I see you. First to arrive, last to leave. You start in the dark, while the world still sleeps. Your hands, sore from mixing, kneading, shaping, baking.
I see it. The bread you make, broken over a table. The central element, a family staple. Torn and toasted, sliced and fried. Smothered in butter, it satisfies.
Don’t forget. It’s ok, to take from the table you bake for. To enjoy the fruits of your labour. To lay down that apron, to say what you came for. Take, tear, receive. This is your feast to eat.
I think the angry, rap-metal loving skater girl I used to be in my teenage years would love this one! It was so cathartic to write and record – there’s something so powerful about speaking out words that acknowledge experiences or people that may have tried to silence or gaslight me in the past.
This is my voice And I know what it’s like to lose it So I choose to use it I refuse to diffuse it and you will listen.
Cause you can’t buy my silence And I won’t be compliant won’t be a liar. I won’t make tweaks to what I’ve said I’ll speak You can’t edit or take credit for this testimony.
This is my voice And I know what it’s like to lose it So I choose to use it I refuse to diffuse it and you will listen.
I bet you’ll make threats but what you shouldn’t forget Is that truth can’t be changed rearranged or reset. You say hold back don’t attack think of the impact Well fuck that.
This is my voice And I know what it’s like to lose it So I choose to use it I refuse to diffuse it and you will listen.
And I won’t just write these words down, oh no…
I’ll speak them out I’ll shout them loud I’ll drown you out and I’ll do it proud Won’t stop it won’t drop it till you’re shutdown.
This is my voice And I know what it’s like to lose it So I choose to use it I refuse to diffuse it and you will listen.
Sometimes you write a poem that is so clearly made to be spoken rather than written, and loads of my poems are like that. So I’m trying something slightly new with this one. It’s called Dessert Spoon, and you can hear me speak it by watching the video, or if you prefer you can read the words below.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table. It’s a simple act of resistance, An insistence of non-compliance and defiance, A little piece of order against the eating disorder.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table. It is a prayer I pray, a declaration I make, A belief that one day, This will end and as you mend we will again share a decadent pudding with friends.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table. I know you’ll relearn that it’s ok to yearn, To stuff your face, to take up space, To say what you want, to claim your place, To be full to bursting, to give yourself grace.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table. Otherwise it reminds me of when someone dies, One less fork, one less knife, one less life. But you’re still alive and you’re still inside, I know because I see it sometimes.
I still include a dessert spoon when I lay your place at the table. I want to show you, want you to know that I still hold hope. That this doesn’t define us but I think it could refine and align us. That however much it aches and however long it takes I will wait, That if you choose it and fight your way through this, recovery awaits.
I said, It’s like a screwed up ball of paper. Crinkled, creased, damaged and torn. If you unfurled it, flattened it, ironed it. It would still bear the marks of the damage. It would still be unusable, irreparable, defective. It would be better to find a new blank page, To begin again.
She said, I prefer a screwed up piece of paper to a blank page. Every line tells a story, every tear honours a scar. Every crease maps a journey, every mark speaks a truth. A blank page is uninteresting, without form or pattern. Voiceless, shapeless, plain. Screwed up paper shows it can be reformed, reshaped, remade. You can still be screwed up, and begin again.
A poem written in memory of my Grandmother, and read out at her funeral.
Another Christmas Day came, This one not the same. We didn’t want you alone in the old people’s home, So we gathered all together at my brother’s house And you sat in the corner as quiet as a mouse.
By then dementia was doing its thing You’d point and say “who’s that? There, him!” “Do you know that lady? Look there’s a baby!” The long-term memories you seemed to retain, But shorter term things were like treasure mislaid.
So I knew what was coming as I sat by your side, You asked “who’s that lady?” I replied, “Gran that’s my wife”. Your face filled with shock, Eyes locked, jaw dropped. You laughed “don’t be silly, she’s not, you what?!”
I began to worry you’d reject not accept me, Or worse still rebuke and correct me. Or say being gay just wasn’t right in your day, Despite years ago telling me you thought it was ok. Instead you took my hand as your eyes filled with love, And said ‘as long as you’re happy dear, well that’s enough’.
Relief flooded through me, the conversation was done, Christmas resumed with food, presents and fun. I didn’t know minutes later the same question would come, Then every twenty minutes till the day was done. I’ve never come out so many times in one day, I should’ve worn a t-shirt saying REMEMBER I’M GAY!
So now as it’s time to say goodbye, I think often of that Christmas gone by. How that moment is perfection in its reflection of you. Your unedited acceptance of the person I am, I won’t ever forget it, or you, lovely Gran.
The same fire that inspires me To burn bright To change lives To not lose sight To shine like a light
Is the same fire that requires me To stop before burning up To not be too hot to touch To light up the sky but not too much To resist the self-destruct
How can fire be held in a human heart, Without breaking it apart?
Let me be like Autumn leaves Born from mighty oaks. Rooted in the unseen. Feeding, nourishing, Provoking growth.
Let me be like Autumn trees Unbreakable but bendable. Dependable. Aware of all that’s nourished me, But able to let it go. Grateful.
Let me be like Autumn leaves Falling with grace at a gentle pace, Unafraid to change, unafraid to leave. Letting go, moving on. Staying near, but in a new place.
Let me be like Autumn trees Formed from the layers of before. Every season shaping and making me, Good and bad, sun and storm, I embrace it all.
