Art:Up! Radical Islands Poems
We are delighted to be involved in the Art:Up! – a collaborative poetry project involving writers and performers across Essex. It is a joint initiative between the University of Essex, Waxes Lyrical at HotBox in Chelmsford, Poetry Plus in Manningtree, Boho Banter in Clacton-On-Sea and Essex Book Festival.
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Ten Years On
By Brenda Wells
Sunday afternoons, defined by unremitting claustrophobia
The steady, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock
In the forbidding hall, where light falls, in dust-filled columns
The snipping of scissors, for scrap-booking or embroidery
Suitable occupations for the unmarried lady
At the end of the war, we had hoped for so much
But the men who did return home, were changed
Damaged in many ways, some in ways we could not see
And sadly, failed to understand
We had lost husbands, brothers, fiancés and friends
Soon learned the term ‘superfluous women’
Those for whom no husband would be found
But the war had changed women too
We had driven buses and ambulances
Become nurses: some had gone to France
Where they too had seen, the horrors wrought on the battlefield
We wanted more from life than occupation; agency, motivation
So strived for fulfilment, wishing to be acknowledged, valued
The need for female suffrage had been felt and then voiced
Many joined together in the fight for shared beliefs
Achievements were patchy, a long time in coming
Were hard won; universal suffrage arriving in 1928
Was a just reward;
although the fight for equality – would go on
The Radical Islands of Womanhood
By Brenda Wells
Women, the weaker sex, the minority group, the underrepresented
Have long formed Radical Islands, of their own design
United, they have fought side by side; sisters, mothers, daughters, friends
Banding together, bonded, acting on a desire, a need to be heard, recognised
Calling out for equality, for a voice, for representation, for their rights
Often for peace and equity, which extends far beyond, their own needs
From the darkest days, when existence without a male sponsor
Be he; father, husband or brother; seemed almost impossible
When, for some, money and lands, were handed over at marriage
When even those women who brought wealth, found soon, that little of it remained
Even the ownership of their own bodies, their children
Could not be taken for granted
Be they women of letters, women who work, women in need
All women become equal, when running to be free from oppression or violence
Coming from all spheres of life and seemingly across time
The persecuted, the abused, the abandoned, the once privileged
Each one carrying a bag, of unique burdens; a complex history
Each one owning unique gifts, talents, potential
Together they have forged hearts, rich with optimism and hope
Created networks of support, which thrive on discussion and sharing
Built Radical Islands of resistance, on the wreckage of past lives
On shattered dreams; while ever remaining vigilant of those
Who would snatch away, the little they have achieved, over long years
Knowing always, that their work will never be over
As they fight to maintain all that has been gained; while they try to move forward
So, shall you go, to the radical island?
Leave all behind you and come
Join others in a new-found freedom
Where wishes and desires become one
For there is peace on the radical island
Release from what troubles your heart
It can be wild on the radical island
For the women who would stand apart
Flagging
By David Peplow
Flagging, I ain’t flaggin’ I’ve been flaggin’.
Buzzin’ that’s what I am absolutely buzzin’
Been all over putting flags up on lamp posts
and spraying the cross.
Now I’m sweating,
standing on this white island
in its sea of black tarmac
A fresh red cross sprayed across it.
Doing my bit. Proud.
Some lefty bloke slowed down and said
“from this approach it looks like St. Patrick’s saltire.”
Not a fuckin’ clue what he was on about.
Woke nonce.
The flaming red paint’s wet
and getting on my trainers,
a bit slippery on my white island.
Cor, the bin men start early,
A slip – smelling the paint.
A loud pop and crunch
like a dropped watermelon,
red and white mingle.
A slick of pink.
Hidden Island
By David Peplow
Comb over flops down
Reveals a hidden island
Clippers start shearing
Radical islands (Wild roses)
By Ella Davies
The island is not clean cut
It’s jagged around the edge
The bushes are not neatly trimmed
And we don’t paint white roses red
The rocks don’t size up to one another to see who’s big and strong
The ocean doesn’t erode our will
Nor taunt us with it’s song
There are no butterflies, just the moths
And they all have hairy legs
Perfume doesn’t promote toxicity
We smell flowers, not scents
We don’t pollute the planet
with our carbon copies
No suit puts a price on the nectar of the bees
No man throws shade on the shape of the trees
No porcelain masks are forced upon our skin
No compulsion to bleach when roots grows thin
No time to be artificial
We don’t look the same
No bottles, no brands, no ads and no name
And yet, we are beautiful
By Gordon Hoyles
And so we go on laughing and crying
sifting the truth from all kinds of lying
loudly proclaiming, admitting, denying
these are the tides of living and dying.
Dubious intrigue whispering, sighing
going along with or strongly defying
fact and opinion constantly vying
these are the tides of living and dying.
Change by forcing or freely deciding
stealing or barter, selling or buying
these are the tides of living and dying
and so we go on laughing and crying.
