If you haven’t been following this poems journey, it is a piece I am developing for Apples and Snakes (the UK’s largest Spoken Word organisation) for the bicentenary of the “I have a Dream” speech by Martin Luther King Jr.
The final draft is due on Monday and I will then start working with my lovely film-maker to turn it into a film where hopefully I will be playing both characters (any thoughts on how to do that would be appreciated).
I have cut a lot of the piece as it needs to be no more that 5mins, I am hoping to fill some gaps with visuals, maybe have a linear narrative of Emma having a closed envelope that she doesn’t want to show her mum but at the end it is handed over and unveils the AAAC result in her A-Levels…
Anyway, this is the poem! Let me know what you think and a big THANK YOU to all the bloggers, friends and poets who have helped me edit this so far…
Dr Masters, nudged his thick brimmed glasses
up the ridge of his nose. They moved slowly
like a bulging blue caterpillar up a branch.
He said, “Memorise your revision guide
and get an A, or question everything inside
and blow waves into the concept of grades.”
The rest of the lesson scratched with questions:
“In a world of so many, can we afford
another guzzler of fuel and money?”
At home, I sat with Mum. Our conversation
sung over four courses of toast;
butter, tuna/cheddar, Spam, then jam.
“These are the staples of all good philosophers.”
I was too curious for toast, I had to ask, “Mum,
how did you decide to have me? Do you ever feel guilty?”
Before the Doctor told me, I saw your wobble. I knew we
were watching each other. Rotund and sausagey. I still cannot
conceive your excited body. Our legs were too soft to walk.
We were heavy with gravity. Loose of cartilage. But not alone.
Stuffed with pregnancy. Geriatric, floral patterned veterans
etched maps out from my belly-button. My house full of
photographs, un-planned visits, and creative
conversations with mothers and myself. Suffering.
I thought of your nostrils first. Then mine. Our unalienable
memories outstretched like gates. I assumed our rights:
learning to walk with each other. Tickling the risk of
falling – because for feet, that’s what walking is! Falling. Life
feels the same as birth: slimier and smellier than expected. We
discussed, the way mothers and daughters did. The word “Must”
swallowed like propaganda. When your body scraped out. Not
screeching, hands twitching like sycamore under rain. I saw a bright be-
ing: eyes like rubber dinghies. Grandma’s throat guilty,
as we swallowed grapes. Of
all the Ikea prints, what wallpaper was there for Autism? Wrongful
and rebellious replies meant doctors dictated deeds.
Your pelvis was the shape of a frown to them. The shape of liberty
to me. Locked out whilst blouses graded us behind glass. The
hospital smelt of orange squash. You smelt of pursuit, of
motorways, toast, waves, Sudocream and happiness.
But their freedom is inextricably bound to our palms now
closed in on each others like an oyster. I still think of freedom,
how it differs from the doctors and my mothers. Nineteen
years! We’ve read every book here, even the dictionary. In sixty-three,
years, what will you be? Because you didn’t like the dictionary. There was
too many barriers. But we kept reading! We tried not
to conclude until the last page. You were eight, you had an
innovative approach: defacing each book at the end,
noting location and emotion. But
in the dictionary, you simply suggested it needed a beginning.
In answer… Yes, I’m immoral. You guzzle more fuel than a Honda. We
consume more tins of tuna than Tesco. And sometimes I can
be the same mother who force fed “must” to me once. But Emma, never
feel guilty. Feel buttery: lethally curious. An A grade cannot be satisfied.
But a question can sink into a pacific of people, can inspire a ripple for change.
Blog post image take by street photographer, Stephen Wright