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May. 26th, 2010 07:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sebastienneI am accidentally in love with a performance poet. I spent all weekend sitting in the Hammer & Tongue poetry tent at Wood Festival (oh, such a great holiday, even if I did spend a large amount of it getting heatstroke or fretting over the fact that I'd dared to take a break; perfect weather and 1,000 hippies in a field), and Sophia Blackwell was so fantastic I could weep. Or possibly it was just a contact high. But I went up to her, and I gushed, and she sold me a book of poems, and I love every single one of them. They smell of incense and of last night's gin, of femme feminism and sweet queer passion and literary allusion. (I'm not sure I know what literary allusion smells like, but go with me, here.) Ex-Catholic lesbian love poetry. Drop-out intellectualism & taking joy in everything.
I'll stop gushing. Have a poem instead.
Mad, by Sophia Blackwell
When I was five years old my mother taught me how to scream.
I was strangled by my anger, I was mangled in hot steam,
I was a writhing little horror with flailing feet and fists
'cause the sky seemed like a mirror that my breath just couldn't mist,
and all because some kid had said to me, You're just a girl.
When I was five years old I learnt a skill all girls should own,
to feel that shrill determined drill break complacent bone,
like when you pray that she'll stop talking just so you can throw the phone,
or you say it while you're walking, 'cause you never walk alone.
You never walk alone. You never - ever - ever walk alone.
So this is for the women who've been walking after dark
when your steps get louder, your breath draws in,
the keys in your hand print a brand on your skin -
but all they want to do is come up behind you,
all they want to do is come in around you,
and if you're lucky, they go.
And then one of them always shouts down the street,
like he's the one who knows,
Ah, I'm sorry for my friends, mate. Sorry for my friends.
Well, baby, I'm sorry for my friends too.
Because they say they're mad.
They come up to me and they say they're mad
and I think - my God, I'm much more mad than you.
But it's true.
They're mad because they're hungry and they'll never eat their fill,
They're mad because they're angry and they're told to take a pill.
They're mad because he won't come home, they're mad because he will,
They're mad because they're screaming, but inside where it can kill.
So this is for the women who've been squinting in the sun,
who've been scrubbing out their linen like they're nine months gone,
and their walls are tight, the lock needs picking,
but they'd be all right if that clock stopped ticking.
This is for the ones who want a moment's reprieve
that won't let them forget how it felt to believe
in what they were told when the world made sense,
before the words got so dark and dense
they could only breathe and live and grieve
and love and leave in the present tense.
This is for the women behind the door
who know that peace is a one-side war,
and who build their homes out of sticks and straw
and pray the rain won't get through.
And who say they're mad,
who lower their heads and they say they're mad.
Oh baby.
Everybody's mad like you.
And if you look for a lack for your love, or a rock to anchor your anger to,
if you want it all, or just want him to call - and perhaps bring a takeout too -
if you think that the walls will collapse if you cry,
and want nothing but bathtubs and books and blue sky,
if you buy fresh herbs in terracotta pots and Tesco's for £2.99 a pop
and take them home and put them on the kitchen windowsill
and watch them die -
then this one's all about you.
I said when I was five years old my mother taught me how to scream.
to find the art that's in your heart by ripping out the seam
that they sewed to keep you quiet, sewed to keep you low,
to shut the root of the cord they cut when they thought you wouldn't know,
and you're mad because you're feeling battered black and blue
'cause you shattered that glass ceiling but the cracks won't let you through,
and you're mad about them knowing, or they've just not got a clue.
You're mad because you're owing, but you don't know what you're due.
You're mad because they don't come home, you're mad because they do.
And you say you're mad.
You open your mouth and you say you're mad.
Oh, baby.
I'd be much more mad than you.
I'll stop gushing. Have a poem instead.
Mad, by Sophia Blackwell
When I was five years old my mother taught me how to scream.
I was strangled by my anger, I was mangled in hot steam,
I was a writhing little horror with flailing feet and fists
'cause the sky seemed like a mirror that my breath just couldn't mist,
and all because some kid had said to me, You're just a girl.
When I was five years old I learnt a skill all girls should own,
to feel that shrill determined drill break complacent bone,
like when you pray that she'll stop talking just so you can throw the phone,
or you say it while you're walking, 'cause you never walk alone.
You never walk alone. You never - ever - ever walk alone.
So this is for the women who've been walking after dark
when your steps get louder, your breath draws in,
the keys in your hand print a brand on your skin -
but all they want to do is come up behind you,
all they want to do is come in around you,
and if you're lucky, they go.
And then one of them always shouts down the street,
like he's the one who knows,
Ah, I'm sorry for my friends, mate. Sorry for my friends.
Well, baby, I'm sorry for my friends too.
Because they say they're mad.
They come up to me and they say they're mad
and I think - my God, I'm much more mad than you.
But it's true.
They're mad because they're hungry and they'll never eat their fill,
They're mad because they're angry and they're told to take a pill.
They're mad because he won't come home, they're mad because he will,
They're mad because they're screaming, but inside where it can kill.
So this is for the women who've been squinting in the sun,
who've been scrubbing out their linen like they're nine months gone,
and their walls are tight, the lock needs picking,
but they'd be all right if that clock stopped ticking.
This is for the ones who want a moment's reprieve
that won't let them forget how it felt to believe
in what they were told when the world made sense,
before the words got so dark and dense
they could only breathe and live and grieve
and love and leave in the present tense.
This is for the women behind the door
who know that peace is a one-side war,
and who build their homes out of sticks and straw
and pray the rain won't get through.
And who say they're mad,
who lower their heads and they say they're mad.
Oh baby.
Everybody's mad like you.
And if you look for a lack for your love, or a rock to anchor your anger to,
if you want it all, or just want him to call - and perhaps bring a takeout too -
if you think that the walls will collapse if you cry,
and want nothing but bathtubs and books and blue sky,
if you buy fresh herbs in terracotta pots and Tesco's for £2.99 a pop
and take them home and put them on the kitchen windowsill
and watch them die -
then this one's all about you.
I said when I was five years old my mother taught me how to scream.
to find the art that's in your heart by ripping out the seam
that they sewed to keep you quiet, sewed to keep you low,
to shut the root of the cord they cut when they thought you wouldn't know,
and you're mad because you're feeling battered black and blue
'cause you shattered that glass ceiling but the cracks won't let you through,
and you're mad about them knowing, or they've just not got a clue.
You're mad because you're owing, but you don't know what you're due.
You're mad because they don't come home, you're mad because they do.
And you say you're mad.
You open your mouth and you say you're mad.
Oh, baby.
I'd be much more mad than you.
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no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 07:50 pm (UTC)That said, I... really did not hate this. Style-wise it's not my thing, but it's pretty powerful and I like the ideas. I quite liked the third stanza, especially, and also the end of the poem. Thanks for posting it! I love it when people post poetry, even though it generally has the ENGAGE NASTY CRITIC effect on my brain.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 10:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 10:36 pm (UTC)I actually think it's v. worthwhile to re-evaluate one's opinions on this kind of thing, though, by looking at further examples (hence why I read this--it's not that I'm determined to avoid ever casting an eye on performance poetry, & in this case I'm quite glad I did have a look)... but I am a little troubled that you'd assume that whether or not she went to Oxford would be a determining factor in my opinion. I hope I'm not all that shallow.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-26 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-27 07:17 am (UTC)(And maybe what I meant was "so she's got all that training in meter and form and she's still chosen this genre"... but I certainly wasn't accusing you of anything and I'm sorry it came across that way!)