I'm going north tommorrow.

My daughter will meet me at the underground station and we'll travel to Euston togther.

I'll get on the train and she'll get back on the tube and go to work on Oxford St.

We'll smile and chatter on the way and hug and kiss at parting, both hiding enough of our pain to make it easier on the other, both sharing enough to express the love that flows between us.

I leave her in the care of my sister, friends who have loved her since childhood, and in the knowledge that she is where she needs to be, doing what she needs to be doing.

That;

Her heart will swell with love and achievement and break from betrayal and diappointment.

Her eyes will brim with tears from laughing too much and redden from weeping alone and unheld.

Her spirit will expand from the awe of new new sensation, experiences, thoughts and feelings.

and her soul will ride on the ebb and flow of joy and despair.

and though I will witness only a fraction. in its particular time and space .

I will get to celebrate it all as she grows and forms, stumbles and reforms, sinks, and rises and rises into womanhood.

I am going home, to my son, my mother, my house, my job

and My heart is split in two.

behind my eyelids
the moist call of sleep begins to build
brain disengages as language and images slip
from focus

I'm eating chocolate
and yearning for my bed
for breast and belly
thigh and side of head
to submerge into the mattress

brief sparks of conversation remain
the last embers burn these words
into the electronic page
and I find myself smiling at elyssian fields again

Behind me here
its concrete silent and uncracked
no revellers now cavorting at my back

I take the rope of keys from round my neck
released the heaviness of authority straining
sigh and breathe
released the final note of evrything undone

I'm coming home.

and my sister emailed

I remember the building feeling quite bunker-like. low
ceilings, lots of exposed pipes, boiler room. Only
natural light being through the doors. Voices echoing
down corridors. There was a stage in the main hall. With
mics / pa stuff dotted around. It gave you that
feeling that you were part of something, your being in
that buliding was part of a bigger piece of
history/event/movement, being in a place that has its
history rooted deeper in a local
community - its people's struggles over the years for
a place of creative expression and celebration of self
and one's culture that was considered so
alien/forbidden/unacceptible to the mainstream/status
quo. The years of carnival preparations, costume
making, music making, food pots stirring. Yaa Asentewa
and that area of West London, for me, holds these
feelings and memories far stronger than anywhere in South
London.

Loved the bit about the flour!

We will piece this story together slowly, teasing out the memories,sifting the clues held within them of when and where....somewhere in boxes and basement I may still have some documentation..diaries...old posters and leaflets...Young Pioneers learning items, pictures of African children to colour in.... we had nothing back then, nothing to give our children, that reflected back to them images that said you are important, your existence as a human is valid and valued...Janet and JOhn, Swallows and Amazons, the famous five...so we made our own. Drew up our own alphabet charts and history books with simplified stories about our heroes, Marcus Garvey, Nkrumah,Mary Seacole, Queen Nzinga. We had little and we made so much............

the detail

Over ground , underground,in London as the underground carries its passengers further west along the District and Metropolitan lines, these small dark bullets of transport would suddenly hurtle into a station, only for us passengers to find we had mysteriously risen out and up from the citys labrynths into the light.

Not a London-born, these occurrences fascinated and the memory lingers, the stations at Ladroke Grove and Westbourne Park were different, the platforms elevated and reminiscent of the stations you often see in films of New York where commuters meet strangers and lovers, licked by the wind or the rain, and the backdrop of flashing neon on old red brick. The backdrop I'm remembering is almost blank, a skyline that turnd rooftops into a savannah and the view is flecked by the edge of a tower block or two.

We, three, climb down into the streets, and we're into the architectural chaos that buffers nineteenth century grand with 1970s disaster, red brick , black railings, white pillared porticos against green and grey walls,concrete,green and grey walkways, concrete.

