What a night, what a perfect night of amazing poems.
First off, a thousand well dones to the winner of the slam, Kit Rayne. Well deserved in every way. I loved your words, and to the lass who came second, so brave and your words were just amazing. Thanks to all the slammers for their amazing performances.
Jackie Hagan, your words were scary and thought provoking, and your ears absorb stories the way my eyes do when I read. Looking forward to catching 'This is not a Safe Space' if I can.
Now all the praise is out of the way I'm going to bore you with my bit. Yes my words I wrote and shared on stage, not as a slammer but as the first Arts Council funded
Say Owt Slam Local Poet.
Yes me. I was allowed onstage to share whatever I wanted and no one could judge me! Well they could judge me, but they didn't have to shout the score out, they could just come and tell me later.
To be honest, it didn't quite work as good as I hoped. Henry gave me some mentoring in how to turn reading a poem into performing it. It was a bit weird reading it to an audience of one but really useful, and I was surprised to find myself learning whole chunks of the thing, me, who struggles to remember short ones. This mentoring thing really worked. The bit I forgot about, was performing it in front of a paying audience. I forgot bits, I mumbled bits, I sighed bits. But I am still proud of my achievements. I got up (ok again) and shared my words. And well, it almost went perfect.
It was maybe a big ask of myself, and a bit out of my comfort zone again, but it was important to push myself. This year has been a bit shitty and that can over shadow all the good bits.
I know not all of my family and friends could come to see, so here is my poem I called 'Futures Fears'
It's not finished, no poem ever is, and I may make changes if I use this again, but this is the tale of one rebellious Granny trapped in a future where there is no choice, any one...
She
is eighty.
White
haired – her face a weave of life's laughter lines
But
not yet retired.
Deemed
fit to work by the assessment station yet again,
she
struggles to reinvent herself for yet another new career.
How
many more years has she, in her?
And
she fears, fears she will never retire.
Recalls
almost forgotten friends
burned
upon the all consuming pyre of work, nowt but dust.
Nowt
but earth.
She
alone is left to struggle on.
But,
she is stubborn, her mind still strong,
And
the R C crew have an opening
that,
with a little reinvention, and some carefully worded wit,
she
could seem to fit in.
R
C. Rebellion Controller, No sorry Rebellion Counsellor to the young.
Not
a fun job, but…
While
re-engaging ancient tendencies to dream,
handing
in her hearing aid for the obligatory government upgrading scheme,
And
one interview later.
One
decrepit psychology degree, she is in.
She
Starts.
A
glorified babysitter for almost rebellious teens.
To
pretend to be a friend,
to
assess, reform and control is her role.
To
stop the youth questioning before it could grow
And
roll over the stagnant status quo.
But
she remembers believing in other things,
in
freedom of choice, of path.
Of
thought.
Beliefs
she buried deep when the world closed in
When
the all prevailing need for safety ended up declaring the human race
NOT.
Safety
and stability.
Two
watch words that came to govern every choice, and thought
Because,
how could there be human rights when they could be used wrong?
Better
to tighten control, to let the government decide what was the good
for all
and
let statistics rule when government thought fell through.
To
test, to test, to test, and only teach what people had to know, for
the job required.
So,
to keep the human population from harm, things,
that
had been increasingly frowned upon, became banned.
Well,
you can guess…
Number
One. No alcohol.
2.
No smoking, well you couldn’t fall ill cause all the doctors were
gone.
3.
No dancing, no singing, and no monthly meets, because who could know
what you chose to talk about?
4.
No running, jumping, no climbing trees, which led to
5.
No quiet walks in the sunshine, or splashing in the rain, as these
were
considered criminally insane.
SIX.
No reading, but for the endless tests you did.
Seven…
No writing, because you only needed to tap in your name..
And
Eight.
No
voting. And no one complained.
Propaganda
fed, the population bowed its collective head
obsessed
over the made up fear of difference between ‘us’, and ‘them?’
And
anything not conforming to this new government norm, was twisted,
evilled, taught as wrong!
So
freedom came to an end,
and
the will of the people roared in joy
forgetting
the lives they’d destroyed, were their own.
Even
she had knuckled down
Suppressed
her individuality and surrendered, to survive.
Now,
at the end of her life, she remembered just what it was to be alive
and
into a sullen teens home she entered
willing
again to set the world alight.
Now,
in this future time and place statistics say ‘a 40 minute nap at
3pm for the 80s and over renews the brain’
so
she had to follow this government advice
and
to the annoyance of the sullen teen, complied.
She
settled down, composing herself for sleep
taking
out that hearing aid as that was where
the
government surveillance was kept.
Slowed
down her breathing, and the beating of her heart,
and
winked.
And
said…
‘
Don’t
let the bastards grind you down.
‘
don’t
let your dreams become fodder for the profit machine.
‘We
have always been curious, thinking beings.
‘They
have no right to control your thoughts, your choices or your time,
‘Be
Yourself.
‘Rebel,
the way your heart decides.’
As
the teenager opened her mouth to speak
she
pressed a wrinkled finger to those young lips.
‘but
do it, quietly. Calmly. Seem to fit in, for a while anyway.
‘change
the little things.
‘Until
that spark in your heart becomes a flame.
‘For
that is how they...’ She paused.
‘How
we, boxed you in.’
‘by
changing little seemingly unimportant things, until all will was
broken, and free choice swept away.
‘And
I, was too afraid to stand up and say NO.
‘Now,
I an 80, and 40 years too late,
‘but
you can make the difference I was afraid to make.
‘Grow,
learn. And think.’
One
by one, she fanned the teen rebellion spark
that
she’d been employed to suppress
to
control, to mould and reform.
She
was the calm before the firestorm.
And…
This
is naught but a fantastic tale.
An
alternative future of history.
Not
a foreshadowing of what things might be.
I
hope not
because,
I still want to dream, when I am 80.
Now, all I can do is wonder where I go to next? Now I realise I can learn my own stuff I should pick what works and use that but then?
Oh why it a poets work never done???
Thank you for reading.
Joanne xxx
