Commonword Blogs

Phew! Yesterday I finally finished the 1st draft of my musical theatre play for Contact Theatre. It's called Venus & the Killer Bees, a romantic sex comedy about two Black kick boxing teams, one male and one female, who share the same gym. They have a grudge match between their two champions, who fall in love. Like West Side Story, but with bashment reggae and opera. It is going to be a big spectacle with loads of dirty dancing and thai boxing kicks!

Anyway, for the first time in my life, I ran into the dreaded writer's block.

2 Simple causes:

Again, thanks to Pete & Metal Monkey for your comments. This version incorporates yr advice & text from the original draft I wrote inspired by a painting in the "Black President" exhibition at Barbican in 2004.

Fela!
From “Fela: Amen, Amen, Amen” 2002 by Barkley Hendricks

Spliff like a log, yr head in a halo,
ancestors hang around yr shoulders
like smoke,
a bushman agbada,
in skintight gold lamé you squeeze
the barbwire heart of Afrika.
No animal wears that skin.
Akuba (Oranyan)

Oh egungun in straw mask expanding infinite heads,

Thanx to Pete & Metal Monkey for yr comments. I've revised the poem, integrating yr comments & some more elements of the original painting that inspired it.

Fela!
From “Fela: Amen, Amen, Amen” 2002 by Barkley Hendricks

Spliff like a log, yr head in a cloud,
ancestors hang around yr shoulders
like smoke,
in skintight gold lame you squeeze
the barbwire heart of Afrika.
No animal wears that skin.
Akuba (Oranyan)

Oh egungun in straw mask expanding infinite heads,
terrifying liars & cheats & snakes & crocodiles,
animals in human skin
with their Swiss bank billions infamy

Ebo

Choking choking
molten lead in my breast.
Each morning brings return.
I am a shell, alien
blood black in my stools.

My imaginary ancestors remind me
until I give myself to spirit I am bound
to repeat the rituals of fire & water.

In my belly, the ulcer burns
& my heart,
like a leaf twisting up from flames
or a spark crashing into dust,
turns away again
from love’s release
to face the night.

Hymn to her

Your grace shames me,
gazelle of midnight wood
in shadows carving
your name into my skin.

Your grace shames me,
tigress of golden panting dusk
on my ragged sofa sinking
teeth into my memories of sin

Your grace shames me,
waters of blue black dawn,
washing death from my eyes
with a cascade of giggles,

you slip the quilt from your shoulders
& my chest aches.

Another very ruff draft (from poem started in workshop)

My beloved

I chose your voice for its sweetness
& like syrup, u slither into my sleep
with your voice of tin & plastic reed.

You keep calling my name
with a warmth of fateless sunrise
with a twist of lime in tequila
with a flake of cocoa on the tongue

You keep calling with a tireless tender persistence
urging me to wrap my fingers around you
& caress your nub till your breath chokes
& you are silent

still humming
trembling
shivering
under my fingers
you are electric
& begging
me to press my lips

Ok, this is a first draft & very rough, but I guess I gotta come with some kinda praise poem...

Fela!

They don't realise
yet,
but one day, prisoners all over the world will
tell yr tale,
greater than the Signifying Monkey,
they will roll out rhapsodies
& rollicking
hip]hop ballads
to yr forked tongue
& cunning design,
he who carries death in his pocket/
who hides smoke in his shit/
who lifts millions in his underpants/
Fela!

Spliff like a log, yr head in a cloud
ancestors hang around yr shoulders
like smoke,
white agbada of aso oke.
No animal wears that skin

Not being very good at following orders, I tried a praise poem to my GF & it came out slightly wrong, more like a dark love poem, but there you go. Got another one coming tho...

Naked

Shivering,
not even removed my coat.
Goosepimples prick my arms.
Can’t look in your eyes.
Might see me.

My teeth chattering nonsense,
pull my hat down tight.
Can’t afford to lose
body heat. Precious.

Can’t take off my gloves.
Last time a woman touched me,
got frostbite.

I will not sing when I look in your eyes.
Can’t take off my scarf.
Windchill might choke me.

Ok, blogs aren't me because I associate them with very poor writing, and the uniformity of egocentric vain self-importance that motivates nearly all Web 2.0 UGC BS.

But I will try not to scream "Humbug!" like the little boy who could see the Imperial Jewels dangling garbled grammar, swinging bloated cliches.

And instead I will snuggle up in this box & turn up the central heating till my inner critic stops gabbling like a Muppet Show grumpy old man.

& I will submit something
soon...
I promise...