Yaa Asantewa was a hidden resource, buried in its neighbourhood, arrived at after many twists and turns in the Victorian passages , I have no recollection of ever getting a good look at the building. You know when a building presents itself, tardis like, all insides? We entered via dark wood double doors into a short square passsge with another set of double doors immediatley leading into a large room, the body of the gathering.The basketball court sized meeting room probably was a basket ball court! I remember ramps between rooms and walls either as insubstantial as blotting paper or fat with layers and layers of beigeing cream gloss paint. The decoration is red, green and gold. Marcus Garvey's face is solemn and determined beneath his feathered military style hat and he is the master of ceremonies, beaming down on us like a stern but benevolent parent on posters of paintings and photos from atleast 3 of the 4 walls.

The toilets are down corridors beyond those ramps, for two pregnant sisters and a two year old in an all in one, they are our first priority.

Its good,on the way there and back we pick up the sense of the multi functions of the building, its got that'black' neighbourhood vibe, afterschool education, housing advice, sports devlopment, carnival arts, and the scent ever present of good good food. Curried goat and rice and peas, the sourist tickle of a ton of raw white cabbage chopped fresh for the coleslaw, fried chicken and fried dumpling,and here and there evidence of the seasoned flour that has clung to the hands and the hips of both the men and the women who cook.

Slipped away from the group, from the sweet smell of all that earnest labour under the sun. Sun? Was it summer? Brockwell Park, every memory is sunny..cause it was sunnier back then or because we were out, in a park, setting up a stall to promote, and recruit, Africans, African identity, history, political struggle...

The small group of trees offers shade, the grass is longer where the mowing machine men can't maintain their straight lines, so dont bother. My little girl isn't with me, with her father? , my sister?, maybe just out of sight, with the Young Pioneers, in a sand pit, building pyramids and being fed rice,cause I, the most anglicised, of the group, dare to feed her potatoes as if she will absorb backward euro christain imperialist and capitalist thinking with the starch...I dont encourage our Irish roots, perhaps the potatoes were my subconscious fighting back....

My back fits into a curve of one of the trees, it always does, try it, trees are so accomodating. I lean back, and breathe, just taking a break for a moment.

My eyes adjust to the softness of the dappled shadows and I return my gaze to the group, still industrious under the sun, many many cooks and later I learn too few oily rags, but that is later, much later. My soon to be son's father is in the group, one of the most earnest and oiliest, two things at this point I dont know; the baby growing in me is a boy and I dont know his father's earnest hardwork will be manipulated by 'the cooks' and degraded into oily rag status, cause that is again later, much later.

Breaks should be minimal, and mine is, I am weaker than the others , obviously, my genetic material is flawed, I must hide my tiredness, almost unthinkingly.

The young woman who has just joined the group gets my attention for a number of reasons, She is even more pregnant than I and sweating under her size and the sun and the long walk up from Brixton underground.She is beautiful, her locks are neat and long and finished with small silver rings, her skin glistening, the gift of the sweat, her raging hormones and a recent visit to Jamaica. And her smile is serene.

She brings a banner she has just finished so she is also a creative ( like me) and in PE ( Political Education) like me. Its 1989. I wonder, sister, do you remember our first meeting also?

one two three

and breathe

four five six seven

not even

the taste of the sweetness

can make me less

or more

shut up shut up

eight nine

head out

girl
the door

ten
made it
start again

smile
its easy

getting to ten
the
second
time

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah yes

bless.

as if sleep needs chasing,

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm sure
I'd go back for more.

Remember,slipping past and
I was uncertain of this
glance
in the stillness of a moment in
the moonlit dance
and of liquid light playing
across the curves and the curve
and of memory inducing a softening

swerve

its so quiet now
and as if I can t stand this
my ears are straining
behind the hum of the laptop fan
for the sound of the engine hiss
car or van
its so quiet now
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm yes
bless

is it a relief to hear..........
........something speeding by
has it been raining?

oh sleep
just because the morning will come

oh aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah
stiller and quieter
then one more car

slip backwards under the covers
seducing my lovers
who slip backwards inside my head
and I am
alone
again
in
my
bed.

