Fran Lock

Fran Lock

Fran Lock Ph.D. is a some-time dog whisperer, activist, and the author of seven poetry collections and numerous chapbooks, most recently 'Raptures and Captures', published by Culture Matters, the last in a trilogy of works with collage artist Steev Burgess. 

Choose to Challenge: International Working Women's Day 2021
Sunday, 07 March 2021 19:15

Choose to Challenge: International Working Women's Day 2021

Published in Poetry

Fran Lock introduces some poems for International (Working) Women's Day 2021. Images above and in text: Jane Burn

IWWD – or IWD as we're now supposed to call it – has had some pretty ropey “themes” in the past. But this year, I feel more positively inclined: 'Choose to Challenge' evokes the mutual and fiercely responsible feminism of Audre Lorde when she writes in 'The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism': “I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own.”

Capitalism wants us to believe that feminism is all about personal empowerment, but that's an insidious neo-liberal lie, one that prioritises the pleasures and the privileges of individual women over the systemic oppression of their less powerful sisters. This version of feminism is fundamentally shallow and representational, preferring to focus on individual “success” stories rather than articulating a meaningful challenge to the structural dynamics of inequality.

More women joining the armed forces is not, for example, a triumph for women. Women and girls suffer disproportionately during and after war: existing inequalities are magnified as social institutions break down, rendering them more vulnerable to sexual violence and exploitation. Women and girls are better served by a radical dismantling of the military-industrial complex. More women in top banking jobs is not a triumph for women and girls. Women and girls suffer disproportionately under capitalism: we are daily harnessed as sources of domestic, sexual, and reproductive labour. The roles typically held by women are persistently miscategorised as “unskilled”; they offer us scant pay and little job security. When we do occupy top positions we are still paid less than our male colleagues.

Poverty and unemployment are intimately tied to the likelihood of our sexual exploitation and our victimisation at the hands of both partners inside the home and predators outside of it. For women, the trappings of wealth, and the signifiers of race and class, such as accent and grammar, are intimately linked in capitalist culture to perceptions of femininity, sexual availability and moral worth. We live, inside of capitalism, an irreconcilable double-bind. Our status as women is the very argument for our exploitation, but our identities as women – as women that capitalism sees as worthy of recognition and protection – are often erased by the work we perform. Do your shitty, exhausting, demeaning job, but do it with a smile, in flawless make-up and a body-shaping dress. Stay young and healthy, and positive at all times. Be a smiling facilitator to other people's needs.

Within neoliberal feminism, feminist goals are best achieved by each individual woman striving and competing to reach a position of power within capitalism. This is bullshit. Capitalism is inherently sexist and racist. It naturalises women's unpaid labour and deploys both sexism and racism as tools to divide and oppress workers, discouraging efforts to unionise, or to advocate for better pay. Why should an accommodation within that system be seen as a success?

Palming off unlovable paid labour

'Choose to challenge' might just serve as a recognition of these realities. We can choose to challenge not only individual instances of sexist aggression, but the ambient social conditions that give rise to them, and the political systems that produce those conditions. We can remember that while individual middle-class white women may be “empowered” by their top jobs, their success depends on palming off unlovable unpaid labour onto poorly-paid women lower down the socio-economic spectrum. We can remember that the ability to choose, the ability to challenge is in itself a function of privilege.

There are still women who do not have the ability to advocate for themselves, they are not safe and they are not secure, and the conditions of their oppression make it impossible for their voices to be heard. There are also women who cannot help but challenge: whose very bodies are considered an offence to capitalist culture and its relentless demands to reproduce certain narrowly prescriptive values and embodied forms. Where these women's black bodies, queer bodies, disabled bodies, fat bodies and poor bodies come into collision with capitalism, they are rendered dangerously vulnerable.

'Choose to challenge' is also about making space for each other; it is about celebrating each other in the face of a capitalist cultural narrative that turns us into competitors for attention and space. Yes, we are all different, but we are not special interest groups. We can extend our solidarity, a war-pact against all that besets us.

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Ode to Self

By Golnoosh Nour

We survived and survival breeds desire for more self. – Audre Lorde

I am that
the fatigued knight wading through the morning light
like Moses gaping the Nile

I am that
the black rose in winter, dead
butterflies dripping from my bruised petals.

I am it
The ‘it factor’, the cool factor minus, the cold factor plus, the hot
mess, the browned flesh, the queer crushed
by Authority, forever refusing to agree with anything
other than my own elegant violence, my
autumnal tendencies that I catch in the river of my mirror – the only truth teller

for I am that,
the breathing painting in the attic
the ‘darling’ collector
the cold sore in summer
the sore throat in spring
the allergy screeching at the skin.

I am it
the blue silk with a scarlet kernel,
wrapped in my gold cape, embroidered by thorns, I pounce
over the fence into the abyss to caress
my horns, and to plant myself in fertile soil, roots hard in the ground;
shaking off tornados from my trembling naked branches, I grow tall,
old, short, skyward, enamoured,
pure.

Dr Golnoosh Nour is a poet and writer, whose acclaimed debut collection of short stories The Ministry of Guidance was recently published by Muswell Press, and whose forthcoming collection of poetry, the mighty Rocksong, will be published by the 87 Press next year. Golnoosh has been widely published and platformed both in the UK and internationally, including on the BBC and Granta. She teaches Creative Writing at the University of Bedfordshire and designs and hosts a monthly radio show called Queer Lit on Soho Radio Culture. For more info, visit her website: https://golnooshwriter.weebly.com/

 On fire

By Sarah Wedderburn

I am a house,
face painted
geisha white,
mouth a strip
of polished black.
How still I pose,
dark eyes steady.

I am a house &
do not stir
as wisps of
dove grey chiffon
gather at my throat
to charge a tiny orange circlet
round my head.

I am a house
with smouldering eyes
& when the feathers
rising on my coronet
preen into an orange spiral
rushing up the air,
I do not blink.

I am a house.
Observe as lightly
from my eyes
I free a flock of
orange birds
that dart & hover everywhere.
I feed them all—

I am a house.
How quick the flaming
feathers of my birds
flare up & fan into
the great plumed
orange headdress
of an Aztec queen.

Rushing gold
rolls over me.
The blue above writhes
with nests of orange snakes.
I am a house
& meet the roar of sirens,
calm.

My gown collapses
in a firefly storm.
Am I stately
in my gauzy
slip,
my corset
boned & black?

I stand and smoke,
mascara
running down my face,
my secrets buried
in a foot of ash.
I am a house, strong enough
for love & hate.

Sarah Wedderburn’s publishing credits include Magma, MsLexia, Oxford Poetry, PAIN, PN Review, Poems in Which and The New European. She studied English at Oxford, holds a Poetry School MA and works as an arts writer. In 2020 her work was included in Culture Matters’ Witches, Warriors, Workers, and in Yvonne Reddick's Poetry, Grief and Healing.

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When beggars choose

By Clare Saponia

There were no more dolls for me
after that. Just the three I’d doodled
on in indelible ink to spice up their
foolproof lives, since Santa failed
to bear frills. You know the kind:
the most basic theme-free sort
of Sindy that no kid ever asks for
with karmic Barbie at large. I gave
them bras and brains and specs
as big as potted mince. They got
lippie and piercings, freckles and
fringes they never knew existed
in their microbastic cosmos –

though they never grew back. Just
got shorter and shittier in the dull
Sunday lull, where not even the
hair wax helped. There was no
Paul or Ken either to come, my
folks fearful of what I’d draft
on a shaved, sexless crotch, the
far-too-deft cosmetic surgeries
I’d undertake, callous as they get:
Hannibal Lecter meets organ
collector, I think they might have said.
So, I kept them for the dog, played
find and fetch (not that she fetched) –

and just pastels for me from then on.

Clare Saponia is a Berlin-based writer, poet, artist and linguist. She has written two published poetry collections:The Oranges of Revolution and Copyrighting War and other Business Sins, and is working on her fourth. Clare’s poetry has featured in various anthologies, including Witches, Warriors, Workers, Emergency Verse – Poetry in Defence of the Welfare State, and soon The Brown Envelope Book.

I was a woman today

By Jane Burn

and I was not afraid of weather/not of glittered hoar
scalding bloom from early cowslips/not of brisking air/
I shucked pillows from their catchpenny shams/tawdry-bright/
pegged them baggy with vaults of biting wind/rise your bellies/
bloat with painted flowers/fly, my chintz-beloved ghosts

and I was not afraid of dust/walked upon a Galilee
of lint like a saviour of filth /not of the stove’s ash/
I ridded it with flags of soapy cloth/here are the kitchen
miracles/the hob roars with valiant soup/welcome
to my church of scraped potatoes/spoon and eat

and I was not afraid of swans/lucky against my tired docility/
they filled their throats with elevated light/an epiphany of air/
I heard the peal of monumental wings/watched their passing over
of my tethered home/saw them earn the clemency of blue sky/
O send thy softly breasts to bright rivers/amen, amen

and I was not afraid of time/not of the dials divided eye/
saw myself through years of perished skin/through slackening/
I grew a child/despair of clothes around my drooping womb/the years
blot my face with wearied moths/grope around my smile/
take my pity of hands and salve their crackled plight

and I was not afraid of what I write/though paper shrieks
beneath my raging pen/though I must empty my head of flames/
a long story of blood/my own uneasy/slipshod tell of truth/
I offer all my burdens to a book/and scribble rivers/
I love you/here are the umpteen many words I have for pain

Jane Burn is a multi-award winning poet who lives an eco-friendly lifestyle in a wooden cottage in Northumberland. Her poems are all about her adoration of language and how it connects her to the many passions and parts of her life. She is working class, a wife, a mother, bisexual, a poet, an artist and maker. She has written lots of poetry books and is also a late-diagnosed autistic which has helped everything finally make sense. Her poems are published in many magazines and anthologies. She co-edited the Culture Matters Witches, Warriors, Workers women's poetry anthology with her bosom friend Fran Lock. She is currently doing an MA in Writing Poetry at Newcastle University. Her next collection, Be Feared, is due out in November from Nine Arches Press.

the world is so big

By Fran Lock

a whiskey light where you might melt to know me. it is never coming.
a city night, all dangerous and fragrant. it is never coming. culottes in
spring are never coming: pale calf consumed by their shy mulberry
swish. the january sales will not be coming. the gelatin resentments
of a friend in tennis shoes, who's tearing up and hates you. first-bliss,
the nice perhaps of a hand. no, no, no. they are not coming. the sacred
wood. it is not coming. the clerk who holds my mourner's gaze, replete
with passing. she is not coming. the great and glistening tropes of old
dead men will not be coming, underlined or otherwise. my vivid adult
self, as she frequents the red and white striped awnings. now she will
not come. there will be no mornings. i will not dress my doting gloom
in coffee: poet, savant of hysterical sympathy. i will sing neither my
plights nor my fauverie desires. at nineteen, i am sotto in a sauntering
kingdom. my berlin-bowie cheekbones are turned up to eleven. i am
quiet gone. the world is so big. i'm a bug on the windscreen of its wide
horizon. it is dying's slick art that drips from me. how a footballer's
wife drips diamonds. how a brown dog's mouth drips wet grass. i will
not get lost, in the catacombs of loose amusement, wandering. bleating
in a fitted sheet, where shame is the interval and the circuit. it won't
bother me. women, shining in the strict garments of their monday
hustle. glamour as a lump of shit shimmering with flies, as a prophet
of your choice in a beard of bees. i won't have to care. windows
that open onto nothing, my eyes. not a latte or a beach or the boozy
ridiculm of living. the world is big, but the dead are without edges.
the absolute obscenity of emptiness. to be cupped by nothing. air.

Charcoal Lover

By Julia Bell

If not you, then who? Is what you said,
when I asked you why you loved me,
as if I were a foregone conclusion.
Then who?

I thought about this for a long time,
and all your possible suitors.
What do I have that they do not?
How did I win this accidental competition?

And then when we were getting ready for bed, I realised,
that it is not my strange good looks, or my air of experience,
but my charcoal toothpaste that won you over.
Something that the gummy locals and their brilliant teeth
have known about for centuries.
A new way to repackage you to me,
not as an immigrant then, but a source of native wisdom.

When we brush our teeth with soot, we look insane, homeless.
Like the shopkeepers with their mouths stained from khat or betel juice,
or yellowed from all the tobacco.
We look like urchins, ready to run off into deserted, dusty houses,
like lovers; like what we are: burned residue of the stars.

Julia Bell is a Writer and Reader in Creative Writing at Birkbeck. She has published three novels with Macmillan in the UK (Simon & Schuster in the US) and new book Radical Attention is now with Peninsula Press.

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Jejunum

By Pauline Sewards

Amy’s life – a closed orbit from Boston to Boston.
Born in Massachusetts, died in Lincolnshire.
The surgeon fixed her with his knife,
she suffered from ulcers and gastric pain

Born in Massachusetts, died in Lincolnshire.
Jejune means hollow; the intestine empty at death,
she suffered from ulcers and gastric pain,
after the operation her guts became infected.

Jejune means hollow; the intestine empty at death.
Was surgery her choice? Was she given options?
After the operation her guts became infected.
Common causes of ulcer: hunger, ethanol, stress.

Was surgery her choice? Was she given options?
The surgeon fixed her with his knife.
Common causes of ulcer: hunger, ethanol and stress
Amy’s life – a closed orbit from Boston to Boston.

Pauline Sewards is a Bristol-based poet and founder of the regular event in Easton called 'Satellite of Love'. Her first collection This is the Band was published by Hearing Eye in 2018. 'After Burnout' is taken from her most recent collection, Spirograph, published by Hearing Eye earlier this year.