Battle from a mute island of one
By Joolz Wood
Maholy Maholy
Leda and the Swan
My Holy My Holy
An Island alone
Rusting battle boat adrift
On a slick of oil
Creaking under critical stare
Inner voice of the mute
The silent bow rages
Blood red beak and foot
Three black Swans
Swim through me
A waterless silted lake
Revealing an Island of one tree
Heavy boots sucked down
Memories drift as echoes
On a black swan’s beak
Leda was not alone
By Joolz Wood and Jordan Savage
Maholy Maholy
Leda and the Swan
Liede
My Holy My Holy
Oyf meyn liebe
An Island alone
Rusting battle boat adrift
Nothing
On a slick of oil
Saying nothing
Creaking under critical stare
Seeing nothing
Song
Inner voice of the mute
Swan
The silent bow rages
Swan Song
Blood red beak and foot
Body saying
Three black Swans
Saying nothing
Swim through me
Here now
My voice
A waterless silted lake
Speaking
Revealing an Island of one tree
Heavy boots sucked down
My body
Memories drift as echoes
Singing, saying nothing
Swan Song
On a black swan’s beak
Liede
By Jordan Savage
Leda was never alone
leda leda leda (Brahms lullaby)
Leda lay.
Leda in the mud dismantling.
Leda was never alone.
Leda lay.
Leda lay.
Leda lay
Breathing
(gas and air. gas and air.)
Smiling.
(gas and air. gas and air.)
Smiling in greeting
through gas and air
laughing,
Leda in love holding.
One, two
Holding
Three four
Leda mother in love holding
One two three four,
Leda mother,
Leda singing –
Leda.
Mother of such beauty.
Leda mother,
holding.
Mother loving,
mother of beauty,
Leda mother of war.
Leda was never alone.
Mother of beauty. Mother of immortality.
Look around you now to Leda’s children.
Leda mortal,
living sacrifice lying below,
Leda rising.
Leda embodying beauty,
Out of Leda such promise of beauty, of eternal life,
Leda, vision of the future,
Unforgetting.
Mute swan wife.
Leda of the lullaby,
Leda smiling.
Mother of war.
Accidental Islands
By MJ and X-Lee Poetry
accidental islands
connected by our thoughts and words
colliding
though we’re miles apart
eyes closed
listening
for the stillness
the calm held within the loudness
of our breath
translation
of the language of the oceans
signs and symbols
etched upon the shorelines
tides edged by sheaths of seaweed
drifting
boarders
with other lands
separated by the waters
consumed by passion and our beliefs
unafraid
our conviction
to stand proud
without dereliction
in distinction and pride
selflessly setting our anxiety aside
for there was nowhere to hide
yet seaweed drifted on shorelines
nature’s battle lines ebb and flow
accidental islands
in waters push and toe
as stalwart daughters and sons
reluctant to let go
incidental and incremental inhabitants
of isles irrepressibly retained
impressively encircled
restrained
irrespective of scorelines
land unceasingly bows down
relinquishing her crown
unto the caress of ocean
unlimited like humanity
by ravage of time
only captive to gravity wherever she
may happen to be
By MJ and X-Lee Poetry
the battle for helpless lives
hapless
herded by merciless
cold-hearted Shepherds and Cowmen
voices detached
carried from mouths towards the harbour
and Oliver’s Wharf
B1029 curves
and winds
all roads lead down to the Hard
each step
placed with careful consideration
in trepidation
anticipation
no retreat, no surrender
no resignation
one foot before the other
joined in common cause
banter and laughter
emotional barriers against the tension
trucks surrounded
swaying
inelegantly sashaying
side to side over bumps and potholes
weighted by their load
the bleats
cloven feet stamp, slide
a demonstration of unity
linked arms between
the ages and the classes
spread
to block the path
maximum disruption
Boudica’s army
women, housewives, mothers, grandmas, children strapped in prams
pensioners
connected and woven
floral headscarves and aprons
with school run protesters
outnumbering the “radical young”
defiant
thrum’s dulcet hums
breaking rules
and what society expects of them
the so called “lawbreakers”
risk takers
determination
an act of impulse, Tilly, a legendary rose
grabs a garden hose
soaks a copper
a uniformed rozzer, aggressive, tempestuous
with his brain-dead mates
ready to dish out bother
in their bovver boots
used to shit kicking youths
repurposing their use
putting their boots
enthusiastically into grannies
youngsters nannies
pushed and shoved
grabbed with a petulant bellicosity
an unfamiliar ferocity,
Tilly got
kicked and shoved, exclaims “I can take that. I’m fairly tough, you know”
grit beneath our fingernails
digging in our skin as we sit upon the ground,
the arrestors
three hundred rabid bully boys in blue
ready to fight
anyone in sight
with riot shields
wielding truncheons
jackboots stamp and punch
power-crazy
with gnashing teeth
they munch
wilder than any beasts ever unleashed
hungry for a feast
who flaunt
the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act
as fact
to justify their illicit acts
– declare this an illegal gathering
complicit
the slaughter man
sprouts non-existent conspiracy suggestions
raises a major complaint with his MP
against the storm
the sadness, that the last faces these creatures see
are mixed with compassion and with anger
for the cruelty and injustices meted out
for their lives
that these unlikely rebels
so dearly and really
cared about