A Space to Call..

Directions to Isobel’s Garden If you go down to the residents lounge and walk past the info desk, on your right you will see a no smoking sign.

There have been fires, I’m told.

If you walk past this right up to the computer desks you’ll see a second no smoking sign and the last standing book shelf holding up books that survived the burning.

Well, in between the sign and the shelf there is a window.

Did flowers once grow here?

Introductions and Hellos Hello, Hey, Howdy, my name’s Sonority, I’m a poet, creative artist and workshop facilitator. From 15th Jan I will be in Studio 5 every Tuesday running all kinds of creative workshops. I’m all about poetry, spoken word, rapping, MC’ing, stories, ideas and good conversation. Look out for more info on the notice boards!

This collection of poems is for you, residents of Arlington. I put an open call out on my Facebook for poems on ‘space’ and ‘home’ and these are what came back. The writers are a mixed bunch, some professional, some aspiring and some who hardly write at all. I even had a past resident contact me saying that he wasn’t any good at poetry put he wanted to share some words, here they are…

I'm a Camdener, born and raised. I used to be ashamed though.

When people used to ask me where I was from, I would be embarrassed. I used to hear people commenting about the negative aspects of the area like crime, drugs and prostitution. I used to pretend I was from other areas because I was so embarrassed by what people would say, but that was when I was younger. I've lived all over the borough, in each corner and each post code, and I have come to the conclusion that it's the most unique place in the world. As time went on, I came to realise that Camden is the home of the arts. We have artists, designers, fashionistas and a growing number of creative individuals emerging from the area. I’ve lived in many homeless hostels around here, sitting in my room on my laptop, making beats. I used to think I had no hope, but now I realise how blessed I am to be from Camden, and to have been born into such a great local hub of creativity. I am now proud to be a Camdener.

Past Arlington Resident One last thing before you get to the poems, during the last couple of weeks of 2012, I came down to Arlington to get to know the space. I met some residents and explored the building. I discovered a plaque through a window which read ‘Isabel’s Garden 1990’. Do you know anything about her? Who was she? What’s her story? You can shoot me an email at sonority.turner@gmail.com or better still, come down to studio 5 and tell me what you know!

Peace n Words, Sonority

Contents

9. Guidelines – Nii Parkes 10. Tongue, A word – John Agard 11. Street Kids – Stephanie Turner 12. Diazepam Diaries – Max Wallis 13. If I Told You Where I Was Going – Andre (Zoom) Anderson 14. Reportage – Jacob Sam La Rose 15. Conversation With A Homeless Man On Shoreditch High Street – Raymond Antrobus 16. Always There – Janice Windle 17. Legs – Donall Dempsey 18. Mine – Joy Gharoro - Akpojoto 19. The Rich Are Squatting – Catherine Brogan 20. But Where Is Home? – Golden Blue 21. London Lonely – Errol 22. Skippidy Skip – Ebele Ajogbe 23. Holding My Beads, Epilogue – Grace Nichols

‘Everything we do carries meaning – even the simplest clothes we choose to wear still make some kind of statement. It’s very hard to say nothing.’

Rian Hughes , Cult-ure Graphic Designer

Guidelines #1 Start your day with this question: what’s the difference between nothing to live for, and something to die for? #2 Your father fathered your hands so you could reach for the heaven that your mother is. Your mother is the earth that keeps you grounded.

You’re confused; your mother is everywhere. Nobody parents your feet; they are question marks. When you walk you leave questions on your mother’s breasts. #3 Your pen is just a finger that bleeds off-key. Everything you write is bloody mysterious - no beat can fix it. #4 Remember your agnostic father played Mahalia Jackson on Thursdays, said that is how you thank God. It’s not the words, it’s the sound - all that praise is just channelled air.

Just air. Years later, you realise he was telling you he would die before you turned 21. He wanted you to know; it’s the spirit, not the body - spirit not body. He was always air. He is always there. #5 Never date someone who has just seen you on stage. It’s not fair. You’re inspired up there.

They’ll make a god of you and forget the god in themselves. #6 On stage, start with your feet apart and speak from the heart. The real microphone is your emotion; it needs a mountain to stand on. The triangle your legs form with the ground is pubic - it’s where all life begins. #x Disregard numbers.