On Priti Patel, Practical Solidarity, Poetry and Preservation
Saturday, 20 February 2021 15:20

On Priti Patel, Practical Solidarity, Poetry and Preservation

Published in Poetry

Fran Lock attacks the Government's policies towards asylum-seekers, Travellers, and Black Lives Matter protesters, and shows how poetry can be a site of solidarity, community, and challenge. Image above: Pigeon Proletariat, by Steev Burgess

I no longer hate Priti Patel. Wait, I'll unpack that statement: hate has an edge and an energy to it; you can do something with it, it's a fire you feed. I dread Priti Patel. I dread her like the weather, like a cyclone or a storm. I dread her like an earthquake, like a flood, as something inevitable and utterly exhausting; something that can neither be evaded or withstood. Each time Priti Patel appears on my screen, every time she opens her mouth a little more poison seeps into the world, and a little more light is leached out of it.

For instance, when she bragged last September about removing asylum seekers while targetting the legal teams who offered them support: 'Today we removed people who came here via small boats,' she tweeted:

They had previously claimed asylum elsewhere and had no legal right to be in the UK. Removals continue to be frustrated by activist lawyers, but I will not let up until this route is unviable.

As refugee charities were swift to point out in a letter to the Home Secretary:

Government rhetoric falsely suggests that asylum seekers’ travel routes can invalidate their claims for protection, and denounces lawyers for doing what the law requires of them.

Indeed. There are two things worth hammering home here: seeking asylum is not illegal. Anyone seeking protection is entitled to stay in the UK while awaiting a decision on their asylum claim. It makes no difference how they entered the country. The right to claim asylum is enshrined in international law. The second thing we should hold onto is that in the aftermath of Patel's inflammatory tweet solicitors at Duncan Lewis, a London law firm offering legal support for asylum seekers, were attacked by a knife-wielding racist.

During her tenure as Home Secretary Patel has been responsible for closing some of the last remaining safe and legal routes for asylum seekers into the country, and has refused to open new ones. She has also brought back banned refugee child detention by stealth. Last year the Government's own watchdog conducted unannounced inspections at a number of detention centres, where they found children locked up. In August last year the Home Office wrote to councils, incentivising them to carry out rushed age assessments on refugee children, offering money for legal challenges to individual age assessments. We have already seen the consequences of such actions, with children being sent to adult detention centres at catastrophic risk to their mental and physical well-being.  Again, the Government's own watchdog found conditions in these detention centres unsafe, and 'unfit' for human habitation.

the immigrant mother raises her sons for industry maxo vanko

The immigrant mother raises her sons for industry, by Maxo Vanko

COVID-19 is a boon for the likes of Patel: the virus acts as an invisible and invading enemy. It plays into English cultural narratives of stalwart isolationism; an island redoubt against hostile outsiders. The threat of contagion allows the Government to reposition human beings as disease vectors; to herd, detain, control, and deport them in the name of public health. The Tories are adept at recruiting the language and iconography of wartime Britain in order to present Coronavirus as a purely national crisis, one that can be withstood by means of exemplary British virtues such as fortitude, endurance, stoicism and sacrifice. By continually yoking those qualities to a nebulous notion of small-island nationhood the Government ensures that those persons not comfortably accommodated within their narrow conception of Britishness are excluded from the precincts of human consideration, are alien and suspect by default.

It's this attitude that led the Home Secretary, in August last year, to so much as fleetingly consider the idiotic, inhumane, and unworkable suggestion that asylum seekers be sent en masse to one of the South Atlantic islands. It is this attitude that led Patel to appoint a former Royal Marine to the role of 'clandestine Channel threat commander' and to call upon the Royal Navy to 'tackle' the growing number of small boats crossing into the UK. It is this attitude that has led, inexorably, to an increased military involvement in the detention and 'processing' of asylum seekers; that has led to the ongoing horror that is Napier Barracks in Folkestone.

napierbarracks2

Napier Barracks

The former barracks is the UK's first modern-day refugee camp. It differs from other detention centres because newly arrived asylum seekers are being sent there in large numbers before any determination on their status has been made. Conditions are abject, and during a global pandemic the health implications are dire. Meals are served communally, and, according to a recent Guardian article, up to twenty-eight people 'share a single sleeping area and two bathrooms, making social distancing impossible.'

A little more poison, a little less light. Patel and her twisted tribe cynically exploit the virus and the fear-of-the-other that it brings to justify their hard-line immigration and asylum policies, while ensuring the very persons and communities they blame for the pandemic are those left most vulnerable and at risk. Raising the Immigration Health Surcharge from £400 to £624, while simultaneously restricting access to most hospital services for migrants without visas or those whose claims for asylum have been denied, has created, in effect, a healthcare underclass. The Government's own equality impact assessment warned that the NHS charging programme could lead to discrimination against BAME people. But the risk was deemed 'acceptable'.

Other Lives Don’t Matter

There are those whose lives are deemed worthy of preservation and care by the current Tory Government. And there are those whose lives are not. Refugee lives do not matter. The majority of BAME lives do not matter. The lives of Travellers do not matter.

We know this because the Home Office consultation on criminalising trespass and increasing police powers against unauthorised encampments comes hard on the heels of a report exposing the enormous unmet need for pitches on public Traveller sites in England. According to the report, released by the leading national charity Friends, Families and Travellers, over 1696 households are currently on waiting lists for pitches on public sites. There are a meagre 59 permanent pitches and 42 transit pitches or halting sites available nationwide. The new laws mean that families living on unauthorised encampments could face fines, prison sentences, and removal from their homes, simply for having nowhere else to go.

The number of caravans deemed to constitute an unauthorised encampment has been reduced in number from six to two. Two. Police will direct these caravans from any site on which they have no permission to stay, even when there are no alternative stopping places. The right of British Ethnic Nomads to live in a caravan home is recognised by the European Court of Human Rights and protected in the UK courts under the Human Rights Act 1998. Yet the Tories do not care. Patel does not care. Her now infamous comments during an online meeting with Jewish leaders last September, branding Traveller families as inherently 'criminal and violent', are now well documented.

During the Tory clampdown in the early 1990s two thirds of traditional, informal halting sites for Travellers were sealed off. In 1994 the Criminal Justice Act repealed the duty of local authorities to provide official sites for Travellers. An obvious solution to unauthorised encampments would seem to be to return this statutory duty to provide sites. If nothing else it would seem to be the cheaper solution, demanding less enforcement and provoking fewer legal challenges. It would seem to make damage to public land less likely too: much of this happens due to deliberate obstacles being placed in the way of access points, and to a lack of public amenities at these unauthorised sites. Most importantly, it would protect one of our most vulnerable social groups, and allow Travellers and their families to access vital public services. But Patel doesn't care about that. Traveller people are yet another convenient Tory scapegoat. As the threat of eviction undermines the ability of Traveller communities to comply with Coronavirus regulations, many are asking themselves how long before the pandemic is utilised as an irresistible argument for forced assimilation, and the dispersal of communities?

Gypsy Kids

Traveller children. Image courtesy of Knickerbocker TV

Existing sites, whether privately run or managed by local authorities, are likely to be located close to motorways, major roads, refuse tips, industrial estates or sewage works: undesirable locations all, and damaging in unique ways to the health of the Travellers who live there. Ethnic Nomads in Britain die on average between seven and twenty years earlier than the rest of the population, and their health outcomes are significantly worse. A 2016 report sponsored by the National Inclusion Health Board noted that 66% of Gypsy, Roma Travellers had bad, very bad, or poor health; poor air quality, proximity to industrial sites, asthma and repeated chest infections in children and older people were noted in nearly half of all interviews. Health access has always been complicated and fraught for people living in Traveller communities. This has led to a lack of early diagnosis, resulting in poorly managed chronic conditions. COVID-19 is primarily a respiratory disease. This renders Travellers especially vulnerable.

A little less light, a little more poison. This evening Patel described the Black Lives Matter protests as 'dreadful'. Interrupted, and asked to clarify she claims that of course she's not against people's right to protest, just this specific protest, and the way in which it was conducted. This is a typical Tory manoeuvre: agree to fundamental human rights in principle, while stripping them away from us in practice. And of course the Home Secretary is bent out of shape about the toppling of statues: memorial emplacement isn't just about honouring the memory and legacy of individuals, it's about inscribing continuities of power onto public space. It is also about normalising those continuities of power, so that racism becomes an invisible and ambient feature of our cities, part of their cartography. We live with its traces every day, it's so pervasive and embedded we don't question it, we don't even notice. That's true power. It is your stamp on the architecture of the everyday: buildings, statues, street names. The Black Lives Matter protests in the UK rendered those power structures legible, and the black lives impacted by those power structures visible. The Tories, very obviously, don't want that.

For secure and sedentary communities history is written large across public space. Buildings capture the continuity of collective experience; they stage a shared cultural heritage. But for those without settlement, whose lives are transitory and provisional and leave no corresponding trace on the physical landscape, history, memory and suffering are excluded from the mapping of that heritage. Traveller histories, lost to dispersal and coerced assimilation. Refugee histories, fenced in behind barbed wire, billeted in grim buildings at the edge of public attention. Working-class histories priced out of presence. The same applies to queer histories, homeless histories, and BAME histories.

Coronavirus throws these reflections into sharper relief. Isolated from each other, we lose our sense of ourselves and our communities as visible and connected. As our worlds shrink, so our sense of solidarity and effective agency suffer. In the wake of COVID-19 comes austerity, and beyond austerity, gentrification. The global pandemic both exposes and exacerbates inequality, magnifying the already glaring disparities between those with enough and those barely scraping by. And 'when all this is over' where will we even go to grieve, to create, and to organise, when our communities are concreted over, our sites broken up, our squats torn down, our social housing sold off, our bars and dancehalls gentrified, our vital services pushed further to the margins, our districts socially cleansed. Where communities are decimated by Coronavirus, developers will move in. It is opportunistic, but it is also deliberate: a willed amnesia, an act of violence. BAME communities are disproportionally affected by Coronavirus. Working-class communities are disproportionately affected. How can those communities come together to resist and sustain when there is nowhere left for real communities to form? When we are isolated and scattered and kept apart, from each other, and from others.

Solidarity through poetry

In the face of this, the page can offer us a vital site of practical solidarity. What poetry can, and must be for us, is a place of counter-preservation. It is also a place where the choppy, difficult textures of our lives are registered in community with others. I have said it before, but it bears repeating: poetry at its best is not merely memorial but relational. It demands and bestows that deep sustained attention seldom afforded to us as citizens or subjects. It is the one territory still open to many of us.

The poems I want to share today confront the inequality that besets us head on. They lead us through cities and towns made hostile to our existence, and they wrestle with a language that is heavily implicated in our containment and erasure. These poems are about language, the way we're spoken to and talked about, and what happens to us, what capitalism does to us at the level of language: the jargon, cliché and tabloid slang we're obliged to think in and through; the way we come to think and talk about ourselves as a result. Here is the strike-through or the scoring out. Here is rupture and compression of syntax and of grammar: textual bodies crushed and maimed, as the living bodies of working people are also crushed and maimed, reduced to a punchline, to muttered and incoherent 'prole-whispers'.

In these pieces poetry wants both to signal and resist its incorporation inside of the system, inside of capitalism. The rhythms of working-class life are viscerally present in the text: against the relentless routinized scheduling of unloveable labour there is ever conceivable kind of disruption or incursion. This affects what is written, what is thought. The default for working-class life is not silence and space, and this translates onto the page in a variety of 'difficult' or innovative ways.

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Unloveable labour, by Steev Burgess

We might say these are challenging poems. But 'challenging' is the entire point. These are not scenes of vague catharsis, but work sites: in a world not made for working-class people, not made for the marginal or the vulnerable, poetry provides a place to appropriate and repurpose language, to make it our own, to dismantle and subvert it. It is this reclaiming of language and renaming of experience that makes poetry a political act, an integral part and precursor to the real-world radical actions that are bound to follow.

Parliament House or Dung Heap                                               

By Cole Denyer

Like Today’s Story of the Shirt
a plateful of sundry wretches
in such a way that they could
only have endured it, but ask
on about villages?
                                                      Middlesex and Epping forest
                                        happy people like pilchards in bottom
                                               cask under cook the dome of sky,
                                              nothing is wasted nothing is spoilt
                                            bar frizz salver piss in a pot look on
                                                       or hang off spit and ill-blood
                                                       even if you have no property
                                                             by the nightshirt liniment
                                                                   yr enjoying the anon?
No actual mention of sausages, however.
Squabbling on a livelihood
I don't much care for beautiful
buildings run over with flowers,
Bastion builds flashing on and off
as ward-mote leads to Garden BridgeTM
bibbing in sun before looting scaffold goes up.
Dear Adrian Glasspool,
Last resident we cannot maintain ‘26 acres of land for one person’.
blood hooked
stack commuter sprawl in w/ broken            
statist one by one for flogging on out
down the metropolitan line
mortarboard tradition staggers
to a croupier fireside chewing
nothing much but embers
of prole-whispers

 

On Argot

By Dom Hale

It is good to be inferior and appalling.
The countryside stinks of ancient money.
Petrol sings in the night. O reiver, what are you searching for
With that silver toothpick in your hand?
I look over my shoulder and the city sort of breaks.
The reader is usually an informant. Bewildering Pacific
Plagues attrition’s skies, the updraughts, a drunk broadening
In the infinite musical regression of these times.
Thus one of you must up the ante or become a pillarist.
Risky, true, and not in aid of an idiom cribbed for
Tepid summits or committees and the scenery’s group hug.
A nauseating civil servant, a devout tech worker,
Those bureaucratic cults hassling whatever ground
You suppose you might have left to trudge on. Embarrassing.
I’m retraining as a poet. As for the elect, the leaders
In their field, they only make the whole endeavour sound
Kind of like a Universal Credit meeting. So fucking strenuous.
The vilification of the lazy who, just think, might have
Something pivotal yet to communicate with them. Yes,
To be half-cut and full of spite is a delirium
We may afford ourselves, at least for the slipshod moment
When everything is recorded and means more, determinedly.
Are you decent yet? Further oracular warnings from SAGE.
The only wage is a dying wage. And I almost considered
Myself a balladeer. Imagine that. Eternal earache.
Well, thanks anyway for having us. At last
The opportunities are equal. Now what?
They were always aware this situ was icecap unbearable.
Still it seems a trust fund beneficiary actually counts as a person.
Budding aeronautics of the prolific jobless. Bruised
Coccyx and a will-o’-the-wisp glinting at the crossroads.
And music squats in me this weekend. Sum up:
Big deal. Crashing torrents. Signing in at once
I present my scarlet guitar to the administrative staff
With nothing else to declare, beleaguered on arrival,
Bustling inanely, fumbling about mortality. The point
Is to pick up the crayon and fill out the form. Don’t
Talk to me about constructive criticism.
Convert the life in fucking tatters. I’ve never been less torn.

