voice that loves them. Then they will know the sound of Love. They need to feel the embrace of a man that respects them. Then they will know the touch of Respect and Love. They need to see the silhouette of a man wishing them sweet dreams. Then they will know the shape of support for their dreams when they see it, the touch of respect when they feel it and the sound of Love when they hear it. No woman should suffer any form of abuse at the end of the fist or tongue of a man. It is unnecessary let alone wrong.
This poem is the for the father I have never known but who I love still for his absence. Part of my journey to finding out the true meaning of Womanhood has been through an unpredictable and rocky path to understanding Manhood.
Click, listen, read, immerse, enjoy. Peace. Z
Click, listen, read, immerse, enjoy. Peace. Z
If Daddy
daddy's gone
daddy's gone
daddy's gone
daddy's gone away
yes daddy's gone to stay gone
Was my existence braided on purpose
in to the journey of your mission bound spermatozoa?
where were they headed for real though?
meant for the long dark red of my mothers fallopian tube?
to her open womb?
where i unfurled into this life
a full thing with no name from my fathers side
just a black strike on my birth certificate
my fathers namelessness comes to me in dreams
or in the films of other peoples daddy’s
I’d turn my face ashamed of my dad
yes blindly ashamed and blissfully proud
I’d be comforted, reassured and strong with my daddy
as he carried my 3 foot high body, my head resting on his shoulder
while he strided like palm trees sway
but I'd also be angry and hateful toward my daddy,
grateful toward my daddy, cuss him out in my pillow,
wish he were dead and call him by his first name for a week,
my jaw stubborn as the karma of my life without him
I’d be dutiful daughter and kiss him sweet on the cheek at bedtime
I’d want to smack my own dad in the mouth
disobey his rules / come back 43 minutes after curfew and not apologise
I’d be his sugar dumpling, loyal and smiling,
I’d be full of love then I’d curse in front of him and back chat,
wear make up at thirteen and never bring my boyfriends home to meet him
I’d do all these things and more
just to test to my daddy
fling my arms around his neck and see if he’d forgive me
just to make sure,
I’d put my dad through hell
I’d do all these things and more
just to make sure
but where does the fire from all these impetuous tempestuous feelings go
in the of decades space, shoulder deep into an army back pack
smelling of johnny cakes mum made on Sundays and gunpowder
from the war that took him when i was three weeks old.
my daddy was an army man with black cat claws
and couple of other women’s draws, notched on his rifle butt,
but he loved me enough to write a letter or two....
to do the right thing by his baby mama
daddy should know his girls feet are strong
her shoulders are broad
that refined things don't pass by her ears and eyes unnoticed
no one can talk to her as if she’s
a fool
Daddy. Dad. Daddy.
How does that word sit on my lips?
a cluster of D’s exploding from my tongue
vibrating the air around me like an ectoplasmic echo
But I ain’t mad, just lonely
to know know what saying “Daddy” would be like
and a voice with bass in it
that recognised mine like keys in locks
would call back
opening doors to safe and sound security
a full night sleep with my Super Dad snoring loudly down the hall
I ain’t mad
daddy’s gone away
yes daddy's gone to stay
Written by Zena Edwards 2008©
Monday, 10 January 2011
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Monday, 3 January 2011
NAILS TO DIE FOR
Written By Zena Edwards 2001©
Melanie's nails tip the scales beyond the balanced rational of modern architecture.
Rhinestone encrusted, they arch entrusted to an adhesive, bonding live nail to acrylic
Three Saturdays of her minimum wage slave was the price Mel paid. Her manager points out the impracticality of her newly acquired appendages. Mel points a beclawed index digit retreating, hissing her warning like a lioness, cub protecting, "Don’t you come between her and her ten reasons for living!"
of charmless males, who liked her thigh, her buttocks tight and high
Her breast pointing to the sky, her clean wet eyes.
Mels nails meant she never washed a dish from that monumental day.
Like a buzz from a passing fly were her mothers the complaints -
Ignored or irritatingly swatted away with a curled lip
Her ears had closed to that voice long ago anyway.
The space between which was not full of air
as maternal blusters and playground blasts had blown her to believe
from pubescent rebukes alluding to her bodily parts
that chose to round and swell before she had lost
her clumsy schoolgirl gait; those bulges that attracted
Unifying her in a mirage marriage of sophisticate Ameri-carib elite to brown girl in
Beauty College from Tottenham high street.
Beauty College from Tottenham high street.