Your gift is infinite. Logic can’t refine you. Your audience will find you.

Nii Parkes

Tongue Small flame under the roof of a mouth.

You devour You clense You tell honey from vinegar.

You speak truth.

You speak slander.

You soothe with a kiss.

You bruise with a word.

To the possessed you are the gift of enlightenment.

To the dispossessed you are the scale of judgement.

Small flame under the roof of a mouth.

Tyranny knows your hiding place.

A Word A word can turn a key in a door of a knife through a heart.

A word can touch with the chill of ice or be all the more nice for saying sweet nothing.

John Agard, Half-caste and other poems (poetry powerhouse 2004)

Put a sock in it When we were growing up, they looked down their index fingers at us.

Like when we got on a bus, the way driver's would engine stop; they red-carded our pink passes.

Or when we walked into shops, the way security guards would enlarge our shadows.

We learnt to look over shoulders, cut eyes and kiss teeth with heavy heads and tired necks.

Stop and search was a uniform greet, so we played hide and disappear with the police.

We felt we were not allowed to walk down our own streets. As if we were stealing light from the pavements just by walking on them.

As if we were assaulting the park benches just for sitting down.

As if

we lit the fires in the rubbish bins. To stay warm we kicked footballs through hoodie goalposts, blasted the ball at the brick wall when the wardens locked the pitch there were no ball games allowed.

No cycling. No skating. No antisocial behavior.

And they could have sworn sports were social, but swearing was a definite ASBO. So when we were growing up, we stuffed socks underneath our tongues to make our toes phat.

Stephanie Turner

Diazepam Diaries Today I am that moment when you look in the mirror and see only that one spot on your entire face. That cluster of blackheads on your nose, those few stray hairs between your brows. Today I am that hungover moment in a tube station, when you are scared your own organs might dishonour you, rack against your ribs and throw you onto the tracks all guts and squished electricity. Today I am corduroy rubbed backwards on your thigh on the way to work. I am the frizz of a curled eyelash when you catch yourself with a pranked lighter outside a squat party, trying to impress the girl opposite you chewing her bubble-gum.

Today I am still cherryade at a school disco. A text message which won’t deliver. I am a missed appointment, an irredeemable voucher. A dropped call. Today I am a retracted comment in a newspaper by an ex-Labour minister. That empty vowel sound of woosh as a door slams closed.

Max Wallis

If I told you where I was going If I told you where I was going, would you leave this all behind?

Would you follow me in trust, would you cling your arms to mine?

If I told you where I was going, would you encourage me through pain?

Would you be my helping hand, would you lose your life for gain?

If I told you where I was going, would you laugh right in my face?

Would you forget all the love we shared and put shame there in its place?

If I told you where I was going, would you say 'I’m going to'?

Because if your hearts not leaving with me, I'll be leaving you.

Andre (Zoom) Anderson

Reportage It’s Saturday, because we hear the argument across the hall muster up and strike through the walls.

Once, when it was bad, he dragged her down the stairs and through the front door.

They paused mid-flight to rein the breath back in, her in his arms, them, settled on the steps like breathless teens, stunned by what one body can effect upon another. She left an earring on the carpet, something so large and bold and golden that it came to life and damn near cleared its throat when the timed light in the hall was pressed – it stayed there for a while until one day it disappeared itself with all the common mystery of a parlour trick.

It was complicated when we past her on the stairs. That’s what she said; its complicated with a smile so genuine it hurt like balance sheets, the math of it, an abstract language of profit and loss.

Tonight, as they strike up again, their voices bleed into the common air lie news of foreign war delivered by neighbours’ TVs. We turn the light our, practise emptiness, become parts of the machinery of the apartments single ear.