Notes

Cole Denyer (1994) is an artist and writer based in the gut of class treachery and watching over his shoulder for every budding cop.

Dom Hale wrote Firewall (Distance No Object) and Scammer (the87press). Before the pandemic he helped to organise the Edinburgh reading series JUST NOT, and is currently co-editing the magazine LUDD GANG at poetshardshipfunduk.com. Civilian Lyrics is out from Veer in 2021.

Callout: The Cry of the Poor
Monday, 01 February 2021 20:50

Callout: The Cry of the Poor

Published in Poetry

Fran Lock issues a callout for a new poetry anthology, The Cry of the Poor

As some of you will know, Culture Matters is a co-operative of writers, artists and activists, involved in our various ways with developing a 'broad left' cultural struggle for a better society. We’ve been going for over five years, maintaining a lively website, publishing criticism, commentary, fiction, poetry, and life-writing. We run Bread and Roses Arts Awards for poetry, songwriting and spoken word, and support the labour movement through workshops and campaigns around cultural issues.

We also publish various books and pamphlets, including a series of anthologies of radical writing including From the Plough to the Stars: An Anthology Of Working People's Prose From Contemporary Ireland; A Kist of Thistles, An anthology of radical poetry from contemporary Scotland; Onward/Ymlaen! An anthology of radical poetry from contemporary Wales; Climate Matters: Poems And Prose About The Climate Crisis And Capitalism; and Witches, Warriors, Workers: An Anthology Of Contemporary Working Women's Poetry.

Through our publishing operations, we are proud to offer a platform to a genuinely diverse array of writers and artists from all walks of life, with a particular emphasis on working-class creatives who are often marginalised within mainstream contemporary publishing. We aim to provide publishing opportunities to new and established voices alike, and to create a space of conversation that is inclusive and egalitarian. We could not achieve this without the generosity of our contributors in sharing their wonderful work with us. So, if you are a past contributor to our website and anthologies: thank you! And if you are new to Culture Matters: welcome!

Culture Matters is now planning to put together a new anthology with the provisional title of ‘The Cry of the Poor’, and we are asking if both previous and first-time contributors would be willing to send us their poems, artwork, images, and life-writing (short fiction, memoir, blog or essay) on this theme. We are looking for writing that engages with any aspect of poverty in ways both political and personal. We particularly welcome work that explores the relationship between poverty and labour, and the intersection of poverty with race, class, gender, and sexuality. We are looking for work that bears witness, work that campaigns and analyses, work that evokes solidarity, and work that fights back.

If you would like to be involved please send us up to three poems, pieces of prose, or images, by 31 May 2021.  We aim to publish and launch the anthology in late summer, and organise launches for the book where contributors will have the opportunity to share their work with a live audience.

Along with your submission please send a short author biog of no more than 60 words, and let us know if the piece you are submitting has been published elsewhere so that we can give proper credit. We’re also pleased to say that eligible poems will also automatically be entered for the Bread and Roses Poetry Award 2021, sponsored by Unite.

Please send submissions to:This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

 

These books have held me: outstanding poetry from 2020
Sunday, 10 January 2021 20:48

These books have held me: outstanding poetry from 2020

Published in Poetry

Fran Lock writes about some outstanding poetry books published in 2020

It became apparent to me around the second week of December that I couldn't write this round-up in the usual way. By which I mean I could not – for a variety of reasons – simply recapitulate the tedious prescriptive dictates of another end-of-the-year review. I don't know what the value would be in that. Most of us didn't live through 2020, we sustained it as a series of shocks: dull crushing blows to the back of the head, leaving us stunned, concussed, disoriented. It has been awful in ways both political and personal, and by early December it felt ridiculous to me to trot out a trite list of the 'best' poetry collections, my 'top five', my 'essential' reading for the close of the year.

2020 has been extraordinary. Extraordinary in the worst ways possible. Any poetry collection published during 2020 was subject to extraordinary demands: without the benefit of live launches or readings, the public life of the book, its spirited sense of civics, has suffered and shrunk. And writers have suffered too. In one sense our suffering is material and easy to quantify: the loss of vital revenue from festival book-sales and organised events, damage dealt to second or third jobs; time lost from the necessary work of promoting our books to the frantic scrabble for paid employment.

In another sense our suffering is less tangible: when our world retracts so too does our notion of community, our idea of ourselves as belonging to something, of reciprocity and collective critical engagement. For working-class writers in particular, the first casualty in all of this is often our identity as writers, our ability to prioritise ourselves as artists. Our work vies, not merely with the poetries of others for attention, but with the endlessly evolving demands of home and work; of health and money. Existing as we do at the pressured intersection of multiple crises, we must navigate a world in fevered flux with scant support.

Unpredictable. Precarious. In the midst of this chaos, how are we to attend in a meaningful way to our creative vocations? How do we participate, let alone compete, when we are publicist, agent, writer, carer, courier, accountant, cook, therapist, hunter-gatherer and nurse all rolled into one? At the same time, our poetry is being asked to carry a great deal: to provide consolation and solace, to offer insight and inspiration, to be a spur toward empathy and action in these dark and troubled days.

Sustaining, nourishing, inspiring

It is a great deal to ask. And it occurs to me that any poetry collection published in 2020 must make in its turn extraordinary demands of its readers: to stay with a book at this time requires of us an unusual degree of sustained attention. This attention is precious and pressured and cannot be idly or arbitrarily bestowed. A book that holds our anxious awareness captive has become a rare and wondrous thing. My own relationship to reading has changed throughout 2020. The stakes are higher. I am, through necessity, opportunistic, and I have become increasingly impatient: impatient with the lame beautifying tendencies of much mainstream 'lyric' writing, impatient with poems where the pain of the present is absent at the level of language, impatient with poems that are merely reactive; with poems that make vague cathartic gestures toward absolution, resolution or empathy. Impatient with a number of things, if truth be known, so that when a book takes hold of me, when it does something that arrests and sustains me, it is an event worthy of record.

I wanted to make some space for honouring those books, the pact between writer and reader they summon and fulfil. 'Best' doesn't cut it. Lists do not cut it. Quite apart from anything else, I've no desire to set myself up as yet another arbiter of taste or expertise. I'm not, and the choices I make as a reader are not free choices made in an ideal world. I gravitate towards the books I read for a complex set of reasons: some political, some aesthetic, some practical, some social, and some admittedly personal. I always think it's worth acknowledging that, taking account of your own infinitely fallible subject position.

How we feel about a book – any work of art – is as much a measure of what we need from that text as it is of any intrinsic value. Lockdown lays this bare. As readers we are more vulnerable, I think, less able to maintain our intellectual armour. But I believe this is a positive thing, a good starting point. It's honest, and it preserves – I hope – the warmth, affection and gratitude I feel for these books. I wasn't reading in a vacuum, none of us do. I was reading as a human: grieving, harassed, trapped and bewildered. I was struggling, and these collections have variously sustained, nourished and inspired me. They have been both expression and escape from the shit that surrounds me. They have held me, and I am grateful.

*

FL the street of algiers

The Streets of Algiers and Other Poems by Anna Gréki, translated by Souheila Haїmiche and Cristina Viti (Smokestack Books)

Anna Gréki was a member of the Parti Communiste Algérien, and an active figure in anticolonial struggles within Algiers during the fifties and sixties. In her short life she had endured arrest, torture, and exile. She was also a passionate and prolific writer, composing poetry and essays on language, politics and art; at thetime of her death she was working on a novel.

This translation from Smokestack is the first full English translation of her second collection of poems, Temps Forts, and it strikes me as an important book in several ways. The poems are reproduced in the original French, with the translations appearing on the opposite page. This allows for the reader to shape and sound the music of the poems in their original tongue, which is one of the chief tactile pleasures of poetry; it also feels like a keen attention to the ethics of translation; to all that may be obscured, elided or altered in the transposing of poems from one language to another. The result is both rich and respectful. It feels collaborative; a conversation across distances and generations.

Gréki was new to me, and I dare say she may be new to many people. This book releases from relative obscurity, a significant poetic foremother. A revolutionary foremother too, at a moment when we need those more than ever. Women's experience of and in revolutionary struggle is often under-represented within existing poetic canons. Gréki relates her experiences with nuance, tenderness, and a formidable vitality. The poems preserve a striking intimacy, never hostage to their historical and revolutionary context, but emerging from those very sites and situations. In Gréki's poems we see revolution shaping language, as surely as language shapes the revolution. This book provides, then, a timely and necessary intervention into the long and complex history of radical writing by women.

Discovering Gréki during lockdown felt momentous to me. At the time I was also reading translations of Forugh Farrokhzad and Nancy Morejon. This was quite unplanned, and it had certainly never before occurred to me to think of these poets together, or to consider their writing as part of a rich global riposte to everything we're told poetry by women was in the 1960s: a white, confessional scene heavily dominated by figures such as Sexton and Plath, figures whose doom-laden legends still loom large in contemporary poetry. I love both Sexton and Plath, but sometimes their writing feels exhaustingly inward, and I yearn for work that evokes a broader sense of context or community; that responds to and remembers the contingent world. Gwendolyn Brooks has always been my go-to for this kind of confessive yet responsive poetry, but lately I'd felt the need to think beyond the English-speaking world, to try to understand my own poetic heritage, and my position as a woman in the world.

Gréki's work shares with Farrokhzad and Morejon a constellation of concerns, foremost among which would seem to be a grave respect for beauty and for life. Her poems evince an unapologetic sensuality, a care for and of individual human bodies that is enshrined in language, and inseparable from politics. The cherishing that takes place within a Gréki poem feels both militant and serious: she erects hands, hearts, mouths, and “fields of tender flesh” against “the huge matrix of war”. Through her very patient and sustained attention to the vulnerable particularity of human life, Gréki summons a powerful and mutually compassionate collective. In 'July 1962' she writes: “You are part of the humiliated world of the living/ the commons that hold you will take you over”. These words stirred an immediate sense of kinship and affection in me. What I find myself responding to in Gréki is the presence of a dialectical tenderness, an expression of empathy or care that provokes a dissonance between the actual and the possible. Against the abuse of power and the abjection of bodies, Gréki writes with love and motive force. This tenderness works to both anticipate and summon the revolutionary moment, a moment that Gréki the poet yearns for, and that Gréki the revolutionary must struggle towards. It seems facile to say the poems contain 'hope', but they do. Not in the sense of vague good wishes, but something active, lived and made by and in language, by and in the work of revolution.

And yet what has stayed with me about 'The Streets of Algiers' is something else entirely, something I find difficult to put into words. I might call it Gréki's understanding of the way language and landscape are intimately entwined within Algerian national identity: “Survivors sow wheat with death” Gréki writes, “And the black poplar spreads the wound open.” Later she writes how Autumn itself is “moved by” her language, and in 'Rue Mourad-Didouche' her speaker declares that there are “Trees thriving like alphabets”. To live under occupation and colonial conquest is to live doubly oppressed in territory and tongue. Gréki's evocation of this is subtle and acute. It is a poetry familiar and resonant to me, a reader of Irish heritage, immersed from childhood in the politics and poetics of Irish liberation. This felt significant too, a reminder that the struggle against colonial oppression is not historical but ongoing; that the struggle is shared and continuous.

*

FL Monica

Monica's Overcoat of Flesh by Geraldine Clarkson, (Nine Arches Press)

In the brief respite before lockdown recommenced, I took this book away with me, wandering pilgrims' pathways through Northumbria. This felt appropriate: the enclosure of monastic life is a key theme within the collection. This theme speaks to the surreal pseudo-quarantines of lockdown, but also to a culture of increasing confinement more broadly – to the mass incarceration of prisoners, the detainment of refugees, to the criminalisation of Travellers and other ethnic nomads. The poems hum and sing with these tensions, with the friction that exists between the spiritual possibilities afforded by an anchorite existence, and the life-denying enclosures of our contemporary moment. Walking and reading, reading and walking, it seemed to me that the book thinks through a number of contradictory spiritual impulses: to wander and to enclose; to withdraw and to embrace.

Most days we seem caught in a compromise between restraint and flight, and the poems compromise too. Rather, all poetry is this kind of compromise: a musical vivacity honed and shaped, turned on a lathe, fitted to form. And Clarkson is, without a doubt, a deft and inventive formalist. This is a large collection, but its frequent shifts of shape give it a wonderful sense of momentum; lend it a supple and sinuous quality. Raw lexical energy leaps from form to form, momentarily held, but never quite contained. It's a book about containment, but the poems themselves seem to enact a kind of restless fugivity. This too suited my mood.

On gloomy days I'd read Monica's Overcoat of Flesh and think to myself that anything can be a prison: walls, routines, clothes, spiritual practices, relationships, bodies, thoughts. Or words. And the poems feature both the traps language lays, and the traps set for language. Yet, however confined, however suppressed, words are always resurgent: “Who knew when a tooraloo/ would break loose and what it would do” Clarkson writes. And there's joyful escape in this thought, but also potential threat. Reading this collection you know that Clarkson understands intimately that the speech act is always a double-edged sword; that words have enormous intrinsic power and grave potential consequences.