If you catch yourself smiling as I do
at the impossibility of the tasks set
If you wind up inside your own head, as now and
again.
you are often replacing the bet

If the face in the mirror is friendly
see the objects you reach not only the stretch
If the break in your eye
and the jewels that they cry
are for joy, not just the price that they fetch.

If
you can stop in the tracks of a rythmn
jump acros the melody's spin
double back on a whim
then let it begin

then let it begin
you may retch as you sing
but its fine

then let it begin
you may feel your head spin
buts its fine

then let it begin
both the prayer and the wing

and the angels will come.

And below this I wrote and performed last year.

I,
I can hear the sound of hearts beating
and its like the sound of angels wings
and they are
lifting me up.
lifting me up.

I can hear the sound of faces making
smiles breaking
and its like the sound of angels talking
and they are lifting me up
they are lifting me up.

I can hear the sound of eyes weeping
tears flowing and
and, its like the sound of angels singing
and its lifting me up

its lifting me up.

and if your hearts still beating
and
you can still smile through the blood
sweat and tears that your life's been making
then, you are lifting me up.
Lifting me up

You are lifting me up.

look out.....
over there, in their eyes it speaks
volumes
each unique gaze of love

returning

I am caught
but not calmly
in the world

and I chose it?
I am not happy
and not calmly
in the world
that I chose not.

even my words
are hidden from me
I feel
but cannot see
Listen
but cannot hear
Sadden
but will not weep.

I will not decide
nor take action
I am caught.

time is seeping
weakening
youth is passing
hastening
dis -ease
and I am caught

self destruction
self taught
in a blink of an eye
another year
will pass
bid for freedom
the feast
not the overstuffed repast
that clings to my table
allowing myself to be
unable
unstable
self destruction
self taught
learned from each drip from the breast or the teat
love is a treat
are you deserving?
Its unnerving
to be caught
where the wind will not blow
nor the rain wash
nor the sun warm
hidden from the storm

undeserving
unfree
not me
not me
not me

I came back to lie on my bed and sleep
alarm set

set goals
achieve
ignore
heart greiving
make plans for leaving

I am not caught

the joy of being able to pay for the groceries at ASDA is not enough measure of my life's success.

Today I had to watch TV in my son's room cause he'd inveigled the digibox sometime last night between 10pm and 6am and he WAS ON THE PHONE downstairs, he talks endlessly, all his soul mates are young women and he is sooooooooooo nice to them.Then he came upstairs and said lie down next to me and we talked. I said are you anxious about leaving school, study leave starts next week, about getting into college, about your exams..he said no you are,its my life, if I mess it up, I said it doesn't work like that.He said what would you do if I took a knife and he gestured cutting a line down his beautiful face from forehead to chin. I said I would get you to hospital to fix your face and then Id get you some counselling to find out why you'd done that to yourself. He said what if I didn't want counselling and told the counsellor to go away. I said I'd get you sectioned and force you to explore why you wanted to mutilate yourself. He shrugged and then He said if some-one killed me would you kill them, if some-one killed you I'd kill them, if A( his sister) killed you I'd kill her. I said N I'd never kill you, A would never kill me and he said I know I know, he grinned and said we nearly had a proper conversation. I have proper conversation with my friends, I said I know you do, I hear you, offering wise words and counselling your friends. He said today in school, V, who I used to go out with in year 9 said you give the best hugs N and you know when to give them. Cause F had started to cry in class cause she's gonna miss us all and I gave her a hug and thats why V** said that about my hugs and that made me feel really good, cause I'm a good person and I care about people and I'm going to grow up at home and stop all that rubbish. He gave me a hug and rolled off the bed and went back on the phone and onto the laptop to start MSN-ing and I thought Lovely. My son is lovely and that took some real thought and effort to initiate that conversation cause he has been bloody recently and he knows i wont give up on him and he's not giving up on him either and we love each other to bits and he's going to be one of the best men ever, cause he already is.