Jacob Sam La Rose , Breaking Silence (Bloodaxe Books, 2011)

Conversation with a homeless man on Shoreditch High Street Yeah bruv, no one’s giving today. People get fuckin’ miserable when it’s raining, it’s like the sky takes the sun right out the people. Ya know, people think you got to be dumb to end up homeless, but look at these people bruv, any of them can end up smelling like the shit they walk into. Even my dad said be careful of women, they fuck you up bruv, alcohol and drugs were invented by men trying to run a woman out their skin. Nuff men top themselves over women, I get it, trust me bruv. If I could start over you know what I’d do? I’d leave the crazy bitches alone and I’d learn three words a day in another language. Within three years I’d speak five languages, there’s a lot of money in language translation bruv. I got a daughter ya know. Beautiful little girl, I don’t see her cause’ the mum fucked me off. Bruv, you ever felt your heart in someone else’s hands? Women don’t have fingernails bruv, just blood and fucking claws. I shouldn’t be thinking about this shit too much, you can’t think yourself happy bruv. I had a mate who read a lot of books, he was into that radical black shit about Africa and shit. My man went fucking psycho, shot two policemen on his doorstep then shot himself, it was the books bruv, he went fucking mad. I got two books, the dictionary and the bible. Yeah, there’s this barbershop I go to and they cut your hair for free if you say you believe in God. Bruv, I walk in there holding my bible so I can get a free shave too, they say I got to look good for God. I think its bullshit though, I just want a free cut in case I see my daughter. Wouldn't want her to see me looking like this.

Anyway, bruv, you got any change? The sun has come out.

Raymond Antrobus

Always There He’s always there, inevitable as the cracks in the pavement or the perennial puddle in the gutter next to the traffic lights where, in your new boots, you must wait.

“Wait” says the feeble pedestrian sign.

“Wait” says his dark glance, thrown like a lasso to catch your eye before you cross the road.

He turns away, slumps his acceptance against faded graffiti, rolls a narrow cigarette in thin fingers.

Wind blusters down the street.

Spikes of rain sting your face.

He ducks inside his hoodie.

Your pace quickens but you can’t escape, aware, even when you reach a warmer place, that he will still be there, always there.

Janice Windle

Legs Legs in skirts...legs in trousers...criss-cross my almost closed eyes "Look at me...I'm invisible!"

Way below your radar...easy to ignore an occasional clink of a quid...an embarrassed "Have a good day!"

Like...eh...yeah...right!

I close my eyes to see the sounds secretaries tic-tac tic-tac by me...I like the sound of them.

"Tic-tac tic...oh...one of them's got caught in a grate.

God how she swears...turns the air blue.

Her words written in breath upon the frosty air.

The legs don't care.

They are busy being passers by &...pass by.

Some kids kick my money tin &...run.

Someone throws me a half-eaten Big Mac &...I eat it.

So cold I don't even know...if I've got fingers..toes...a nose.

I'm losing my extremities.

I feel like a statue of me frozen to the core frost on my eyelashes.

Listening to the roar (the traffic traffics by me) of a fire from long long ago a me I don't know...no more.

Even my thoughts turning to marble.

Legs...legs & legs.

Donall Dempsey

Mine A clear sky, Bright, upheld, strong, A perfect fusion of life and luxury, Legs stretched out to meet the edge of the earth Shoulders arched This is mine.

This space of solitude, destitute, memories, This place is mine.

I built its foundations, Drew my battle lines.

Let them walk past because this is mine.

A dark night, Cold, wet, weak Hands stretched out longing, Memories pulling me apart, Me, willing this circle not to close, Is this mine?

I built my foundations, Drew my battle lines, Spat hunger in the face, Held the hand of defiance as I walked, Showed love what passion truly is, This is mine.

Let them walk past because this is mine.

Joy Gharoro- Akpojoto

The Rich are Squatting We all want justice.

Who’s had a bike nicked? Who’s been randomly kicked?

Who’s had an unfair fine? Didn’t realise there was a line They’re dictating our lives.

So we keep contributing while the rich are tax evading.

Who got ripped off buying their house?

Who got screwed by their landlord?

Who got paid late? Who got laid off?

Who saw their savings interest shrink?

Who can’t afford to save? Who tried really hard to get along in this system, To find out it actually stinks?

And I’m just living in some rich buggers building So I have time to write my poems The rent saved means I can give my friends’ loans When did your bank last decline you? When did you last feel secure?