On brighter days I'd allow myself to be carried away by the sheer pyrotechnic riot of Clarkson's language. Her word choices are strange and dazzling, yet they are also precise. This precision comes, I think, through Clarkson's profound engagement with silence and the unspoken. In 'Homily of Francis' in particular she asks us to consider the ethical implications of using words 'only if you have to'. For a poet who so obviously relishes the flavours and sounds of spoken English this feels like a strict and strange injunction. But for Saint Francis and for Clarkson both it would seem that a reverent attention to the unsaid; that an attuned and active listening is the very prerequisite of meaning speech. Clarkson's poems attain their rare grace – and I use that word in more than one sense – and facility with language because they are born of an intense and concentrated listening. Clarkson is a poet who makes space for silence in a way that speaks to the kinship between poetic and spiritual practices. It is this aspect of the collection I found most compelling. Monastic practice is not merely a theme of this work, it is the structural stuff of Clarkson's poetics, a relationship that feels fulsome, complex and fought for.

Because the idea of struggle is embedded within the collection also. Clarkson gives us the difficulties inherent in language. There are moments of mishearing, tiny miscommunications; there's impediment, and obstacle, and overload. It is work in which thinking occurs. It is impossible to take these poems in at a glance; they demand a depth of attention which is, in turn, a kind of spiritual – or meditative, if you prefer – practice. I was captured by Clarkson's collection in delight, but I have stayed with it, and it with me, for its patience and spiritual rigour.

*

9781912710201

Almarks: An Anthology of Radical Poetry from Shetland, Jim Mainland and Mark Ryan Smith, editors (Culture Matters)

There was an odd synchronicity to the arrival of this book in my life: I had spent a large part of my early childhood in Shetland, but I had seldom written about it. This was for a number of reasons, not least because – in a certain sense – Shetland isn't mine to write, and an outsider's partial reminiscence isn't helpful or necessary to Shetland's radical communities, literary or otherwise. Writing those poems would feel like laying claim to something I hadn't a right to for the sheer self-indulgent hell of it. When Almarks came through my door however, I had been painfully teetering on the edge of a poem about my formative experiences there. Not necessary for Shetland, perhaps, but necessary for me. Dipping into the anthology for the first time helped bring that poem to life, so in the first instance, I am grateful for that.

Obviously, this is not the most significant achievement of Almarks, an anthology I feel should be loudly applauded. Jim Mainland and Mark Ryan Smith deploy the form in a way that feels both purposeful and exploratory. Too often poetry anthologies become a species of catalogue, a herding together of disparate works under one arbitrary heading or another. This is not the case with Almarks: here the form does essential investigative work, probing and debating the notion of 'radical' writing, and attending to the difficulties inherent in that definition. Almarks reads like a voyage of discovery, uncovering the very communities it sets out to represent. The poets in Almarks take a variety of approaches to their craft: they are formally inventive, taking risks with syntax and the white space of the page; they are explicitly political, drawing on both current crisis and historical suffering. They make striking use of dialect, and inject the contemporary lyric with riffing, zinging energy, as in Siún Carden's thrilling 'Return': “The island's spine of power lines swings/ signals to storm-driven birds”. Carden fast became a favourite, her lines at once both playful and precise, recalling the work of Jane Burn, and perhaps also Geraldine Monk in 'Pendle Witch Words'. There's something of the spell or charm about them that is infinitely engaging.

Almark is the Shetland word for a straying sheep: one that breaks through fences into common ground; headstrong and independent. The use of this title is telling: a sense of breaking through or in pervades the collected poems. Each piece is its own wayward intervention into the English language, a language increasingly contested and policed by the rising Right along class and racial lines. The dialect poems in particular enrich and subvert English in exciting and challenging ways. A favourite of mine is Christine De Luca's 'Tievin wir metadata' which brings digital argot and Shetland dialect together in a joyful jostle: “hack inta your ain mind” De Luca writes. The poem is both a clarion call against the excesses of neoliberal surveillance culture, and a celebration of the way language can surprise us, “hack” us, give us new words in which to formulate new thoughts. The anthology itself is also a breakthrough, also a “hack”, a surprise: it takes seldom accounted-for voices, and seldom imagined communities, then demands and creates space for them inside of literature.

There is a vividness and precision to the language of these poems that is impressive by any standard. This liveliness is readily legible when the poets turn their attention to the land, to the environment. There's a care and a reverence for words which enacts the kind of care rarely applied to our natural world. In this sense, the poems are ecologically timely. But more than this, they are also outward-looking, politically engaged. The anthology is rich in local responsibility and global solidarity, a vision of community that extends far beyond the parochial, as in Raman Mundair's 'Let's talk about a job' or Gina Paulo Ritch's 'The desert is only as deadly as the circles we walk'.

I did not expect to relish this anthology as much as I do, but for its rich sense of history, its political commitment, and its vibrant sense of the possibilities and potentials of language, it has kept me returning again and again.

*

FL see what life 2

See What Life is Like by Dorothy Spencer (Lumpen)

Some books you find, and some find you. Dorothy Spencer's debut collection came to me in my capacity as associate editor at Culture Matters. It came via Lumpen press and The Class Work Project, a registered co-operative dedicated to providing publishing opportunities for working-class people and people in poverty. Spencer's collection marks the first in a series of chapbooks to be published by Lumpen, and it is an accomplished and engaging debut. Reading those poems for the first time was a genuinely invigorating experience. Invigorating because Lumpen are clearly an important press, providing a vital and necessary space for working-class writers. Invigorating because Spencer herself is such an original and provocative poetic voice.

Of course, Lumpen are not the first press to create such a space, but – with the exception of Peter Raynard's wonderful Proletarian Poetry – what sets them apart is their clear and unapologetic sense of mission; their explicit foregrounding of working-class voices and working-class stories in all their difference and ambiguity. To come to Spencer's poems as a working-class reader – as a working-class woman in particular – is to feel oddly held; to have a sense of yourself – rare within contemporary poetry – as the implied audience for work of unusual energy and gift. I suspect the experience may be somewhat different for a middle-class reader, but I also suspect that this is entirely the point. The title of the collection serves as both an invitation and a confrontation: the peculiar challenge of these poems is their directness, clarity and observational acuity. It is a laying bare, not with sentimentality, but most often with wry humour, as in these lines from 'after laughter': “i remember laughing with you/ about your dad’s teeth falling out/ over dinner/ because he was taking smack again/ he laughed too and showed the waiter/ a brown incisor sat in his palm./ with a plate of lobster in front of him/ he was still alive in all the ways you can be”.

Laughter, is a key component of See What Life is Like. It is referenced or signalled some twenty times in 'after laughter' alone. It serves throughout the collection as a bravura form of resistance, a nervous reaction, a challenge or riposte to the awfulness of life and other people. Laughter both is and isn't language: it is what we do when we don't know what to say or how to say it. When we've exhausted our rhetorical means, or when language has proved inadequate to our emotions. It is a form of defence, a coping mechanism. Many of these poems walk that very fine line between humour and hysteria. This seems to be a central theme for Spencer, and she weaves the sound of laughter through her poems to moving and resonant effect, nowhere more so than in 'fried poached and scrambled', where the speaker watches her father laugh so hard he shakes like one 'fried up in films/ on the electric chair'. The image itself is both irresistibly funny and disturbing. The subtle shades of distinction between these two states is something Spencer is able to fruitfully mine. The father in the poem laughs without restraint until he cries uncontrollably.

Control and restraint also strike me as central themes in this collection: the control demanded of you inside of language and inside of capitalism, with its weirdly proliferating etiquettes of socially acceptable behaviour. As Spencer's speakers fail or refuse to measure up to these arbitrary standards of behaviour, so too do her poems rebel, refusing the straitjacket of 'form', loosely held within structure and syntax. There are no full stops and no capital letters in these poems. The poems will not confine themselves to neat objective parcels. They are not perfectly-put-together literary artefacts with clearly delineated edges; they emerge from life, and they seep back into the world around them, into and out of each other. At times the result can feel strangely ecstatic and dreamy: “for i know on this earth there exists/ a person like you with a sky/ sometimes blue above them/ and who am i to relinquish/ a dream so sudden” and at others it is harsh, relentless and reiterative: “they find all your soft places/ they find all your tender parts/ they get to know them all/ they get you all fuckin/ mapped out/ they mark the spots/ where your skin/ is the thinnest”. The poems always feel intimate and insistent, a whispered voice telling you to look and look again. It gets under your skin.

But I think the most satisfying thing about See What Life is Like is the space it makes for anger: the anger of speakers and subjects alike, with each other and with the world. It is not a polemic rage, not dramatic as such, it is domestic and daily, entwined with the stuff of life. It simmers, an ambient hum at the back of Spencer's language. It is underscored by the spare and scratchy illustrations by Dylan Hall. There is not much accommodation for that within contemporary poetry, so to encounter it here is peculiarly refreshing. I feel heard by Spencer's poetry, and excited to see where her poetry takes her next.

*

FL Spirograph

Spirograph by Pauline Sewards (Burning Eye Books)

New work by Pauline Sewards is always an occasion for joy. Her 2018 debut This Is the Band is a collection both musical and painterly, leading the reader with verve, insight and elan through a diverse range of subjects in a variety of tones or moods. I fell in love with this collection for the rhythm and whimsy of pieces like 'St Whenever', but it has stayed with me – quite literally to hand on my bedside table – for the sombre acuity of poems such as 'Definitions', where the minutiae of words and their subtle gradations and shifts of meaning form the basis for a nuanced critique of politics. What has always impressed me about Sewards' writing – whatever her chosen subject – is the generosity of spirit at its core. Her latest collection, Spirograph, is no exception.

The title poem uses the conceit of the Spirograph Set to explore what Sewards identifies as those moments of 'not quite repetition' in language, life, and loss. The poems are informed by, and often directly reflect on Sewards' experience as a professional carer, working as a drug and alcohol nurse, and among their most profound and compelling themes are those of dependency, change, and recovery.

At a time when the government's refusal to acknowledge writers and artists as workers has had such a profound impact on working-class creatives, and when our systems of care are so disastrously underfunded and overburdened, Sewards' collection feels especially timely. Yet these poems are so much more than 'topical'. Reading this collection, a profound relationship emerges between Sewards' writing and working practices. This is most readily legible in the deep, sustained attention she affords her poetic subjects. There is a willingness to hear and to hold the 'other', to make space for them within the poem. This act of holding would seem to resist the rhetorics and routines that compress and delineate the delivery of contemporary 'care'.

In poems such as 'After Burnout', 'Assessment', and 'Day's Work' the language and machinery of bureaucratic administration seem to infiltrate the very consciousness of Sewards' poetic speakers. Instrumentalising language is everywhere present, but the poems – with their attention to detail, their steady empathetic regard – debate and resist this language. Reading Spirograph, I am continually struck by how few spaces there are within language and literature for precisely this kind of resistance. Sewards seems to be proposing the poem as a place of radical, mutual empathy. I am reminded of the American poet Rob Halpern, and his description of the poem as a place or condition of “vulnerable openness”. That this feels so fresh and so challenging says nothing good about the self-absorption of much contemporary poetry.

Perhaps I am being unfair? I do know that Sewards' poems feel 'vulnerable' in reciprocal and productive ways: the speakers in the 'Work' section of Spirograph are literally and psychologically vulnerable because they administer care at the sharp end of human need; those subject to their care are vulnerable in a different way. The mothers in 'Mother's Day at Roll for the Soul' are also vulnerable, vulnerable in front of each other as socially awkward strangers; the women swimming on Hampstead Heath are similarly exposed, to one another and to the elements. The girls in 'The Town Abuser' are vulnerable in quite another sense again, and often the bodies of Sewards' poetic subjects are frail or failing. Sewards seems to remind us that the act of writing and reading poetry creates in itself a condition of vulnerability, a pact of mutual vulnerability in which writer and reader are held. This is poetry's risk, but also its triumph: that it engenders a receptivity and openness to others which is ultimately restorative. This feels like a message we need to take forward into 2021.

Spirograph: an interview with Pauline Sewards
Monday, 04 January 2021 09:50

Spirograph: an interview with Pauline Sewards

Published in Poetry

Fran Lock interviews Pauline Sewards about Spirograph, her latest collection of poems

FL: Hi Pauline, thanks so much for agreeing to talk to me about your latest collection of poems, Spirograph. The title poem uses the conceit of the Spirograph Set to explore those moments of 'not quite repetition' in language, life, and loss. I wonder if you could start by talking a little bit about the title, especially as it relates to the themes of dependency, change, and recovery that run throughout the collection?

One of the reasons I was keen to do this interview with you, was that so many of the poems in Spirograph reflect on or are informed by your experience of work as professional carer – if that isn't an oxymoron. In light of the present government's refusal to acknowledge writers and artists as workers, the collection feels especially timely, not least because it provides an eloquent testament to the mutual indebtedness of your writing and working practices. This is especially evident – it seems to me – in the deep, sustained attention you afford your poetic subjects. Could you tell us something about the relationship between your work as a poet and as a person working in care? Are there skills particular to poetry that feed into – for want of a better word – your professional life?

I also wanted to ask about forms! That is, the paperwork and paraphernalia: the rhetoric, routines and official formulae which delineate and compress the experience of administering care. In poems such as 'After Burnout', 'Assessment' and 'Day's Work' the language and machinery of this administration seems to infiltrate the space of the poem and the consciousness of your speakers and subjects alike. There's a kind of instrumental anonymity at work, which the poems – with their generous attention to detail – debate and resist. Reading Spirograph, I was struck by how few spaces there are within language and literature for precisely that kind of resistance. How conscious were you when putting the collection together of writing against various kinds of reductive or instrumental language, and to what extent you see that as explicitly political?

PS: I like your description of language as ‘delineating and compressing care’. Sometimes the drug and alcohol field (a jargonistic phrase in itself) seems to be always about language. The use of the term service user, client, patient, drug or alcohol user and so on - each carries a different judgement. Harm reduction and recovery focus each carry a different weight. There has been a move away from psychological language to business-speak which can sound quite ugly – ‘outcoming’, ‘moving forward.’  Language always encodes an attitude to the work.

When I wrote about my job I was keen not to represent myself as a hero or saint. I worry everyday that I’m not completely successful in meeting the aims of the organisation and  I worry far more that I might depart from my own values. I wanted to take the reader into the day to day processes of the job, as in the poem ‘Drug Service’. The poem ‘Farweltering’ is also intended to do this and was written about an experience of work which was much more focussed on quality of human interaction. In writing about colleagues and service users there is obviously an obligation to defend confidentiality by merging and altering details. This parallels the nursing code which I’ve internalised over the years which enshrines the keeping of professional boundaries.

