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SST8 – BeaBop – Final Edit – The Ngwa Evolution

15 Feb

The Ngwa Evolution

Hands scrunching, grinding.

Air mating flour, eggs, milk

Into a cookery experiment

That flew splats across the kitchen,

Painting aprons with

I told you

And

I want to have a go.

Nan’s pencilled frown forms

‘Mba’

On her lips

Halting the boys before their rich

Batter is worked too hard

And turns into rubber.

Reminding her that the perfection she had sought

From the daughter,

Eldest,

Who had bore these boys,

Had rebelled from the pressure

Of transferring eggs to flour,

Just so.

Had never really backfired.

Instead her daughter took same said ingredients

And mixed a new-style recipe –

Created a stubborn revolution

Fought battles against her in order to

Set a new sunrise

Plastered over age old recipes

Written in the same sky

Mba

Somehow the three boys sense how

Nan had never baked with her daughter

And they coat her hands with lumps of love

Melting those rigid solids

Into a sweet ever-flowing

Alchemy of

Ngwa

Which keeps her back straight

Yet reborns her features

Into an upturned rainbow

Mba

As she watches her grandsons turn questioning eyes,

Flicking from one generation to the other

Of women who smile at their new shoots,

Three boys

Daring for freedom,

Licking fingers

Covered with stories,

Revealing their kindness

She whispers,

Ngwa

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Hayley Green – SST8 Headline – Final Draft

15 Feb

Ode to Our Jam Roly Poly

My flour and butter parcel,

sticky red splurging from your folded corners.

You were Gran’s kisses in the kitchen on Sundays

when arguments boiled over in the living room.

We snuggled in a cuddle of steam,

lamb, slow stewing in the oven.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down.

Tucked behind the service hatch,

we’d bake you to distract. Spittle sugar loud over

threats of leather belts slapping backs.

On the days the living room boiled into the kitchen,

you wore a cling film coat, left our stomachs –

hungry, (disappointed)

our taste buds tart, our sweet tooth pickled

with every over vinigered cucumber.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down.

Gran still spooned us sweetners,

we over-hangers –

lumps of hand me down pastry from big brother apple pie

squeezed with strawberry jam so we both bled

the same colour through identical slits I knifed

into our skins.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down.

Stephen writes: How to layout your poem for the Technical Script.

14 Feb

When we put on shows for Mouthy Poets we are usually provided with a technician who has never been to a Friday session. Whilst members of the group may be familiar with how the show is coming together, what it is about, who plans to do what; the technician will be largely unversed in the set-up of the show. They may know what we need (e.g. a smoke machine) but they don’t necessarily know when and where it is needed. As they will be sat in the tech booth on the night pushing the buttons as the show goes on, it is vital they have as clear a picture as possible of what we want and what they need to do. With this in mind, we create the technical script.

The technical script should map out each poem in its entirety as clearly as possible: staging, lighting, dialogue, etc. Obviously, if your performance entails very little movement or technicality then the script will not be too complex, but it is still important to get the little that you do have in there. As you are e-mailing your final drafts to publishing@mouthypoets.com tomorrow we also ask that you send your poem – formated into a script – to production@mouthypoets.com, too.

Please write your script in Times New Roman and include YOUR NAME AND POEM TITLE IN UPPER CASE BOLD SIZE 14YOUR TECHNICAL NOTES IN RED UPPER CASE SIZE 12YOUR STAGING NOTES IN ITALIC SIZE 12, and your script in standard size 12. If you are unsure of the definitive staging you will use, please leave line breaks at relevant places so that these can be written on by hand once the script is printed.

As an example, here is the scripted version of mine and Cleo’s performance of ‘Ducks’ from Say Sum Thin 7:

BLUE WASH AND LEAF-EFFECT LIGHTING. GUITAR PLAYS THROUGH D.I.

MALE DUCK ENTERS STAGE LEFT AND WADDLES TO CENTRE STAGE.

MALE: I’m a duck
swimming in the water.
I’m a duck,
I like lakes not seas.

All my friends try to tell me
“fly south for the winter”
But I don’t care, cuz I’m alright
with the lake I’ve got here.

