Tag Archives: say sum thin

Nafeesa Draft 1 SST11

15 May

Idea: Eve (from Adam n Eve) and Lilith (Adam’s 1st wifey) meet in a bar. Eve is pregnant, Adam has left her after the whole forbidden fruit drama. Lilith is working as an escort.

11:20pm on a Tuesday. The hags and the whores trickle out of side alleys and posh bars. Drunk, bright eyed, born from the devil, these women ooze sex, thick thighs and framed eyes, their strut digs out sighs from the open mouths of married men who stare at girls in school skirts during the day. Boiling blood, sharp tongues, crimson lips lick and spit. Even their spit say sex. They are goddesses of the night, tongues burn from all their woman.

Eve is sat on a bench, clutching on to her bag, head held down as though she is drowning. Perhaps she is crying. Limp hair, swollen eyes, a woman’s belly – she is fresh, raw, only just been born, spat out from the heavens. She holds her woman tongue in a fist, afraid, she is as visible as a five year old giving you the finger. Not bold, but brand new.

Advertisements

BeaBop: Tribute (SST10 Final Draft)

28 Jan

 

She lived for that green
the shade that bled the sun through
tall stems full
of the stuff of life
laying foundations in the moss
cultivating a kind of eco-festival
full of cool, hip-for-you stuff
-BEAT-
She hailed from Masaka in royal Uganda
she whispered evergreen national parks
wore celebrations piled atop afro coils
a silent disco danced behind cocoa eyes
and like a sister
yet more a daughter, she wrapped me in tribute
Pursing lips to my dimples

Once, I thought I had jailed my chance
to mother after severing myself from a house
full of too many women
growing big for their boobs
I kicked the dirt and left my idea of family
to flap in the cross-winds
in a pea-green boat
-BEAT-
She was the road sign green
that directed me back to motherhood
back when truth was wedged
between puberty and middle classdom
a detour made through males too old to be boys
I would hide my dreams behind
a padlocked Brady Bunch

Her face was the key
opening the old fashioned golden door
a beacon for folk to stay awhile
empty their souls
rest up and ease lines
carved across play dough
whilst sharing a little philosophy
-BEAT-
Her voice was the architect
plucking my dimples
to loosen my shadows
The chef: pressing jerk, pimento
scotch bonnet, garlic cloves
into my middle
seasoning me for motherhood
-BEAT-
She loved the little bit of apple mixed with olive
the kind that took the edge off a hard day
of walking wards
in worn-in clogs
her uniform a starched green
the type that made you stand to attention

Or hide your boyfriends attitude
until he wanted to do the right thing
all by himself

And she would call me

-BEAT-

Now she whispers to me

-BEAT-
And I mother a handful now
using those tints
of her cool, hip-for-you, stuff of life

BeaBop SST10 (3rd Draft)

8 Jan

She lived for that green
the shade that bled the sun through
tall stems full
of the stuff of life
laying foundations in the moss
cultivating a kind of eco-festival
full of cool, hip-for-you stuff

– Beat –

She hailed from Masaka in royal Uganda
she whispered evergreen national parks
wore celebrations piled atop afro coils
a silent disco danced behind cocoa eyes
And like a sister, scrap that –
a daughter, she wrapped me in tribute
Pursing lips to my dimples

Once, I thought I had jailed my chance
to mother after severing myself from a house
full of too many women
growing big for their boobs
I kicked the dirt and left my idea of family
to flap in the cross-wind
in a pea-green boat

– Beat –

She was the road sign green
that directed me back to motherhood
back when truth was wedged
between puberty and middle classdom
a detour made through males too old to be boys
I would hide my dreams behind
a padlocked Brady Bunch

Her face was the key
opening the old fashioned golden door
beaconing for folk to stay awhile
empty their souls
rest up and ease lines
carved across play dough
whilst sharing a little philosophy

– Beat –

Her voice was the architect
plucking my dimples
to loosen my shadows
the chef: pressing jerk, pimento
scotch bonnet, garlic cloves
into my middle
seasoning me for motherhood

– Beat –

She loved the little bit of apple mixed with olive
the kind that took the edge off a hard day
of walking wards
in worn-in clogs
her uniform a starched green
the type that made you stand to attention