The poem ‘Assessment’ was inspired by a colleague from many years ago who wrote up as his assessments as a flowing narrative full of quoted speech and detail about the service user. Today’s pace involves a more tick-box risk-focused process, but the paperwork doesn’t give a sense of the person in the way my colleague’s write-ups did.

The use of language is always very political in these services. The Harm Reduction banner was surprisingly taken up by the Conservative government in the 1980s. This compassionate and liberal approach was a public health response to the HIV crisis. Deep funding cuts lead to the reframing of the work during the last decade or so as Recovery Focused.  In reality both approaches can exist together and be seen as a continuum. Scandalously, drug related deaths rose exponentially from 2012 until plateauing recently (the full effects of the pandemic aren’t known yet). During this time caseloads rose from an average of 30 to over a hundred. By a sleight of hand the workers' job titles are different – they become co-ordinators rather than key workers, so it hard to compare like with like.

You were recently described as “one of the foremost poets on women and work in Britain today”. Obviously, work is very far from being your only poetic subject, but I do get the sense that it is an essential and lively concern in your writing (I know, for example, that in addition to your own creative practice, you recently co-edited Magma 74 on the theme of work). I don't know if you would agree, but I've often felt that, historically, the kinds of work that tend to be performed by women – whether that's clerical work, or work in the service industry, or in different professions of care – are also the kinds of work routinely excluded from a poetic account of labour. Do you feel that women are still under-represented with regards to work-writing, and do you have any thoughts on how publishing cohorts might challenge – or, more hopefully, are starting to challenge –  that lack of inclusivity?

That was a kind description by Kate Fox. So many poets write brilliantly about work. I’d like to mention some writers on nursing - Sally Read who published a few years ago, Romalyn Ante’s ‘Anti-emetic for Homesickness’ and Helen Sheppard, whose extraordinary collection focused on midwifery will be published next year. I definitely agree with you some writing about work may be devalued because it reflects women’s experience. I remember Fiona Moore did an analysis of the number of books published by women on her blog a few years ago which showed a lot of inequality. I get the sense that things have changed quite rapidly but I don’t know how much of this is window dressing. Publishers including Burning Eye Book, Verve, Bad Betty, Outspoken, Culture Matters and others are going some way to address this. Co-editing Magma was an amazing experience, if I had the opportunity again I’d want to elicit more voices from care and service industries, Ben Newbery and I tried hard to do this (but still got a huge proportion of submissions from retired male professors in the US). I think there is a whole anthology to be collated and this might start by encouraging people to write about their experiences and may need to extend beyond print platfoms.

I know this interview has been very work-focussed so far, but of course, the collection is about more than just work, at least in the narrow sense of “employment”. You write movingly about girlhood, about the shaping of a self from formative experiences, not of all of which are necessarily benign. You also attend to the continuity of shared female experience: what it means to be a mother, what it means to grieve, what it means to create. Throughout the collection your poems feel united by a common expression of care, and by a sense of vulnerability. The speakers in the 'Work' section of Spirograph are literally and psychologically vulnerable because they administer care at the sharp end of human need; those subject to their care are vulnerable in a different way. The mothers in 'Mother's Day at Roll for the Soul' are also vulnerable, vulnerable in front of each other as socially awkward strangers; the women swimming on Hampstead Heath are similarly exposed, to one another and to the elements. The girls in 'The Town Abuser' are vulnerable in quite another sense again, and often the bodies of your poetic subjects are frail or failing. Would you mind speaking a little bit about this idea of vulnerability in your work? Do you think perhaps that the act of writing and reading poetry creates in itself a condition of vulnerability?

Paradoxically poetry is the means by which I have become less socially awkward. I am in awe of younger poets, in some cases very young poets who have spoken about trauma and honed their craft very quickly on stages. Two Bristol poets, Malaika Kegode and Aiysha Humphreys, come to mind. For various reasons it took me decades to speak in front of room full of strangers and I found small social gatherings were even more daunting. I’m not sure that has entirely gone away, and I do feel nostalgic for the adrenalin terror of performing. There are a lot of very personal poems in the book - Premonition/Hindsight, which I’ve only read in public once, is probably the most direct confessional one. I like to have a mixture of inward and outward focus.

Staying with the previous thought briefly, I know that the idea of being vulnerable is generally figured in quite negative terms, and certainly there is a perception that to work in care a person has to harden themselves to a certain extent. I love that the poems in Spirograph seem to offer a counter-contention to this idea. There's real receptivity and openness to others and to experience in this collection, and its this openness that is ultimately restorative; that allows the work of care to continue. Is preserving that sense of openness difficult? And is poetry helpful in that preservation?

At work I think preserving a sense of openness and flexibility is essential. There is also a tension between a planned diary and what will actually happen during the day. When working with people who may be chaotic it is seen as important to present consistency and routine. Work has a lot in common with performance and writing as it often requires a persona and relinquishing the need to be liked. Work requires being in a role, a conduit for service delivery, and in the same way that a poem is a conduit to expression. There is often a lack of time to respond to people on a human level. I’m interested in the way colleagues manage these contradictions of the work.

The collection is divided into four sections, beginning with 'Work' and ending in 'Wonder'. In between there is 'Where' and 'Who', providing poetic explorations of place and identity. Could you talk a little bit about the structure of the book? Did it evolve organically or was it consciously shaped over time?

I was quite naive at the beginning of the process. In my first collection I had a sort of overture of poems where the first few pages set out the themes and the following poems were in an intuitively coherent order. This time I had some mentoring from the poet Lucy English. It was her suggestion that I consider having a much more explicit structure. Based on the Spirograph image, my intuitively chosen title for the collection from the early stages, I chose to divide the poems into roughly equal sections. I’m aware that many poems could slip into different sections and I hope readers find and enjoy certain symmetries and images. There are a lot of poems about women including After Burn Out, My Grandmothers, and Pride but there are also poems about cult male artists Jazzman John, and Molly. It is an imperfect Spirograph though and one day I’d like to make something more structured as I’m fascinated by patterns and creativity emerging from rules although that is the opposite to the way I write at the moment.

Staying with form and structure, I wanted to ask about the sense of questioning within the collection; about the poems as places of enquiry and investigation. This sense is generated not only through the use of direct questions – for example, “Who will tribute these women?” in Ivydean – but also the way in which you avoid offering any kind of pat resolution or punchline to the experiences you describe. Was this a conscious poetic strategy on your part, because it feels very natural?

For me poetry is way of diving in to make sense of the world, a rebellion against solution-focused processes, a way of retrieving and celebrating memories and of honouring people. I studied history many years ago and my mother is a self-trained historian who left school at fifteen; the book is dedicated to her and other female ancestors. I want to archive experience of work and beyond in my poetry.  I’m aware this could be seen as whimsical or nostalgic, but want to fight against this reductive view.

Yikes! I get the sense that those were all quite heavy questions, so I wanted to end by asking if you could talk a little about place in your writing, both as a subject and as an influence and inspiration. Bristol feels very present in these poems, and I'd love to know a bit about your relationship to the city and the way it's shaped your writing.

I moved to Bristol thirty years ago and was lucky enough to land in an inner city area, St Werburghs, which has its own identity, resisting gentrification and contains a lot of  countryside. Bristol has a rebellious reputation and it seems surprising that it took so long for that statue to be pulled down. But of course it has taken a very long time for Bristol to face up to its history and question the foundations that have made it a wealthy city.

I was raising my children and studying when I first arrived there so I missed the trip-hop years, more than compensated by going to toddler parties where lovers' rock and reggae were played.  The poem My Bristol is about arriving in the city and sense of things opening up as my role in life changed. I’m pleased to have experienced a city for such a long period of time and seen changes and celebrations that people who live outside may not be quite so well aware of it. For example there was briefly a music festival called Venn Fest in Stokes Croft which featured all sorts of types of music in different and repurposed venues, with an overlapping audiences wandering between the different gigs. I have also spent a lot of time away from Bristol, through work and other reasons. I love discovering new places, especially places that aren’t outwardly glamourous. My heart aches for Bristol as I’ve been away for months now due to the current situation. It is one of the places I feel a creative buzz both just walking and being in cafes, and in the poetry scene there which interacts with the musical tradition and street art of the city and was explosive before this year, but has always been healthy. Being away helps me appreciate the city and see it more objectively and I think the same process will happen with work soon!

Thanks so much for talking to me, I hope that wasn't too painful!

Thank you Fran, for your questions and time, always great to speak to you.

Grieving the City
Saturday, 02 January 2021 12:01

Grieving the City

Published in Poetry

Fran Lock introduces three poets writing loss in London

I no longer recognise this city. I map this city by what is missing. By which I mean, I map this city by what I miss, by whom I miss. There is a species of exile that Edward Said identifies as the 'unhealable rift forced between a human being and a native place, between the self and its true home.' The 'essential sadness' of that rift, writes Said, 'can never be surmounted'. This is not my rift. This is not my pain. There is another kind of exile, an exile of spatial dysphoria: a feeling of being bound to a place, but of moving within it disregarded or misunderstood, abjected from public cartographies; edged out or spoken over whenever the story of your city is told.

Ireland was my foremost experience of this: where the sites and settlements of a shared experience no longer existed, where our past was not meaningfully registered upon public space, was written over by an iconography of grieving from which we felt excluded. My own experience of loss was unaccomodated by Ireland’s nationalistic, religious, and sectarian scripts; scripts in which poetry – through the highly politicised, selective editing of an Irish National Literature  – was heavily implicated.

Accepting that grief and the act of remembrance are experienced in and through physical spaces both public and private, then what should it mean for those of us with a vexed relationship to such spaces? Ireland was my first: excluding and devouring the dead by turns, folding them into her own mythology, inscribing their presence onto civic space. Unless. Unless they were not the 'right kind' of dead, the dead who did not fit the narrow arc of Ireland's nationally determined story. Traveller dead. Queer dead. Junkie dead.

I have written about this often: within settled communities the legacy of sectarian violence is explicit and readily legible, inscribed upon public space through acts of myriad vandalism and memorialisation; the demolition of buildings, the securitisation of streets. For sedentary communities buildings capture the continuity of collective experience, staging and reemphasising a shared cultural heritage. In the North of Ireland in particular, public artwork interacts with personal histories; mediates and facilitates the uncanny experience of memory between individuals and their wider communities, between these communities and the wider world. Traveller communities, whose settlements are, by their very nature, transitory, leave no corresponding trace or wound on the physical landscape. If we think of public space as a container for cultural heritage, then Traveller communities, their histories, and their memories, remain uninscribed, are excluded from the mapping of that heritage. To greive is to greive inwardly, invisibly. It is to find no place of recognition for your pain.

But lately, I have been thinking. This does not apply to Ireland alone, to Traveller communities alone. COVID-19 throws these thoughts into sharper relief, and it is surreal and sobering to reflect on which bodies society deems worthy of care. Jahan Ramazani writes about 'hierarchies of grievability': there are kinds of grief, and there are grieved for subjects, that it is not acceptable to mourn or to speak about. Who are we allowed to mourn? And how and where are we to mourn them, whose lives are characterised by the provisional, the precarious, the marginal and impermanent? How do we grieve poor, queer, vulnerably housed subjects? And how do we reckon with the trauma of that grief, when trauma, by its very definition, renders problematic the possibility of representation? How is trauma to be told when, through contact with traumatic experience, indivduals lose their ability to fully apprehend or integrate the memories of those experiences; when they are unable to give a coherent or consistent account of those experiences to others? How is grief to be rendered visible when the trauma of that grief is itself entangled in acts, official and unofficial, of forcible removal, denigration and erasure?

I am not sure there has ever really been a reckoning with this, politically or poetically. No one seems to want to ask the question: where do we even go to grieve once our landscapes are concreted over, our sites broken up, our communities dispersed, our squats torn down, our bars closed down, our dancehalls gentrified, our districts socially cleansed. I fear that where communities are decimated by our current health crisis, developers will move in. It has happened before. They will do it again. It is opportunistic, but it is also calculated: a willed amnesia, a way of denying that those 'types' they don't like had ever lived.

I no longer recognise this city. In an interview at the start of the year, I feel moved to describe London as a 'cartoon necropolis'. At the time even I wasn't sure what I meant. I am sure now: that there are ghost architechtures, ghost geographies that exist inside or under the surface of the offical ones. We have spent our lives occupying roughly the same spatial coordinates as other people, but we inhabited a totally different world. It has to do with how you map meaning onto space, how you inhabit and move through it. It is your langauge, your landmarks, your rich wealth of city lore. This is radically different if you are poor, if you are in some way 'other'. Or relationship to the city was – is – characterised by a sense of transition, by the logics of the provisional. But now gentrification is come. Austerity has eaten our city alive, and we can no longer find those makeshift makedo places to coalsese and heal. Camden has suffered so much. To be there now, it breaks my heart, the level and intensity of destitution is that acute. Life-long locals have been forced out, the same people who made that space vibrant and exciting, who gave it the cache and grimy glamour the moneymen now laud and fetishise and milk. There are cameras everywhere. There are fences. There are security goons in bomber-jackets with walkie-talkies. How can communities comes together to resist and sustain when there is nowhere left for real communities to form? When you are isolated and scattered and pushed further to the margins?

It happened in Soho. It happened in Brixton. It is happening in Camden and in Shoredich. And these same forces that make life impossible, exploit our histories, folding them into their own, claiming not only our territories but the discursive space – the very langauge –  in which we formulated notions of community and resistence.

Poetry can, and must resist this. 'Empathy' is a big buzzword in poetry at present, but it glosses an arrogant assumption that we can ever inhabit the skin of another; that we can ever understand or truly illuminate the fatal extent of the differences between us. I think what poetry can do is open up a territory, a place in which to greive, to give us back the sites and situations of our loss, and allow us to register that loss in community with others. This, I have to hope, is the true beauty of poetry: a form not merely memorial, but relational, an acknoweldgement of self and other, and a way of holding each other in our several griefs.