Mel got her nails from “US GAL, from a real Korean chick with her high heeled,
tiled floor cracking, sling backing tight jeaned or shorted skirt wearing, little tittied,
hair flicking, eye flitting but perfectionist focus for nails building self.
tiled floor cracking, sling backing tight jeaned or shorted skirt wearing, little tittied,
hair flicking, eye flitting but perfectionist focus for nails building self.
Three Saturdays of her minimum wage slave was the price Mel paid. Her manager points out the impracticality of her newly acquired appendages. Mel points a beclawed index digit retreating, hissing her warning like a lioness, cub protecting, "Don’t you come between her and her ten reasons for living!"
Mel's nails entrap the gaze of the mind ticking the gansta rap on MTV box - big black six packs and guns, undulating brown flesh in thongs... Mel imagines it’s her choice of rhinestones on her thumb that catch the sun and leaves them struck dumb.
Mels nails tell a tale of her clawing her way through a thicketof charmless males, who liked her thigh, her buttocks tight and high
Her breast pointing to the sky, her clean wet eyes.
Mels nails meant she never washed a dish from that monumental day.
Like a buzz from a passing fly were her mothers the complaints -
Ignored or irritatingly swatted away with a curled lip
Her ears had closed to that voice long ago anyway.
The space between which was not full of air
as maternal blusters and playground blasts had blown her to believe
from pubescent rebukes alluding to her bodily parts
that chose to round and swell before she had lost
her clumsy schoolgirl gait; those bulges that attracted
an attention she only knew made her uncomfortable
made want to origami herself in to shape of a boat
or something even less interesting.
Poked at for contemplative visage mistaken for shy
inaccurately diagnosed as "Well She's just stupid, innit."
And her inclination for re-potting plants was not a reflection
on her personality as being an unanimated as a wallflower.
She just liked to help things grow.
somewhere down the line she had put down the gardening gloves
and picked up shears pruning that soft touch don't say much
into a loose lip l such and such
it wasn’t enough to just dispassionately exist
scratch the varnished surface and see after the eclipse
it wasn’t enough to just dispassionately exist
scratch the varnished surface and see after the eclipse
You find a small tongue cannot articulate big pain lying under cover, could not choose
which night was dream filled, could not wish away
the rain that fell on Mels small world. Her blamelessness
bent over backwards a rainbow under those dark clouds smelling
of thick mans smell and Tennents Extra unmasked
by the favourite aftershaveof her stepfather seeping
under her door and into her bed.
And between the mothers back teeth laughing, his big hand
her mothers broad hip stoking and heavy whispering
in ears only open for compliments and good girl pay offs,
mother rationalises blindness for the impossibility
of his preference of her daughter over herself….
which night was dream filled, could not wish away
the rain that fell on Mels small world. Her blamelessness
bent over backwards a rainbow under those dark clouds smelling
of thick mans smell and Tennents Extra unmasked
by the favourite aftershaveof her stepfather seeping
under her door and into her bed.
And between the mothers back teeth laughing, his big hand
her mothers broad hip stoking and heavy whispering
in ears only open for compliments and good girl pay offs,
mother rationalises blindness for the impossibility
of his preference of her daughter over herself….
Thus after nose, brow, dimple navel and eighteenth ear piercing
through which her frustration escaped, Melanie painted
her nails a shock of colour She chose herself. Definitively.
Uncompromisingly - Nefertiti on her left pinkie with a tiny gold ring
punched through representing her vague knowledge of self, a sun setting
on an Island beach and solitary palm tree, firework, stars, explosions of a kaleidoscope
Mel got her nails and face painted to accentuate the light and shade
of her dreams not to cover up the shabby seams of tear darned recoveries. No….
of her dreams not to cover up the shabby seams of tear darned recoveries. No….
Misadventure was a survivor’s test. She knew this and her promenades into womanhood
Were strewn with the waste of her hurts.
But she prettied them up with polish and flares of yellow brick roads,
glitterati carnivals, and the lazy sound of droning bees pollinating
in a park in Tottenham filling
her body to bursting, shooting out of her fingers tips like car headlights.
She had fine art Picassoed over her nails in the colours she chose
for herself definitively and uncompromisingly.
Cos Mel's nails were her dreams manifest.
glitterati carnivals, and the lazy sound of droning bees pollinating
in a park in Tottenham filling
her body to bursting, shooting out of her fingers tips like car headlights.
She had fine art Picassoed over her nails in the colours she chose
for herself definitively and uncompromisingly.
Cos Mel's nails were her dreams manifest.
Her conquest. What she claimed.
Uncompromisingly.