Or hide your boyfriends attitude
until he wanted to do the right thing
all by himself
by presenting himself to her
to ask to place a ring on your finger
before even thinking of
taking your crown

And she would call me

– Beat-

Now she whispers to me
And I mother a handful now
using those tints
of her cool, hip-for-you, stuff of life

 

[Tech requirements:3 – 4 colour washes – different shades or intensities of green cycled for each stanza. Timing/length : 2’25”]

Mid Shelley SST10 second draft

8 Jan

25 mins late, but got there! Thanks for understanding 🙂 This is a bit of an experiment, gonna see how it goes…not perfect but hopefully gives an idea of where I’m trying to go with it. (This is the performance version, not convinced it works too great on paper but I’m planning on working on a more page friendly version for the zine).

Some secrets need to be kept in the dark.
And sometimes, with the really big secrets,
you need to keep yourself in the dark,
for fear the thing will ooze out of your skin,
plop itself into your lap while you’re sat at school
and say – hey!
You can implode my world now.

When I was seven my mum used to buy
packets of ten strawberry splits from the discount store.
I rarely remember eating a real meal,
but I remember licking them, one after the other
until I was so full of ice and sugar
I could trace the core of cold
right down the middle of me.
I was sat on the step with my best friend
eating ice lollies.
‘I can’t wait for it to end’, I said.
He didn’t know what I meant.

Flash –
Staring at her chest
Flash –
Waiting for her breath

When I was seventeen
I blagged my way through a tenancy agreement
by telling them I was twenty three
and a teaching assistant.
My pupils had eclipsed my irises
and left everything gray –
I hadn’t slept for three days.

Flash –
Staring at the mirror
Flash –
Reflection unfamiliar

When I was nineteen my girlfriend moved in with me.
She was encased in ice
but would spit sparks at me without thawing.
It seemed I was constantly breathing out smoke
even in the absence of a cigarette.
I didn’t know whether my insides were frozen or smoldering.
She taught me how to tie a scarf against the wind,
and I taught myself to pretend
the electric heater was an open fire,
to imagine I was warm.
Sometimes I would hold icecubes in my hands
until they melted.
Fascinated by the way they burned.

Flash –
Dirty wall
Flash –
Closed door
Flash –
Loud screams
Flash –
Bad dreams

As I grew I became obsessed with layers,
with silks and merino wool.
I would worship the cloth with my fingers,
amazed that things so thin
could hold in so much heat.
I sat around real camp fires,
and looking into them I learned
that it was heavens, not hells,
that are made of flames.
I learned to keep away the cold,
embracing strangers under stars,
and that dancing can make even the naked warm.

These
are the pieces of me.
The hard sharp shards
that add up to make me,
and I stand proud
and hiss to the wind –

I am a broken thing.

I am a broken thing.

So on the days I think I’m done
trying to sew myself back together,
and the only shape my lips can make is ‘fuck you’,
I curl my head towards my heart
and listen to the whisper –
you don’t have to stay where makes you ill.
You don’t have to sit if you can’t stay still.
And these scars,
they make us beautiful.

‘Coz sometimes I feel I could shake
the whole world with a whisper,
and that when I speak
the air will never be the same,
and that my heart is big enough
to hold the whole earth,
and I know that nothing stays the same,
except change.
When I was twenty five I learned how to breathe fire.
To stand on stages and to make ice weep.
I own more jumpers than I can make use of.
But sometimes I’ll walk barefoot through snow,
just to watch it dissolve.
And I still squeeze icecubes…
fascinated by the way we burn.

Mouthy workshops: Debris

4 Dec

27th November 2015

When entering the room for this workshop the clumsy me almost slipped on the floor. Was it a banana peel? No, nothing of that sort: pictures and quotes were scattered on the floor. What were they there for? What were they representing?  What on earth could a picture of the aurora borealis and a toddler facing a red wall have in common? I was quite puzzled, but didn’t lost my faith. I trusted Debris and followed the instructions: ‘go around, look at everything and write about one picture/quote that grasp your attention- as soon as the inspiration is gone move on to the next significant one’.