The poems I want to introduce today, through various lyric strategies, articulate the often uneasy relationship  between memory, loss, identity, and place. These are poems of pain, sometimes fraught and full of a restless, reckoning energy, but that is also their resistence, that is also their fire.

*

Ritual

by Dr Golnoosh Nourpanah

Another fucking Sunday when
There is no fuck but endless
Arguments about unfucked fuckers
Another Sunday when I bathe in a white
Well and pretend I’m clean
So clean I’m almost chaste like a fat virgin
So clean I lick my skin in search of a floral
Scent that would make me dizzy
Another Sunday when I stifle yet another scream
Even my white noise is onyx
I am dripping with words and this
Makes me a bitch. I wear my shrieks
Like a dagger under my garments
I tease my skin with the blade and
Slumber. But the Sunday chamber is
The loudest place to sleep in
I wake up, and my sweat smells like
Pickled aubergine so strong that the
Neighbours call the police. But there is
Always featherless hope, a way out, the path
To obsidian peace. If I take out
The blade from underneath my skin
If I find a cobalt vein, and cut it deep
If my black blood pours out
Like acid rain in spring,
These Sundays will end, and
There will be peace.

*
Dub Night

by Heathcote Ruthven

At a dub night in Village Underground
and think of you Jamie anew,
our punk racket in my living room
in love with the furious drums of Carnival.
Prone to feeling out of place
you might be uncomfortable here.
At the right time, you’d be all over it;
the bass notes hurt your throat.
What to say? To remember is to take a view.
Toward the end I didn’t know you.
Your boyish obsessions, your noble sighs,
old man playact, Attenborough till sunrise,
glazed to nature’s greatest cruelties.
The cordyceps fungi, a parasite,
can invade an insect’s muscle,
can make an ant beat its head
madly with a mandible.
Possessed ants climb the nearest tree,
grip with mouth and feet the vein of a leaf
direct above their family.
Then, merged with what it feeds,
fruiting bodies sprout out,
on repeat, spores blossom.
Whole colonies are petrified.
To my communism, you replied,
‘I’m attracted to the darker side of human nature’,
on that we never argued.
Your clothes were iconic,
mockingly sophisticated.
Staring at yourself for hours
in the mirror, terrified, pulling faces.
Your whole life a strange war against pretension.
I struggle to remember how you danced in public
just us thrown round your kitchen:
Richard Hell, James Chance, Neubauten.
You loved
Last Exit To Brooklyn,
first novel by seaman Hubert Shelby Jr.
He got TB in the Forties,
had ribs removed and half a lung,
the other collapsed. He couldn’t work
so sat in bed addicted to morphine.
Said, ‘I know the alphabet, I can write’,
wrote brutal stories you saw yourself in somehow.
In my head you wrote a story
based on his second novel, The Room.
In my head based on the so-called
‘sex dungeon’, dilapidated basement
squat near The Elephant.
You dwelt there in broken moans,
half rushing or withdrawing.
The walls close in, everybody’s left.
Are you lonely or is it a peaceful gloom?
So serious you were almost spiritual.
They howl sermons here,
‘We all feel the temptation of corruption!
Such suffering in the world!’
Reverberation and low throbs shake up
our skins with a low lilt, a gruff purge,
horns convulse like you on sax
except they land in a smooth crash
in words of hungry bemusement
‘Why, why people funny bwoy’
sings a man I’ll not meet to
off beat strumming, a tight shake,
all that hot pain let out
slithers to a sweet cry,
a ‘shh’ that never stops.
Last week I heard a vicar repeat
‘the price we pay for love is grief.’
Bored, you and I went to a scrap heap
in Willesden. The materials of
city life torn up into fine trinkets
piled into mountains
we climbed, were cut by avalanches,
sat at the peak with a bloated blue bottle,
White Lightning. We’d celebrate fragmentation
then the stars and mist of suburban flatlands.
Now I lie exhausted with eyes closed,
use every muscle to try summon you,
discover new memories and feel guided.
You preferred instant coffee to real stuff,
when I drink it I imagine your mouth.
Gaze at the walls of Village Underground,
three stories tall, Gothic Victorian like
your name, James Edward Cripps.

*

A-Z ’95

by Matt Bates

FL 2 resized

[1]London Scene, (London: Gay Men’s Press, 1995), pp.53-63. Transcribed pub listings page. The highlighted venues are the only ones still active in 2019/20.

Notes on poets

Matt Bates has worked in the books industry for over 30  years and up until June 2018 was the Fiction Buyer for WH Smith Travel. In 2016 he was a judge for both the Costa Book Prize (Novel) and chair for The Booksellers Association Debut Fiction Category Prize. He now studies English Literature and Creative Writing at Birkbeck, University of London and is Editor-at-large for Muswell Press with a focus on Queer writing.

Heathcote Ruthven is a writer and editor at New River Press. He has edited poetry anthologies including Year Of The Propaganda Corrupted Plebiscites and When They Start To Love You As A Machine You Should Run. His writing has appeared in International Times, The Idler, The Independent, Vice, and others.

Dr Golnoosh Nourpanah teaches Creative Writing at Bedford University. She has read at numerous literary events across the UK and internationally. Her debut poetry collection, Sorrows of the Sun, was published 2017. Her acclaimed short story collection, The Ministry of Guidance and other Stories, was published in 2020. A second collection of poems is forthcoming in 2021. Watch this space!

Emmanuel
Thursday, 24 December 2020 09:31

Emmanuel

Published in Poetry

Emmanuel

by Fran Lock

sometimes the sky fights me. sometimes the day
is a dogful of loss. sometimes the day is a desert,
a prolonged and hopeless music. how the heart
has timid discipline enough to make you retch,
and i should gather in my wan rejoicing, stone
by stick, by feather by stone. sometimes i walk,
and sometimes run – caffeine's acrid circuit in
the blood – by shuttered shops, and faces numb
with bargain. i pipe a syrup grace through buds,
a song to steer my pleading mood: o come, o
come. and souls descend and stride at will. this
i'm told, so pull myself together. sometimes
the day is more than i can stand; devise my
thriving failure, a silvery charm against fame.
in the arcade, how an old woman's mouth is
twisted in its figuring, how a young boy cups
the flickering gift of a stranger's light to his
chin, how the blackened wick of an addict's
tongue taps against her teeth as she hustles
and blags with a tawny daring. how pain
applies, and god is here in any given gleam.
a child's dilated eye delights in chocolate
money. the sally ann, faces chalky with
reproach, and each hoarse sin suspect within
an inch of a life. carols flattened to a german
oompah prosit! if i could disappear, braid all
of my mistakes to pattern, turn this penitent
attention to the work of love. but here is a thick
and extinguishing sky, devours its heavens
whole. sometimes the day is fixed to
the murderous hints of hardmen. consoled
and then oppressed in turn again, reeling
from that old trouble, that old coarse damage
turned our poets to grotesques. to inhabit
a cavernous virtue and rattle around alone
the unquiet attics of the mind, the mind
an abruptly blackened eye, the mind
a soiled mattress, bolt of calico, raised
hand bitten to seventeen stitches in fingerless
gloves. and a song, fatigued and luminous.
who mourns in lonely exile here, until –
until. crack the ugly glandular damp
of winter right apart, and all the skeleton
hyperboles of power. sometimes the day
is a gallows against gravity, to hang and not
to die, and buskers crooning yokel passions
making mock. until, until. to rise up
like a boxing hare, and the lyric steels
itself for meaning once again.

These poets are workers
Thursday, 17 December 2020 11:11

These poets are workers

Published in Cultural Commentary

Fran Lock writes about that advert, and the exclusion of working-class people, lives and experiences from the arts and literature

In October this year the UK government released – then quickly withdrew and disowned – a controversial advert advising creative practitioners to retrain for the Covid-crippled job market. The image they used featured a young woman of colour in ballet-dancer's tulle, captured in the act of tying her slipper. They christened her “Fatima”, and the caption beneath told us that her next job “could be in cyber”, she just didn't know it yet.

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Criticism of the ad was widespread and swift; rightly so. One of the crowning ironies to emerge from this criticism was that “Fatima” is not, in fact, a British citizen at all, but an aspiring dancer based in the US. Her real name is Desiree Kelley. Both Kelley and Krys Alex, the freelance photographer who took the photo, were quick to condemn the use of their image and their art as part of a campaign encouraging people to give up on their creative vocations and “reskill” in cyber securities. It is telling that CyberFirst, the “government outreach and education programme”, which ran the campaign, foresaw no objections, and felt no ethical qualms about the indiscriminate repurposing of art by young women of colour to further their own agenda.

Disclaiming all responsibility for the ad, Culture Secretary Oliver Dowden made feeble noises about a recent visit to the Royal Ballet, describing the “wonderful” dancers there, and the immense “value” the company brings to the country. It is worth noting that even within such a prestigious company the average dancer earns barely above the minimum wage. Most dancers, of course, are not with the Royal Ballet, and there are few mainstream employment opportunities for black and minority ethnic dancers within the UK as a whole. While both opera and ballet are over-represented in government arts funding, this funding scarcely benefits the thousands of struggling freelancers, many of whom find themselves ineligible for financial support and remain unable to work, a state of exhausting precarity that disproportionately affects working-class, black, and minority ethnic people.

Much criticism of the advert centred on its cynicism and flippancy regarding the performing arts, and the structural racism that underpins such attitudes. Art is work, commentators argued; it is a passion honed into a career though years of patient and punishing study. For poor people, and people of colour, working within a system specifically designed to exclude them, the quantity of grit required to achieve any kind of sustenance or success is that much greater. Practitioners deserve the same financial safety nets as would ideally apply to any other profession.

Watching these debates unfold across social media I reflected that “work” is a vexed term, and one that right-wing elites seem intent on misunderstanding: if art is work, then by their logic the amount you earn becomes the only metric by which the worth of your job and its contribution to society is measured. If art is not-quite-work, then it is either an indulgence you can do without, or a passion so intense that you should do it for free, and where no one is obliged to acknowledge the conditions under which your labour is extracted.

Alongside these conversations, the ad unleashed a flurry of passionate and creative rejoinders in which the Tories were roundly slammed for their inability to recognise artists as people with unique talents and skills, and an arts career as anything more than an interchangeable “gig”. Arguments raged about how we define art and the value we place on it. My fellow poets were often among the most vociferous and articulate participants in this back-and-forth, but I think we also have our blind spots.

Chief among these blind spots is the idea that the Right doesn't value the arts. This is patently false, it is precisely because they value the arts so highly that they don't want us, or anyone who looks or sounds like us, involved. Excluding black or working-class people from the arts doesn't prevent art from happening, it merely prevents those same black and working-class people from participating; this in turn allows for the wholesale colonisation of cultural space by moneyed elites. A refusal to fund or to compensate artists for their labour is a form of social cleansing, it ensures that only those with wealth, privilege and connections are able to compete and to contribute; to be recognised and ultimately rewarded.

Alienated, exhausted and ashamed

I find myself returning to that obnoxious ad. It isn't “Darcy” whose next job could be in cyber. Darcy's safe: she's white, she trained at the Royal Academy, she has the support and privilege necessary to pursue her dream. Contemporary ballet is therefore well-stocked with Darcies. Future generations of Darcies will look to contemporary ballet and feel comfortably confirmed. They will seek and find reflections of themselves there; they will be welcomed and included. For “Fatima” this is not the case. Fatima will be told by her parents and teachers that her ambitions are untenable. They will not tell her this to be unkind, but they will look to contemporary ballet and see startlingly few poor brown faces there. Despite Fatima's obvious talent there will be no money left for lessons, and little spare time for practice. If Fatima does persist, she will persist inside a system that operates under an unchecked assumption of affluence. Her invisible effort to snatch time, energy and attention back from the unconducive conditions of home, or the double-shifts she works to support herself, will be left maddeningly unacknowledged. She will feel alienated, exhausted, and ashamed. Nine times out of ten she will give up.

This is not just true of dance. This pattern persists across art and literature, where the Fatimas of this world do not need to “reskill”, where they are lucky to work just one other job. Most of us working in the arts already have an as-well-as, we do not need or want an instead-of.

It serves the Tories to position art and literature as leisure activities, as charming and optional hobbies. Indeed, for many white middle-class persons the act of reading and writing is often figured as inherently pleasurable and restorative. However, these are exercises in pleasure through which the individual participates in the acquisition and confirmation of cultural status. It is a political activity; a prestige-seeking activity, which situates that reader and writer within a cohort of similarly well-read peers. Reading and being seen to have read the “right” books contributes to a sense of shared class identity. It contributes to a “house-style”, a shared fund of formal tropes and characteristic concerns. This identity is further moulded through mainstream discourse, such as literary journals, broadsheet book reviews and Radio 4 interviews with prize-winning authors. It is fostered through bookfairs and festivals; readings and signings, private events and exclusive content; cottage retreats and weekend courses.

For the middle classes, who have access to literature, literary discourse, and literary spaces from a young age, to read is to connect to a community of others like oneself. Often a significant overlap exists between the life experiences of readers and the writers whose work they consume, and between writers who submit their work, and the journal editors who decide what is published. There is a level of identification, comfort, and entitlement that is impossible to imagine for even the most joyful and voracious of working-class readers, the most driven and devoted of aspirant writers.

Our reading experiences as working-class people are different: omnivorous and opportunistic, in the main. We claw back attention from the material demands of unlovable labour. So when we read, we read partly with a sense of awkwardness and shame. We do not recognise affirmative reflections of ourselves in literature or in literary discourse. When we see ourselves in print at all, we are routinely dehumanised and reduced. When we write, then, we write with all the anxiousness and urgency of our lives behind us. When we write, these lives inform both the structure and the subject of our work; we embody a challenge to the dominant discourse, to the cultural status quo. There is much at stake for us in writing. There is much at stake for them in excluding us.