I’m a duck,
my friends say I’m stubborn,
but I’m just a happy little mallard
where I am in Nottingham.

MALE DUCK DANCES AS FEMALE DUCK ENTERS STAGE RIGHT AND PRANCES TOWARDS HIM

FEMALE: I’m a duck;
I fly south for the winter,
So fly with me if you want to keep warm!

Fly south with me;
fly south for the winter!
I think this year we’re headed
to the Mississippi river.

MIRROR BALL CREATES STARLIGHT EFFECT

FEMALE: It’s actually,
pretty fun and wicked –
We soar over coastlines and mountains
and navigate with help from the stars!

FEMALE WIGGLES PLAYFULLY

MALE: You’re a duck…

FEMALE: I’m a duck!

MALE: …and you’re pretty fit.
So I might…

BOTH: Fly south for a bit!

DUCKS DANCE OFF STAGE LEFT
LIGHTS FADE AND GUITAR ENDS.

Please e-mail your scripted poem to Afrah at production@mouthypoets.com by tomorrow (Sunday, 15th February) ATTACHED TO THE E-MAIL AS A SEPARATE DOCUMENT.

Nafeesa Hamid SST8 Scratch poem: line edit/3rd draft

8 Feb

1.     Dough

Morning. Colgate toothpaste.

The glass table. Chairs. Sat on sofa.

Hand-made covers; satin, rough

With age and too many arses.

Curry.

Mum was cooking curry just yesterday.

The night before.

Roti –

She used to make

it regularly

Back then.

People, customers, shop.

Police officer. Woman.

The Police Officer came

To throw dirt in the burn wound.

Our makan still smelled of hot roti from

the day before.

My mum must have pounded that dough

Until there was roti flour all over the house.

The Police Officer came

To throw dirt in the burn wound.

She wanted to retain the juices

That otherwise might drip away.

I just wanted to cook

The leavened dough that had been

Exposed

To too much air already,

And eat it all up.

But the Police Officer didn’t

Want to leave it to rest;

She wanted to pick through the grains

And bring back

The Baker.

Yesterday’s clothes were left crumpled in a corner;

Stained

forever.

I don’t know what happened to them.

My mum gives me

new, ironed

clothes to wear

and tells me to brush my teeth well.

The police are coming over

for tea

today.

I need to remember

my dad is watching.

He leans on the radiator,

his back too straight,

his eyes

wallowing

low

over his smile.

And he keeps asking

the officer

if she would like a drink.

I would like for him to

leave.

I would like for them all to

leave. Me.

To take their questions

and swallow them down

with their tea.

There is something jagging

in my chest, right there –

a duh duh duh

duh duh duh. Duh.

Right there.

Where his fingers had sweated

themselves

into me.

I don’t tell the officer

about the jagging

in my chest.

—————-

Length of performance: About 4 minutes

Tech/stage requirements: blue/ red light, 2 chairs, skipping rope, cloth to cover chairs (I will source), white flour, audio (police siren, heavy breathing, Bollywood acapella)

Hayley Green – Headline – Line Edit

8 Feb

FORMATTING IS MESSED UP, DON’T KNOW WHY

Here is my latest draft. I have had some feedback since but no time to implement it ye, but still wanted to put something up. The bits in bold and italicised will probably be replaced.

TECH: I’m thinking of having a red wash but nothing more extravagant with the lights. Slight possibility of projection (my own images). Might use those blocks they said they had for staging, defo won’t need anything special bringing in. 1 x mic and stand please. That’s all for me.

Time: 1 minute 30 (2 minutes to be safe)

Ode to Our Jam Roly Poly

My flour and butter parcel,

sticky red splurging from your folded corners.

You were Gran’s kisses in the kitchen on Sundays

when arguments boiled over in the living room.

We snuggled in a cuddle of steam,

lamb, slow stewing in the oven.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down

Tucked behind the service hatch,

we’d bake you to distract. Spittle sugar loud over

threats of leather belts slapping backs.