That was a good way to get started:  creating something, put some ink on a blank page gives you great satisfaction. But still the question of what the connections were was hanging around. Then the revelation: light.  Looking around at all the little things in the room, light was everywhere. It was more evidently coming out from the light bulbs of one of the pictures and was emerging more subtly from a beautiful quote on dreaming, but light, oh- light was all around. And we got even more excited when we realised that LIGHT was gonna be the theme for our brand new Say Sum Thin 10! Understanding how broad and changing  and fragile the concept of light is opens so many creative possibilities for us! Yay!

LINEATION

Now, more technical stuff. It was an extremely full session, a lot to take in, but great great stuff. We talked about lineation, which is… ? Well, basically the way you break your lines in poetry. You could say that lineation is what differs poetry from prose. You could also argue that lineation makes the difference between an absolutely amazing poem and an average one. So, let’s try to understand lineation in practice. We looked at different way of breaking a poetry line, depending on different types of units:

Realisation Units

With realisation units, the line breaks just before (or after-it’s up to you!) there is a moment of realisation for the narrator of the poem. In general, every new one should bring a revelation of some sort, linking to the line just before that. Examples of poems we looked at: Michiko Dead by Jack Gilbert andAlways and Forever by Ocean Vuong.

Music Units

With music units, you listen to the sounds of single words and how the flow together. It might be useful to read the poem aloud to actually listen to how sentences sound like and how well they go together. Example for this technique: Thaumaturgy.

Sense Units

With sense units, you just go with the syntax of the phrase. Wherever its meanings breaks, you break your line of poetry. Example of this: Prelude collected in The BreakBeat Poets

So what now? Take a draft of your poetry and try to play with lineation, you’ll see that a different form can really make the difference!

We did that with our drafts on light and we creating some exciting new material. Just remember: do not see form as a constriction to your poetry, sometimes a good structure is all your poem needs to become a great one!

xx

Laura

Debris Stevenson – Final Draft Auditorium show #SST9

6 Jul

Current Length: 5min

I will definitely need:

-1 Handheld mic + stand

-Track will have been mixed into one

-Audio Track – this will be with you by Friday.

I might need:

-ambient mics

-20 chairs

I may be using:

-A loop pedal – I am looking into this at the moment.

Performance wise:

-I am hoping to work with Hannah Silva and my partner to create a bit more texture using Mouthy’s on stage to create a sense of togetherness and seperateness, maybe saying some of the refrains with/ over me, and laying them up using a loop pedal. This is only a maybe at the moment as it depends on time and resources really.

Lighting-wise:

-Beyond what I have stipulated below – I really trust you and Laura on this one, what is making it difficult at the moment is not being 100% clear on the way I am going to perform it but I think there definitely needs to be a sense of being on a train but also being in a Grime setting with that strobing, darkness, and togetherness at the same time as being apart.

Key:

EMOTIONAL CHANGES

TECH/STAGE DIRECTIONS

Human Farm 

.

20 MOUTHY POETS SET UP ON STAGE IN RANGE OF AMBIENT MICS, THEIR SILLOHETTES BUT NOT THEIR FACES SHOULD BE LIT.

 .

DEBRIS WALKS CENTRE STAGE TO WIRELESS MIC ON STAND CENTRE STAGE.

 .

START TRACK.

 .

TIRED, FRUSTRATED AND DISCONNECTED.

//

//

Commuters journey;

wrappers, papers, rats and goodbye naps.

Commuters journey;

Brompton bikes, fights, scenic cites.

.

Commuters journey;

ticket fines, keypads distract minds.

Commuters journeys;

wheelchairs navigate human freight.

.

BECOMING MORE ACTIVELY FRUSTRATED WITH THE SITUATION, SPACE BECOMING MORE PACKED AND LESS CONSIDERATE.

.

It’s only a reservation –

trying to feed them both from her seat –

no other space to squeeze their feet.

Have we made life so neat?

A reservation?

//

//

REVIEWING THE SITUATION IN HER HEAD – WINDING HERSELF UP IN AN ATTEMPT SHE CAN THINK OF A SOLUTION.

Lady sits with bags, baby just blinks

his eyes don’t collide either side, he just squints,

her hands hook pits, her hands look tough,

but skin splits // like her bags lookin’ rough.