Reskill and go away

The Tories wish we would “reskill”, by which they mean “go away”. They wish poets in particular would “reskill” because due to its mode of production, poetry accommodates Fatima to a greater extent than other creative practices, being both cheap and portable. More than this, because of its emphasis on voice, on the rhythms and inflections of speech, poetry preserves the tangible traces of class and race identity. It recognises and elevates the cadences and textures of lived experience, and acknowledges the flare and dexterousness with which words are shaped and thoughts are formed across widely diverse cultures and communities. Of course they underfund us. And of course they marginalise the teaching of poetry in schools. They wish to reclaim the practice of poetry as a genteel past-time or an academic exercise. They want to deny us the opportunity to infiltrate cultural and discursive space, to talk about our lives to each other, and to challenge the implied audience for art and literature.

The poems I am presenting today explore in their various ways the complex relationship between creativity and labour; they show the diversity of working-class voice, and the intensity of working-class experience. Further, they demonstrate how necessary, and how potentially radical those voices and experiences are. The independent presses represented by these poets offer an example of the way working-class people are removing artistic production from its usual elite haunts, and connecting to each other, deciding and refining our own tastes and ideas, and not relying upon on some middle-class editorial filter to tell us what is ‘good’ or ‘bad’ art. When we decide we no longer need the permission of cultural gatekeepers to publish or to mediate between ourselves and our audiences, then the conversions about issues that matter to us can be kept alive long after their fads for our tokenistic inclusion have faded. We need such spaces now more than ever, to keep the lives and experiences of both working and unemployed poor people present within cultural space at a time when government and media discourses figure us as expendable and faceless economic units; collateral damage at best.

These poets are workers: the poems they write are crafted and honed to a high degree; their writing is a space in which thinking occurs, in which questions are formulated and insights are gleaned. They are also workers in the sense that they perform “day jobs”, jobs which inform, fuel and exist in uneasy negotiation with their writing. They are Fatima, we all are. We struggle to maintain our autonomy and independence in a world that would rather we worked “in cyber”, or in ASDA, or cleaning toilets, or in Pret, or anywhere but art. But we are artists, and we are here to stay.

After Burnout

by Pauline Sewards

I’m going back to work next week,
one hand on my Policies
and The Little Book of Mindfulness.
The other hand clutching my pen
which in my mind
has swelled to cartoon proportions.

My mother worked for three decades
at a newsagent’s in Market town,
ironed her uniform every morning
cursed ‘Nylon’s a sod for creases,’
over the hissing steam.

She wore a badge saying Happy to Help
I’m in the helping business too
although the word is so loaded
I don’t know what it means anymore.
The newsagent’s closed ten years ago,
pigeons crap in the gutters,
net curtains grey in the windows.

Stories have spun themselves
while I’ve been away.
Red alerts on the screen
will demand data.

My mother is a survivor
When she walks around Market town
she’s greeted as minor celebrity.
‘I remember buying my Mirror from you,
you always had a smile.’

I walk on broken glass.
my pen is the means of production.

Ox and the struggle against the single file entry method

by Martin Hayes

when Ox felt ill
and couldn’t face filing out into the yard
along with the other oxen
so that they could all be strapped into their ploughs
Farmer came into the leaky barn
and just stood there
in front of him
and said

so what’s the matter with you today
Ox?

the ox mooed
deep and low
but Farmer didn’t understand
because farmers don’t understand
deep and low moos
they only understand the single file entry method
into the straps of their ploughs

so Farmer put his elbow-length gloves on
and stuck an arm up Ox’s arse
feeling about
for anything that might disprove
how ill Ox said he felt

let’s see what’s up here then

Farmer said

then he pulled at what was inside
he pinched at what was inside
he tweaked and tried to part
what was inside
and when he couldn’t find anything
he yanked at the only thing he could get hold of
which was Ox’s guts

and because farmers think
that oxen’s guts
are full of shit
Farmer pronounced

there is nothing wrong with you
you are faking it
you are full of shit
and you will not eat tonight

then he twisted a black mark into Ox’s forehead
with his thumb

and Farmer stayed true to his word
withholding Ox’s food
so that Ox remained hungry
letting out moos
deep and low
and this goes on
not only for oxen
but for nurses and fireman and fruit pickers
too

Body death and soul murder

by Dorothy Spencer

at least a hamster
in its ball
is breaking the boundaries
of its caged life
at least a dog
kicks up mud and dirt
as it runs along real ground
though the track is predetermined
and the rabbit is a fake
you run towards
the greatest nothing
and four tv screens
mounted on the wall
simultaneously playing the news
can’t pay we’ll take it away
and cash in the attic
to think we spent all this time
figuring out how to escape the daily plough
and body pain
callouses as big as onions
dysentery and not enough to eat
only to arrive at the end of history
running precisely nowhere
wedded as we are
to a still life
lived not on our feet but in chairs
and not in chains but in
bondage, to machines
as dumb as treadmills

***** 

Pauline Sewards is a Bristol-based poet and founder of the regular event in Easton called 'Satellite of Love'. Her first collection This is the Band was published by Hearing Eye in 2018. 'After Burnout' is taken from her most recent collection, Spirograph, published by Hearing Eye earlier this year.

Martin Hayes has worked in the courier industry for 30 years. His latest collection is Where We Get Magic From, published by Culture Matters. 'Ox and the struggle against the single file entry method' is taken from his forthcoming collection Ox, due to be published by Knives, Forks, and Spoons Press in February 2021.

Dorothy Spencer is an Editor at Lumpen Journal, A Journal of Poor and Working-Class writing, and a founding member of the Class Work Project, an education and publishing workers co-op, based in Edinburgh, Manchester and London. 'Body death soul murder' is taken from her debut chapbook See What Life Is Like, published by Lumpen earlier this year.

 

 

 

 

 

See what life is like: an interview with Dorothy Spencer
Thursday, 26 November 2020 10:45

See what life is like: an interview with Dorothy Spencer

Published in Poetry

Fran Lock interviews Dorothy Spencer, an editor at Lumpen journal, writer, poet and mental health worker. Her first collection, See What Life is Like was published by Lumpen this year. Her writing explores everyday tragedies; addiction, love, loneliness, and the absurd banality of late consumer capitalism. 

Hi Dorothy, and thanks so much for agreeing to talk me about your debut chapbook, See What Life Is Like, described as a collection of poems 'considering such everyday tragedies as addiction, loneliness, love, and bottled water.' This is the first in a series of chapbooks to be published by Lumpen, who are doing such necessary work to provide writers in poverty with vital publishing opportunities. Before speaking about the collection in more detail, I wonder if you could start by talking a little bit about the social mission of Lumpen Journal and the Class Work Project?

The Class work project is an amalgamation of the work all of us have been doing for the last year or so and marks our formation as a registered co-operative. There are two main strands to our work; publishing and education. I have always been much more involved with our publishing activity. I met D. Hunter after reading his book Chav solidarity (which I encourage everyone to get) and Hannah back in the summer of 2019 to chat about starting a magazine of some sort that would publish the work of poor and working-class writers. This partly came out of the response to D’s book which chronicles growing up in the underclass, a story seldom told, and thanks to that book a lot of people wanted to share their own similar experiences of living in the margins. So firstly, Lumpen started as a place to hold all of those stories. We’ve now been publishing for over a year and I suppose our focus is still pretty much the same, providing publishing opportunities for people who won’t get them, and printing stuff that we think is important and that you are unlikely to read about elsewhere.

I love how the title of your collection functions as both an invitation and a confrontation. I don't know if you'd agree, but I think there is an implied audience for much contemporary lyric poetry, and it operates on this massively blinkered assumption of affluence. When working-class poets – especially working-class women – bring their daily experiences into literary space, we tend to generate a certain level of incredulity or discomfort. Your collection is so attentive to the minutiae of working-class life, I wanted to ask if you felt you'd experienced any level of resistance to your work from established literary “scenes” and publishing cohorts?

Yes I am fond of the title actually – it came from a poem I was writing about my Dad watching the news which I didn’t end up including in the collection.

I would definitely agree about the implied audience for most poetry – when you think of the cost of most poetry books, the platforms and the language and assumed knowledge of a lot of it it’s not surprising I suppose. I have been thinking a lot recently about the poetry of rap – particularly road rap 2020 – artists like Potter Payper who are writing amazing lyrics about growing up in poverty and all that comes with that, and the way that work is consumed. Poetry of the vernacular has always been really attached to music – often as a way of distribution so as a continuity of that it’s really interesting. He’s rapping about being hungry, about his mum being in Holloway, about being a kid in Feltham, and it’s obviously not just what he’s writing about that makes it good, his lyrics are clever, sharp, emotional, funny, all the things you would want from a good poem. And you’ve got a lot of kids listening to this right now; on the way to school, on the streets, in prison cells and in cars. His tracks are top-ten and he doesn’t even have a record label.

To me that’s poetry working in its truest and most basic way. As opposed to an alienated product of abstraction – I don’t wanna be bitchy about other people’s work – but I just think art, any type of art, should be living. Like if I was making paintings, I wouldn’t want them to hang on a brilliant white wall in the non-atmosphere of a Tate gallery, I’d rather have a mural in a place where people live. To me the poetry scene seems like a sort of gallery. But I am talking about it from a place of little experience. I can’t say I’ve had resistance from publishing cohorts or literary scenes because I literally just haven’t engaged with them and wouldn’t know how to really. I tried to sign up for an advanced poetry workshop thing with the Poetry School once and they just said my work wasn’t the right fit for what they were doing. I’ve sent work to various poetry magazines and just not heard anything, that’s about as far as it’s gone.  I guess I have a lot of preconceived ideas about those places from the way they feel to interact with. I think if you don’t possess some social capital, or the ability to acquire some, by doing a literary degree for example, then those places are difficult to enter and often not very comfortable or familiar when you get there.

We spoke briefly by email about the struggle for working-class writers and artists to be seen as writers and artists first and foremost. Do you think that mainstream publishing seems to favour or to fetishise particular kinds of working-class testimony, often at the expense of foregrounding what is skilful or interesting in the text itself?

‘Working-class’ has become something of a line in a bio – something you put on the front cover of your book. While I think people should be proud of their class – I find it uncomfortable and disingenuous the way it has become a kind of marketing strategy. If you’re trading in your life experience only, then you run out of material. And then that material becomes like a form of capital, mined and sold and then gone and that’s your LIFE!! It’s not healthy to wear an identity like a suit, and you are rarely the one making the quids out of it. When mainstream publishers print working-class books there’s some process of alienation that that work goes through, and to be honest whether you are w/c or not the mainstream publishing industry is pretty alienating full-stop. But because I don’t think we have a big reading audience who is working class most w/c poetry goes through this packaging process to make it attractive to more middle – upper class audiences because they are the ones with the money to buy the books. To me it’s just as important who is reading the work – I have had a lot of kind words from people who ‘don’t like poetry’ but who relate to some of their themes in my work, and that’s the most satisfying feedback for me. You wanna talk to people don’t you, have a conversation, not merely an audience. As far as I see it anyway, and I think a lot of working-class people can smell the alienation of stuff that’s been through the Penguin wringer.

Connected to the previous question, to what extent do you think “identity politics” is implicated in shaping the reception of and appetite for poetry by working-class writers? Do you find yourself having to resist certain kinds of classification or coerced performance of the you-must-write-about-this, you-must-sound-like-this variety?

Yes I think mainstream publishers sign writers with a very fixed idea of who that writer is and what they’re going to write. If they sign you because you are filling their ‘publish more working-class stuff’ strategy for that year then they won’t like it if you try and give them a load of nature writing. A lot of organisations have become very self-conscious about identity politics and wanting to be ‘woke’. This is not because being ‘woke’ is a good thing but because wokeness sells these days. We should never be fooled into thinking that mainstream publishers or any other profit-making enterprise would do anything that doesn’t suit their ultimate agenda, which is making money. If they take on more niche titles as an exercise in honing a better brand identity that too is because a better brand identity makes them money.

I have so little faith in this lot basically and think we should be doing more ourselves, but ultimately if you want people to read your work you let the bastards have it because they own the machines. I have noticed more poetry from people from working class, BAME and other minority backgrounds getting published by the big guys but I feel like a lot of the motivation for this comes from fear or business prerogatives rather than from an actual interest and love of diverse work and experiences. I wish we could get to a place where great poets also just happen to be black/poor/female/disabled rather than having to be defined by it and expected to write and talk about it all the time.

One of the things I find so compelling about your collection is the space it makes for anger. So many of the poems explore that uneasy ground between hilarity and rage, which I think is incredibly under-investigated in poetry. Reading your collection made me think about how few spaces there are for that kind of visceral and immediate anger in contemporary poetry. Do you think poets are obliged to do a certain amount of managing, repackaging and cleaning up of their rage in order to find publishing opportunities?

The balancing point between rage and hilarity is a space I find myself in often. For me humour is a counterweight against the instability of the world. There is a poem in my collection about my dad which I wrote a very long time ago about him laughing and then the laughter mutating into tears and him just crying in a really raw way. When I stop being able to handle the world that is how I feel. The society we find ourselves in now is beyond ridiculous, so contradictory, so irrational, so cruel and yet also banal and tacky. Any interaction with the machine, in terms of like contact with the police or state or trying to get help or even just like being on the phone to Indesit to get a washing machine fixed is so fraught with this irrationality and bureaucracy and meaninglessness, which for me has come to encapsulate the character of this moment of capitalism.

It is something I find totally tragic and it is also often hilarious. Using laughter as a coping mechanism is something I think a lot of working-class people do. It’s a trait that some people are uncomfortable with, like making jokes about my Dad’s alcoholism, or depression, or smoking crack or whatever. I can laugh at those things because I’ve had an interaction with them and up close they have a lot of hilarity in them, but as abstractions maybe not. As a culture we are not very comfortable with strong emotion, anger, sadness, love even; bourgeois culture is and always has been about being measured and ‘rational’ and the legacy of that continues in publishing houses.