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Blankets and Roses - A Poem for my Mother
for my Mother
Watching Mama crochet
her concentration so profound clear
seeing beyond the web stitch
good times bad times play time hard times
moments
her concentration so profound clear
seeing beyond the web stitch
good times bad times play time hard times
moments
of no time
walks to the waters edge of still lakes
the warm smell brown earth sun drying
after a rain fall when she tends her roses
patient silent cooking
deep fragrant bath soaks
walks to the waters edge of still lakes
the warm smell brown earth sun drying
after a rain fall when she tends her roses
patient silent cooking
deep fragrant bath soaksMamas faces drops years when she crochets
the worry lines in her forehead lift evaporate
like malt whiskey on the tongue
her silvering hair catches the forty-watt glitter
and a mirror ball
I see her back is straight now
Her shoulders loose
Her feet out of their shoes and her red nail polish sings out
fingers deftly magic up a multicoloured world favoured by high purple
the worry lines in her forehead lift evaporate
like malt whiskey on the tongue
her silvering hair catches the forty-watt glitter
and a mirror ball
I see her back is straight now
Her shoulders loose
Her feet out of their shoes and her red nail polish sings out
fingers deftly magic up a multicoloured world favoured by high purple
Mama crochets and I watch
My Mama unfold into a creation
spreading over her knees
onto the carpet across the floor
out into the street
blanketing the earth with her affection
her patience and her passion
My Mama unfold into a creation
spreading over her knees
onto the carpet across the floor
out into the street
blanketing the earth with her affection
her patience and her passion
Watching Mama crochet
I learn peace
I learn peace
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
When It was My turn to Talk - Extract from "TRAVELING LIGHT" a new One Woman Show by Zena Edwards
When It was My turn to Talk
written by Zena Edwards May 2010©
I have been a woman that has
looked out of windows, stood on street corners,
looked out of windows, stood on street corners,
cleaned floors on my knees, borne children
on my knees and chased rainbows
wrote my name out loud in a cloud
from a deep sigh on the glass
wrote my name out loud in a cloud
from a deep sigh on the glass
a silent gale force
that could huff and puff and blow
that could huff and puff and blow
the houses of patriarch down
The space that my voice was to occupy
my part in the harmony, my heart on the melody
my life woven in the song of life’s symphony
was constricted, my voice,
hollow chest, shallow depth, suffocating
See when it was my turn to talk
which wasn't very often (because I am a woman)
which wasn't very often (because I am a woman)
a child’s voice squeezed out,
my voice on this tongue, hadn’t a chance to grow
this was lesson one
speaking my mind is a minefield
trip wires every where,
in the court, where I must have wanted it dressed like that
at work after the sexual harassment case,
at war, after the 17th rape
disgraced there was no returning
at home, he walked in the door, high, pissed and late,
full of misplaced hate, number 2million and 8 on the jobless list
and still punctuated his demands for dinner with a fist
but I found when it was my turn to talk
(which was not very often)
being black, my tongue had the weight
being black, my tongue had the weight
of a continent wrapped in chains
fixed to a concrete slab (tied to it)
and a whip crack was all that came out
and a whip crack was all that came out
when I opened my mouth
when it was my turn to talk
they told me I was to old, that I was too fat ,
that I was too skinny, that I was too fat
they told me my skin was too dark, that I had to fix the attitude
that came with it
the one that asked “why not?”