Last night turned into early morning, the day, Friday was a long one. Manchester prepares for Queer Up North, a celebration of Queer art work and in an old disused workshop across the city, a group of South Asian women are working feverishly to complete an installation. Sphere Dreamz is an installation of 13 beds created by Queer identifying South Asian women ( predominanatly)exploring their identities and what happens where and when the two side s of their identity collide. Each bed is diffrent, each individual its in story, its vesion, its smell, and the quiet stories leaking out from beneath each pillow. If you're reading this and you're in Manc tommorrow, drag yourself down to Sackville park before 6pm tommorrow, it'll be well worth the visit.

I am just supporting, lending a creative hand and a guiding word, my car, and some of my time. Last night worked through til 11pm at the workshop , then sat up and sewed, cut, ate, drank, even smoked a little ( first time in months!_) and debated til it was three o'clock in the morning.

When I went to bed I couldn't sleep immediately until the poem bouncing about my head was released , so I wrote myself a text and here it is.

In the middle of the night
its hard not to want to
reach out and touch you.

But, friend,

Heed my warning
There is need in us all
to quench thirst in the night
But nothing is sweeter
than love in the morning

Hold fast
to your love if
she's there by your side.
and thank your god
if good fortune
makes you husband and bride.

( I dont mean some paper making you mr and mrs
but genuine commitment to your hugs and your kisses.)

Well, I've played with it a bit, my scanning a bit off when I'm falling asleep and its not finished, I feel it needs a verse or two more, but unfortunately, I've got other things to do!

So later bloggers, friends, new and old
be brash, be brazen and babies, be bold!
x

Occassionally effort is needed to keep my swollen feet from bleeding
and sometimes
I
find it hard
to keep these same old feet from
floating to the sky

Occasssionally effort is needed to halt my feet
or get them walking
Feet says I
although I try
sometimes I just don't feel like talking.

Randomly my feet will trip me
or start to dance or hop
or get me twirling in a canter.
Then, Feet ( I say)Enough. Cease. Stop

Sometimes I think, if I want peace these feet will have to go
but then consider thoughtfully,
the walk to yoga would be awful slow.

Have no idea how to identify this, photographed on a beach in South Wales, Carmarthenshire, Llansteffan to be precise. If some happy blogging botanist could give me an identification?

To every boy who was ever 16

my voice is raw again
throat and heart sore again.

I need to find a more effective way to
fight the bully
that keeps roaring
out of you

I know, because I see and feel it
too, all the sweetness and lovingness in you

Yet I fail to find
time after time
the way to
help you turn
the devil screaming anger
pain
hostility, frustration and rage
into an action
that does not hurt or maim.

Stand strong
stand up and face
we are both
the children of this
very human race
as every word gets stronger and more vile

I'll not take a fist
neither of us could withstand
if that became the action of
this child becoming man

Its over
Too much been said
Both in isolation
retreated to a bed

the morning came
much is the same

heart and throat sore
again.

Come back to me
in the sunshine,
where the wind cannot seek
Come to me and
touch me
Darling
Fingers caress cheek
Come back to me
where pause was lengthened
a warm communion was tested
Come back to me

Come back to me with
eyelids lifted,
an easy easy smiles and gaze
not shifted
Let laughter flow full
strong from smiling
and tales be told of
truth beguiling
Come back to me and
hold me closer
Darling.

Come back to me as
the summer strengthens
as long days filled
as long days spent
as long day universal love is
meant

Come back to me and hold back nothing
come, come ..words for listening
come, come ..touch for feeling
a company is formed
I mourn it
A pleasure felt
and desire I do confess.

and yearn for it

another day
immortal sunshine
mete me pleasure
teach me patience

thus my imagination riots
and my unskilled meditation cannot quiet.

but
pleasure without desire

I'm trying.