Staying with the idea of anger, I was thinking about form, and how little accommodation poetry's formal structures seem to make for anger. As working-class people we're often told that we're thick, or that we're “not doing it properly” when our poems break structural rules, but the etiquette of “good” middle-class prosody doesn't really contain the kinds of feelings or experiences we want to share. As a poet, but also as an editor who cares deeply about craft, could you talk a little bit about your own approach to form, both as a writer and a reader?

While not totally an afterthought, form isn’t a primary concern for me when I’m writing. A formal structure acts as a kind of container, and that can be useful and a place to experiment but it’s not something I have done much yet with my writing. I practise some restraint but generally my work is pretty chaotic and off the page. I write about things I feel very emotional about, as writing is foremost a way for me to sort and understand the world and things that are happening to me.  As a reader I’m very hedonistic, I just rip through books till I find stuff that gets me and I don’t spend a lot of time considering the tricks; I don’t wanna know how they get the rabbit out the hat, I just wanna sit back and believe in magic!

Slight change of tack: See What Life Is Like is illustrated by Dylan Hall. It's really exciting and heartening to see this kind of collaboration in a poetry collection. Could you describe something about how the collection came together, and the process of working with an illustrator?

I always liked Dylan’s work and it seemed to create a similar mood or atmosphere to that of my poems. Equally he was into my writing, so we just met up in the pub and a handful times and talked about some of the images brought up by the poems and then he went away and came up with different stuff. We went back and forward a bit and there were a lot more illustrations than were included in the book; it was kind of a delicate thing but I’m happy we did it. I think for a reader having illustrations can be really helpful particularly for people who find reams of text off-putting.

There aren't many illustrated collections out there; do you think that has anything to do with the politics of collaboration? For example, is there a mystique around the lyric 'I' and the idea of the poet as an inspired genius working in solitude? And does collaboration remind us that art too is social, and that that art too is work?

I think we tend to feel very possessive of our work, and that is tied up with ideas about the individual and ownership which have become central nexus points in the ideology of our society. The idea of private property is rarely questioned. The idea that our work is our own is also rarely questioned, yet a poem is very often constructed though collaboration in some way, whether that collaboration is with a tree or a person you had a conversation with or an event you watched on the tv. While we continue to live in the current way individual ownership of work remains important because we have to make money from the things we produce.

In a utopia poems would belong to everyone and there would be much more collaboration in the creation of all art. If you look at the peasant tradition in Britain when we were still living on common land in a more communal fashion you find lots of versions of the same verses, nearly always without authors. Because people adapted poetry to suit their life and tastes, and it wasn’t a commodity form. I’m not saying that people should relinquish all attachment to their work, I’m not that much of a batshit leftist, but I think it would be healthy for us to get more comfortable with making and owning things together – whether that’s a mural, a vegetable patch, a house or a poem.

 I've often felt that poetry's mode of production makes it ideal for those of us who are mired in unconducive conditions and unlovable labour. It is portable, cheap, and it doesn't require specialist tools or training. And yet poetry seems to have been largely colonised by middle-class elites, and it is now seen as an essentially bourgeois pastime. Is this something you've experienced within your own writing life? And what strategies have you encountered for resisting this kind of colonisation?

 Yes although there are a lot of reasons I choose the form of poetry, I think fifty percent of it is that I haven’t had time, resources, or the confidence perhaps to put more into my writing. A lot of poems are stories that I could have written books on. There’s something uncommittal about poetry that makes it feel more accessible. So as you say it’s strange and unfortunate that it has become exclusive. In terms of the ‘colonisation’ of poetry, it’s something that I am looking into as a historical process. How it is that a very strong working-class poetic tradition in UK came to be quite forgotten, so that today it has very little presence in w/c life. It’s not a form people go to, for comfort or expression – which is a shame for a lot of reasons, although there are other arenas like rap as I mentioned earlier to which I think a lineage can be drawn.

I always felt pretty embarassed about writing poetry and wouldn’t tell anyone I grew up with about it without being self-deprecating. There’s something about it that seems self-indulgent and at odds with w/c culture. The solitary, serious nature of it. The way poetry and poets are represented – serious, far away, bourgeois. Shakespeare and Seamus Heaney (much as I love him) over and over again. Honestly I think Benjamin Zephaniah’s tireless tours of London schools probably did more for urban poetry than anything else. I’d really like to see more funny, light-hearted poets like him (although he’s also very able to tackle serious stuff when he needs to) able to challenge some of those ideas and bring about a healthier poetry culture.

Finally, I'd love to know what's next: both for Lumpen and for yourself as a writer. I sometimes feel that as working-class people we're not allowed to be ambitious, or that the material circumstances of our lives don't allow us to make plans, so I'm always keen to talk about future takeover bids, insidious left-wing agendas, and how we can help each other to make that happen.

I feel like we are building a really good energy with the stuff we are doing with Lumpen. We are just about to publish another chapbook with fellow London-born poet Jake Hawkey and have another couple of poets we are talking to about publishing a collection. So focusing on that and building a community around it is something I’m thinking about at the moment.

I’m having trouble with the computer being the only portal into the world. Before COVID I was doing work with people with mental health diagnoses, and that was really great work. I’m hoping to be able to get outside and work with people again soon. Have some vague ideas about studying, but coming up with the cash is a problem. I will keep writing like I always have, have a bag full of finished work which I would like to do something with but for now I should probably concentrate on getting people to read the first one!

See what life is like is available here.

Other / White Other
Monday, 16 November 2020 09:41

Other / White Other

Published in Life Writing

Other/ White Other

by Fran Lock

There is silence in the workshop when the young woman asks me am I sure I'm white. Silence, not embarrassed, but expectant. I do not know what to say. I do not know what to say because I don't know why she asked. On the surface, the question is too preposterous to parse: of course I'm sure, and of course I'm white. I am obviously white. I am almost flamboyantly white. On a purely physical level, I am the palest thing in the room.

That isn't what she meant. Or, it is and it isn't. How to say? There's the white you are and the white you become. That is, my skin is supposed to be a shorthand, a shortcut, my passport to a shared language of whiteness, where the signifier “white” and the white identity it generates is affirmed and prescribed, where belonging is made and renewed, over and over, through various kinds of “white” performance. I had failed in my performance. If only for a moment, I had missed my cue. I did not correctly speak my symbols. I did not correctly speak my skin. I did not confirm the colour written on my face. She was brought up short, that woman, by something I said or the way that I wrote. In that hot, bright room, under the spotlight of critical scrutiny, the unspoken assumptions that constitute my privilege were being stripped away.

Are you sure you're white?  As opposed to what? By which you mean what? Law-abiding? Educated? Cultured? Moral? By which you mean this shared fund of formal tropes, these icons and these canons, these references, this prosody. If I have betrayed my face, then my text is open insurrection. You turn on me. If you weren't so educated, if you weren't so cultured, and if you weren't so moral, what then? The elite space can't scream “White Nigger!” and you never would, would you? The work of your whiteness is covert, unconscious even, semi-conscious; invisible, refined, and sly. But you do say “chav”, don't you? Not to my face, but you say it. And you do say “pikey”.
Not British or Irish, but both and neither. To look at I am so white that I disappear daily within your dense crush of Anglophile assumptions. Yet I live within those categories as an alien “other”: strange, estranged inside of whiteness, because you don't mean me when you say “white”. For you, “pikey” is a way of removing me from the hallowed precincts of whiteness, a form of lexical cleansing.

These thoughts spin through my head as I think of how to answer her. To insist I share their skin is to support the value system that produced the question. But what else should I call myself? Do I not benefit from being pale? Is my whiteness not my subterfuge? My protection? My disguise? My brown and black friends joke that I'm their “sleeper”, that I'm doing deep-cover; I'm their penetration agent inside of academia. But I'm not. I'm a coward, and there are times I've used my whiteness like a shield. Subjectively, “pretending to be one of them” feels edgy and subversive. It isn't. It's a disavowal of the explicitly “other”. I can “pick my battles”. I can opt-out until I'm found out, until I open my mouth, say the wrong thing in the wrong way, until I give myself away. This isn't winning. This isn't turning the tables. This isn't power. This is a naughty child resorting to cheap tricks because she cannot overthrow the adult order. Her tricks benefit only herself, and not even herself in the long-run.

Class and racial hatred

In the workshop they are staring. And I want to say: well, it depends on what you mean by “white”. And I want to say something, anything else less feeble. I want to howl with frustration. I want to punch her. I want to smash furniture. There's a template for this question, and I see myself in a thousand shitty political cartoons, where the Irish are apes, alkies and psychos: simian “Biddies” with red faces and beefy arms; swarthy Fenian schemers, cunning tinkers, feckless drunks, machete men, bomb-plotters. Are you sure you're white? In Irish identity are class and racial hatred muddied and met. To live with this is to be pushed to the point of murderous fury. Furious, but aware that they want your anger, they want it because it confirms them in their low opinion of you. They want your rage, so they can use it as an argument for your continued subjugation, your need to be “civilised”, “occupied”, “taken in hand”. You are feral, in limb and tongue. You are “men that God made mad”.  Ireland, what have you done with this, but rolled your shit downhill? Travellers are the Irish it is permissible for even the other Irish to hate. Scapegoats.

White is not a colour as such, which is why whiteness must define itself in relation to a sea of subaltern “others”; must strenuously perform itself against those others: through the overt violence of the military industrial complex, and the subtle, hidden violence of discourse. This performance is as blunt as petrol through a letterbox, as maddeningly nuanced as the law. Whiteness is continually quantified and measured. This process is so continuous that white people have ceased to notice it at all. What's that sound? It's the ambient hum of presumed whiteness, the polite calquing of the implied white audience.

Am I sure? And I think about the myth of “white fragility”. It isn't merely that white people are seen as being more fragile, but that whiteness itself is a cipher for multiple forms of vulnerability, for a kind of desirable sickness. Whiteness forms on the surface of power like the skin on hot milk. Or, to put it another way, white fragility is money-men in gimp masks turned on by being whipped: it's a submissive pose, affording us the luxury of surrender without conceding any real advantage. Whiteness is a swooning tyrant in a gilded sickroom. It's an autocratic invalid. It's Baby Jane Hudson throwing a tantrum.

And I'm what? Too stroppy? Too robust? Too loud? Certainly I'm not too “healthy”. But my “sickness” is of the wrong order, as likely to lash out as to be self-destructive. How many of these people have ever been arrested? How many of these people have ever been in a fight? How many have ever punched walls or shop-lifted or stole? How many have gone hungry? How many of them have ever been truly angry, flailing and raving and ridiculous with rage? I remember after Thatcher died, and some smug shit on social media talking about how she didn't hate anyone, and that celebrating someone's – anyone's – death was grotesque and inhuman. That's us, then: grotesque and inhuman. To live without hate is either a luxury or a discipline. A luxury for those with power, and a discipline for those without. She had not been where our communities had been. Or, if she had, she was trying to forget, was acting her amnesia, using her new-found “enlightenment” as a stick to beat us with. She performed her passive sickly-sweet whiteness, beaming it through the screen at us, for likes and likes and likes. Facebook, as the new panopticon of moral correctness, magnified and refracted her whiteness, 'til it glared like the heat at the heart of the sun.

The dead are not poor

They prefer you dead, those people. By which I mean, the dead are not awkward or angry or taking up space. And I was thinking about all those “sensitive” white middle-class students, iPodding Winehouse or Joy Division, making a fetish out of music's doomed heroes because in their world doom itself is exceptional and exciting, so much so that it confers a kind of status. And being dead, these figures are freed from their difficult contexts, subsumed into a textureless meld with others superficially like themselves, where whiteness alone is the badge of their belonging: their exceptional, sensitive whiteness. The dead are not problematic and hostile and drunk. The dead have no anger management issues. The dead are not a mess of psychosis, addiction and debilitating physical illness. The dead have soulful thoughts expressed in perfect and imperishable grammar. The dead do not hate you. The dead are not poor. The dead may have been all of those things, but now they are dead, they are safe, safer, safest, ready to be packaged, repackaged, re-written, written-over, claimed, reclaimed: discourse. There's a white middle-class discourse for every working-class subculture you care to name. Mediation, intervention, the spinning of a myth. The white middle-classes create the archive, the archive becomes the crypt.

Am I sure? My head hurts. Because their whiteness will not conceive or recognise another kind of whiteness. How they say “white working classes” in tones of hushed disgust. As if there are no white working classes, or the image is too monstrous to be admitted. “Beyond the pale”. Do you know what The Pale was? It was a strip of land that stretched from Dundalk in Louth to Dalkey in Dublin. During the Late Middle Ages it was in direct control of the English government. A pale is a stake or a fence or a boundary. “Beyond the pale” is beyond the rule of law, beyond ordinary standards of morality or decency. There be dragons, motherfucker, there be Catholics, perverts and savages. The white skin is a border too, its purpose to repel and to contain. And I have transgressed, trespassed beyond the edges of my “colour” into otherness. So am I sure I'm white?

I am not their white, but neither am I the white of their worst nightmares: a council estate “benefit queen”, fertile and feral in equal measure; some uncouth lump in leggings, without rounded vowels or self-control. Child bride in fake tan, and a wedding dress so heavy that it shreds my juvenile hips as I walk. I'm not the stuff of daytime television, their ugly copy-paste poverty porn, but they expect that “underneath”, I am. That I should be. Someone asked me once if my family were like the family in Shameless? Or was my family more like the families in Big Fat Gypsy Weddings? Someone asked me once why I didn't make more of my “background” to help me secure Arts Council funding. A middle-class publisher rejected my manuscript and questioned my authenticity because – and I quote – “working-class people do not speak that way”.

Yes, I'm white. I am so glaringly white I am practically translucent. There is an irradiated, exorbitant quality to my whiteness: weird and unhealthy in ways that make a mockery of their fair skin. Me and my funny ethnic words. Me and my oddly kiltered meter. Me and my poverty. Me and my lore. Me and my long continuities of violence. Yes, I am sure. And I benefit from the mute assumption that I will sound and think like you. You are not sure. And you need to be sure. And the depth of your anxiety is frightening.

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