the one that said no and meant it
They asked me to tell that voice to behave,
to bury it, in this here conscripted government grave
Where it will be logged and forgotten about for the next millennium
my input would only upset the equilibrium
you trade my voice, trick it, trap it,
force it then beat it if it refuses
to sleep with man number 13 at this hour of the morning
stack it up as dirty money, stained. moss green –
bottle fly blue, purple aubergine, mucky yellow mottle
the colour of bruises, the colour of lust,
the colour of my dreams
that stand in the corner stunned
turned, facing the wall
they cannot look at this me,
this scene of my dignity’s carnage
When it was my turn to talk
It was made perfectly clear that there
was no space for me to talk here
amongst the men, amongst the testosterone
because the hysteria that sits below
my navel raises the risk of instability
in a system that is evidently working so well
war running smoothly, lining the pockets
of arms and oil traders
might scupper the race to evacuate this planet made dump,
by fantasy space invaders
the plot the rule the world
is working thank you very much
to protect herself, a woman has to know
when to make her presence felt and when to shut up
and stay skinny, stay fat, stay uneducated,
stay at home, stay on your back, stay in the kitchen,
stay under cover of broken wings,
while they sing with tenor, alto and bass
sonic booms that crack the face of this earth
till she bleeds lava, tsunami whips her hair,
floods the land with her tears
and I am here,
looking out of the window of this body
displaced in my own skin
trapped between brick walls and the corrugated
sheets of a run down shanty town
called life where I’m barely existing
Monday, 11 October 2010
What will be, will dream
My blood evacuates
sliding through the pores of my skin, red pearls
the atoms inside spun out, glittering,
to kiss pure darkness, to taste light
after the cornucopia had crescendo-ed in the western corner
and hedonist hawks* flew into the sun
packs of she wolves convened under the moon
sung of solace so superb
echoed across my mauve dreamscape
Queen Lunar turned her face
but not her back
blew out the stars, so my sleep walk
would be unhindered by the spikes of their sparkles
no diamond points to prick my feet
to bleed my mark on destiny pre-named
Zena Edwards©
* somebody who favours the use of military force in the implementing of foreign policy rather than diplomatic solutions
sliding through the pores of my skin, red pearls
the atoms inside spun out, glittering,
to kiss pure darkness, to taste light
after the cornucopia had crescendo-ed in the western corner
and hedonist hawks* flew into the sun
packs of she wolves convened under the moon
sung of solace so superb
echoed across my mauve dreamscape
Queen Lunar turned her face
but not her back
blew out the stars, so my sleep walk
would be unhindered by the spikes of their sparkles
no diamond points to prick my feet
to bleed my mark on destiny pre-named
Zena Edwards©
* somebody who favours the use of military force in the implementing of foreign policy rather than diplomatic solutions
Friday, 6 August 2010
sleeping
i do not feel beautiful while you sleep
and I know this is wrong
i should not need your words or your gaze
but they make me feel good
i feel good, good
like all the badness i've ever done
were things that somebody else sung about
someone else wrote in the chords of their imaginings
i have no part of them
whille you sleep i wait up for your return
from the dogs, swimming pools, dungeons and rope ladders of your dreams
that you tell me about in the morning
I could watch you sleep for days
that way I'd know where you are
that way i can be next to you while you expose the underbelly of your vulnerability
knowing you trust me, trust that i think you are beautiful too
and I know this is wrong
i should not need your words or your gaze
but they make me feel good
i feel good, good
like all the badness i've ever done
were things that somebody else sung about
someone else wrote in the chords of their imaginings
i have no part of them
whille you sleep i wait up for your return
from the dogs, swimming pools, dungeons and rope ladders of your dreams
that you tell me about in the morning
I could watch you sleep for days
that way I'd know where you are
that way i can be next to you while you expose the underbelly of your vulnerability
knowing you trust me, trust that i think you are beautiful too
Bebé del Carnaval
I was at Burgess Park last weekend a the Latin festival - Carnaval del Pueblo. I had my camera. My new camera bought because I had lost my voice for 5 solid weeks. I discovered how hungry the eyes are for food and how fickle they are - always searching for the next new scoop, the story that will curb the cravings. When I got home, they unfurled themselves to me like cheeky strippers, like lucky dips and silent constellations.
My first photo blog. Click pic for full effect.
My first photo blog. Click pic for full effect.