Create your own security by using what’s left empty I’m not a criminal I’m just eating off the side I don’t wanna be rich cause someone died I eat from the Waitrose bin so I’m fit for reciting Cause who can afford food in the shops and with all these crimes and hardships The greatest recession in years the conservatives have us shedding tears Over a minority of people who want to live in the capital, But don’t have a relative’s settee The media’s got you angry Saying squatters devalue your home When it’s cause the Banks won’t loan.

We’re cleaning out the cobwebs We’re brushing up neglect We’re loosening the noose From round our neck 1% of the population owns 70 % of the land And Tories think squatting should be banned?

The Church is squatting. The Queen is squatting. The rich are squatting.

I’m just living in some rich boy’s building Catherine Brogan

But where is home?

I’ve lived in many houses, but where on earth is home?

My body may be rested, in one place, yet still I roam.

How does this home exist? Is it where you lay you hat or four walls made of bricks? Is that home where one brave pig built a structure out of straw, shaking in his trotters when big bad wolf was at the door?

I’ve lived in many flats, but where oh where is home?

Many keys so I’ll have access but no room to call my own.

Why am I in this place?

Thrown out by my loved ones, their hearts didn’t have the space.

Is it because I was a bad child, because the government doesn’t care?

My shoulders slowly breaking from this cross I now must bear.

My father’s one of six, my mother one of ten and yet still with all this family I have no house, no squat, no den.

I’m what they call a sofa surfer but along the way I must’ve slipped, as the waves are dragging me under, caught in this mighty rip.

Years have passed, from hostel, to temporary accommodation, to my assured tenancy flat. I can’t believe my fortune now, when I look back.

But where is home? I’ve travelled to the land of my heritage and still I feel alone, I’m surrounded by family and friends but where is home? I should now be settled in this space but somehow I’m not content, maybe if you never had one, no home can make sense.

My truest home is my wondering spirit; my connection with my Almighty, a true home never fades. I will dwell in that space forever.

Golden Blue

London Lonely This one’s for the London Lonely For those who aint got a one and only.

They roam along the South Bank eyes cast down and damp.

This is for those who don’t do eye contact.

They’re dotted around the city; the lonely Londoners The West End wanderers, The Soho stumblers.

Chat up lines on pieces of paper, conversation starters to be used for later This one’s for the hesitaters. The social life procrastinators Say it straight! Let’s make it a date! Don’t hesitate!

He who hesitates masturbates.

This is for those who daily delete their internet history Who whether they've ever even had a love life is a mystery.

They're the romance bumblers. The love song mumblers.

Perhaps a cat at home. Perhaps the cats got their tongue.

This one's for the lonely Londoners who wander around. Up and down.

This is for the London lonely underground On the circle line they go round and round. . . and round This is for those who mind the gap, the night bus insomniac who often hear excuse me this bus terminates here This is for those on the edges of town, for those on the ledge looking down No matter where they come from This is for those who feel they don’t belong With all that is. Well all that is, is their delusion of loneliness You know that all is well Nothing is amiss That they really ought to just follow their bliss But you tell em this. Their teeth they kiss Cos they cant get whiff of bliss So you’re going to see an exhibition at the Tate Modern Invited by that person you fancy like rotten Got a table booked at Waga-Mamas for eight There you'll meet some friends Cos there’s a birthday to celebrate You got places to see and people to do Well this aint for you This is for the London Lonely For those who aint got a one and only Errol McGlashan

Skippity skip...

You handed me a bucketful of butterflies I flung the bucket at the moon which flung it at the sun.

The sun coughed down a mango.

I grabbed the mango and placed it in my pocket.

The pocket split.

A nosy noisy bee flew by - zzzz’d into my pocket, bit into the succulent fruit - left the juice dripping.

Spilt juice evaporates into morning sky Morning sky kisses the sun that kissed the moon that kissed the stars that kissed the clouds we skipped on.

Ebele Ajogbe

Holding My Beads Unforgiving as the course of justice Inerasable as my scars and fate I am here a woman… with all my lives strung out like beads before me It isn’t privilege or pity that I seek It isn’t reverence or safety quick happiness or purity but the power to be what I am/a woman charting my own futures/ a woman holding my beads in my hand

Epilogue I have crossed an ocean I have lost my tongue from the root of the old one a new one has sprung Grace Nichols, Quartet of poems (Modern Women Writers, 1993)

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