On the days the living room boiled into the kitchen,

you wore a cling film coat, left our stomachs –

hungry,
our taste buds un-hugged, our sweet tooth bitter

with every mouthful of over peppered dinner.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down

Gran still spooned us extra love.
We outcasts –

lumps of hand me down pastry from big brother apple pie

squeezed with strawberry jam so we both bled

the same colour through identical slits I knifed

into our skins.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down

BeaBop – SST8 First Draft

11 Jan

Three boys mix batter
Hands scrunching, grinding.
Air mating flour, eggs and milk
Into a cookery experiment
That flew splats across the kitchen,
painting aprons with
I told you and
I want to have a go.

Nan’s pencilled frown forms
‘Ngwa’ on her lips
Halting the boys before their rich
Batter is worked too har
And turns into rubber.
Reminding her that the perfection she sought
From the daughter,
Eldest,
Who bore these boys,
Had rebelled from the pressure
Had created a stubborn revolution
Had fought battles against her in order to
Set free her own identity.

Nan had never baked with herher daughter
And as she watched her grandsons turn questioning eyes and lick fingers
Covered with stories

End of Draft

I am so ready AND excited to edit the draft above.
It is not a memory or a myth. It is a parable.
It will be 3-4 minutes.
I feel a collaboration coming on. We’ll see!

Nafeesa Hamid SST8 Scratch show: first drafts

5 Jan

Hi. I have a few ideas so far for my poem for the scratch show – I’ve done a surprising amount of writing around the topic of food (which I was initially dubious about). Because I’ve got so many ideas roaming about my notebook, I’d really appreciate people commenting on which they feel is strongest, or which has the most potential or perhaps even an amalgamation of all the ideas? I’d also appreciate just general comments on improvements and edits I can make to one or all of the drafts. Thanks!

1.     Self Portrait (Deborah’s session)

My face is the shape of good naan bread,

With ajwan seeds scattered across

Its surface;

Pudgy dough inside;

With dry, cracked surface.

The circumference of my face

Is similar to that of a gulab jaman.

My eyes are the colour of well-cooked lamb kebabs

And the size of a Mushtaq’s jalebi.

They also shine that bright,

When I’m excited, I think.

My mother too, is jalebi-eyed.

My body is multi coloured,

Like the individual grains of rice in a pilau biryani

That come together as a whole

Spicy dish.

Spicy.

2.     Mum’s spicy chicken niblets (Anne’s session)

Rumble. Grumble. Rumble.

Splash,

Stroke, thrust

And rest.

I’m thinking she probably doesn’t want to touch me;

She looks at me with blank eyes,

Too full with other thoughts

For me to be seen;

She’s bored of this lifetime routine.

Chop, cut, chop, chop, cut –

I don’t bleed.

Spark – it doesn’t light up so she tries

Again.

Spark.

Flame. Thump, sizzle.

My skin tightens around my body,

My anaemic legs burn in the heat.

My insides loosen up.

She swings me on to my back,

Prods her finger into my spine;

Grunts.

I’m picked out, well-browned; just how they like me.

Brown on the outside, pink on the inside.

A cultural mish-mash.

The boys rush to greet me,

Grab me by my leg and slap me

On to their plates;

My sweat already congealing

Their fingers.

The boys like me;

Their eyes all bright and empty like hers.

They tear off my crackling coat

And dig teeth into my flesh

Which falls off at ease.

The boys like me

When I’m well-browned

And have stopped sizzling

And am silent.

3.     Dough (Deborah’s session)

Morning. Colgate toothpaste.

The glass table. Chairs. Sat on sofa.

Hand-made covers; satin, rough

With age and too many arses.

Curry.

Mum was cooking curry just yesterday.

The night before.

Roti –

She used to make it

Regularly

Back then.

People, customers, shop.

Police officer. Woman.

The Police Officer came

To throw dirt in the burn wound.

She came into our makan

Which still smelled of hot roti from the day before.

My mum must have pounded that dough

Until there was roti flour all over the house

And the shop.

The Police Officer came

To throw dirt in the burn wound.

She wanted to retain the juices

That otherwise might drip away.

I just wanted to cook

The leavened dough that had been

Exposed

To too much air already,

And eat it all up.

But the Police Officer didn’t

Want to leave it to rest;

She wanted to pick through the grains

And bring back

The Baker.