Her hair is the earth, brown, deep
rich with mineral, a forest
of brand new thought
wind whipped into an ice cream quiff
she nips the familiar arm that cradles her
with gummy jaws, so sensitive, tasting
salt and tracings of some body spray
pursing lips that would speak purity
into jaded eyes that would break
tears imprisoning
any heart: shatter, tinkle - music
her own eyes focus on the resonance of voices
hears the emotion behind the guise of words -
she is that attuned
And one day her hair will fall the height of a great mountain
along her back, ripped from flexing, from wrestling
with the devil
cushioned by the fatty comfort of prayer
a woman's contours emanate
a softness, a gentleness
that cannot be hidden no matter how arduous
the game
because the woman that holds her
will not let her fall, holds herself
in a grip of a mirror gaze
remembering her own innocence
laced with vanilla and her mothers magnolia plants
this newness that tugs on her hair
to know its texture, wizened
with disappointments and loss , washed
laced with vanilla and her mothers magnolia plants
this newness that tugs on her hair
to know its texture, wizened
with disappointments and loss , washed
with accepting, forgiving,
another new beginning
hair meets hair
and the hum of the festival bumps on
hair meets hair
and the hum of the festival bumps on
Poem written by Zena Edwards copyright Aug 2010
Thursday, 7 January 2010
A photo of a girl
there is a photo of a girl
12, 13, slim wrists long neck
she walks wearing peach with blue flip flops
stepping with a familiarity over the slippery backs of 8 pipelines
she is at number 5
she seek protection from a gentle rain falling from the African sky
holding an umbrella with a bright yellow shell on it
behind her, between the giant palm leaves
dragons roar, bellowing black billows
belligerent belches of acridity in to sky
when I put my ear close to the photo I can hear her asthmatic breath
each clap of her plastic flip flop against her heel
makes a poem in her step
it is the sound of every day people
who live with pipelines like tapeworms
sucking the placenta and excreting
toxic into the bloodstream of nation
the rivers are graveyards
the wetlands, thirsty for clean breath
the land is hemorrhaging
miscarrying cocoyam and vegetable seed
boys who have given up waiting for jobs to come
eye her as she walks by,
a generation numbed by the futility of existence
it is ironic that their most valuable asset becomes their Achilles heel
the idleness of youth fervent for action
dumps them in the hands of ak47 robber gangs
who howl in the night to the tune
of their masters - myopic mad men in business
all grappling for a fist of flaccid dollars
greed at the price of a village
but then again everything has it’s price in the world
like this girl with the poetry in her step, the poisonous air
in her lungs is a currency
as is her mothers sludge garden and her fathers chest
face and shoulders burned in the last accident
the truth is a jealous but patient thing
it bide no hazes of the facts or credibility gaps
there is only one fragrance that it harbours
time, the scent of time moves from freshness, to death
to rot, to the fertilization of new days
it is between the pages of a day in court
that a mystery of can be solved
why it takes twelve long years to walk the twisted violent gauntlet to justice
why nine lives were thrown into a wound cut with a knife of lies
how the spirits of the tortured and murdered
can be redeemed from the dispassionate mouth of brutal greed
and how with the wondrous alchemy of nature
instead of the bitter bile rising to the mouth of the fisherman and the farmer
works songs will rise over the trees,
will dance with the fish along the creeks
will paint across a sky uninterrupted by fire and towers of black smoke
and how the poem of the girl in blue flip flops,
can be fetched from under the fattened rump of human disregard
and used to re-imagine the world
how she can close the umbrella with the yellow shell on it
and walk in the unpolluted rain falling from an African sky
12, 13, slim wrists long neck
she walks wearing peach with blue flip flops
stepping with a familiarity over the slippery backs of 8 pipelines
she is at number 5
she seek protection from a gentle rain falling from the African sky
holding an umbrella with a bright yellow shell on it
behind her, between the giant palm leaves
dragons roar, bellowing black billows
belligerent belches of acridity in to sky
when I put my ear close to the photo I can hear her asthmatic breath
each clap of her plastic flip flop against her heel
makes a poem in her step
it is the sound of every day people
who live with pipelines like tapeworms
sucking the placenta and excreting
toxic into the bloodstream of nation
the rivers are graveyards
the wetlands, thirsty for clean breath
the land is hemorrhaging
miscarrying cocoyam and vegetable seed
boys who have given up waiting for jobs to come
eye her as she walks by,
a generation numbed by the futility of existence
it is ironic that their most valuable asset becomes their Achilles heel
the idleness of youth fervent for action
dumps them in the hands of ak47 robber gangs
who howl in the night to the tune
of their masters - myopic mad men in business
all grappling for a fist of flaccid dollars
greed at the price of a village
but then again everything has it’s price in the world
like this girl with the poetry in her step, the poisonous air
in her lungs is a currency
as is her mothers sludge garden and her fathers chest
face and shoulders burned in the last accident
the truth is a jealous but patient thing
it bide no hazes of the facts or credibility gaps
there is only one fragrance that it harbours
time, the scent of time moves from freshness, to death
to rot, to the fertilization of new days
it is between the pages of a day in court
that a mystery of can be solved
why it takes twelve long years to walk the twisted violent gauntlet to justice
why nine lives were thrown into a wound cut with a knife of lies
how the spirits of the tortured and murdered
can be redeemed from the dispassionate mouth of brutal greed
and how with the wondrous alchemy of nature
instead of the bitter bile rising to the mouth of the fisherman and the farmer
works songs will rise over the trees,
will dance with the fish along the creeks
will paint across a sky uninterrupted by fire and towers of black smoke
and how the poem of the girl in blue flip flops,
can be fetched from under the fattened rump of human disregard
and used to re-imagine the world
how she can close the umbrella with the yellow shell on it
and walk in the unpolluted rain falling from an African sky
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)