Sittin’ here, two seats apart on the train,

Reddening she’s staring through her baby like rain.

.

And I’m sittin’ here thinking

human farm, human farm,

human farm. Sittin’ here.

                                                Hey, we’re sittin’ here

yes sorry sitting here,

yes please sorry, sorry,

sorry sittin’ here

our seat yes we’re sittin’ here.

.

PISSED OFF

I wanna say –

                                    She’s just sittin’ here, saying nuthin’, watch

                                   Plenty other seats on the train, cotch!

.

FEELING STUPID AND HELPLESS

But – down the aisle wheelchairs (three) –

sticklers claiming seats

now elders with priority.

Awkward, I pretend I don’t see –

.

SLOWLY HOPE IMMERGES

She’s showing hurt: —

sweat-patches by the mile.

No one questions bags,

why she’s alone

lady over there

offers hands as a home.

(Hands as a home).

//

//

Commuters journey,

suited kindly other offers cover

commuters journey,

Tesco bags pram past stags,

commuters journey,

adjacent // stacks of fragile patience,

commuters journey,

Calm, baby offers palm.

.

HOPE LOST

Only a reservation

Finally, she was just about to eat.

Only a reservation,

before a clique of work colleagues meet,

                                    Oh our a reservation?

Eyes with a touch more grief?

DISPAIR

.

Now I’m sitting here

thinking human farm,

human farm, human farm,

I’m just sittin here.

Hey, I’m sitting just here

Yes, sorry we’re sitting here,

yes us, sorry – sitting here.

Our seats, yes, we’re sitting here.

SHOCK/FRUSTRATION/HOPLESSNESS

//

//

//

//

START NEXT TRACK

Crying silent, tears are itchy, rolling down her shirt.

Strangers offering hands, but baby screeches, baby squirts.

Ladies champers-table, Marks & Spencer – what next?

No longer sittin’ here. Standin’ in aisle getting’ vexed.

.

ALMOST COMEDIC ANNOYANCE AT THE REDICULOUSNESS OF THESE WOMEN

Commuters journey;

bougie bitches don’t get deserts.

Commuters journey;

mums travel lonely carry slums.

Commuters journey;

bust, we need strangers’ we trust.

Commuters journey –

dust, no tracks without rust.

//

//

SMALL AMOUNT OF RELEIF FROM THE WOMAN GETTING OFF THE TRAIN

Only a reservation,

others assist with muggy buggy.

Only a reservation,

champers ladies ignore her like a druggie.

Finally at her station

and I wish I could say I’d done less harm,

.

REFLECTION/ REALISATION

whilst I was sitting here

thinking

human farm,

//

human farm,

//

human farm

human farm

human farm,

x3

human farm

human farm

.

DISAPOINTMENT

Thinking here –

I was just sittin’ here

sitting here thinking human farm.

sittin’ here

sitttin’ here

.

Thinking.

.

Was I doing

any less

harm?

.

FADE OUT TRACK.

First Day, First Impressions

13 Apr

So my first day at Mouthy had me thrown right on into it and I was helping you guys pick out a theme for Say Sum Thin 9 despite the fact I’ve never been to a Say Sum Thin – I would’ve come to no. 8 but work got me for the scratch and Jungle @ Rock City for the headline!

Got to say, for my first impressions of a Mouthy workshop I was blown away by how friendly and on it all you guys were. Some of you had amazing things to say about the things you write and that informed the later discussion about Say Sum Thin 9’s theme. Though the Bermuda Triangle was a great idea, something everyone could really get lost in (ha, get it?), there was overwhelming support for having the show centre on Pride, seeing as Say Sum Thin happens to be the same day as Nottingham Pride. Everyone was throwing ideas into the mix regarding this plan; what got me most excited about coming to Mouthy every week is that no one seemed left out, and finding a group with that sort of dynamic is a hard thing to come by I can tell you.

More importantly, for me anyway, the quality of the writing you guys did within such a short space of time was excellent. I was embarrassed to share what I’d written in the same time, it really wasn’t in the same ball park. Makes me only look forward to next week’s session all the more!

So although some of you lot are going to be in Germany next week (and the best of luck to you while you’re out there!) I’m mega looking forward to seeing what happens this Friday coming. Thanks for being so welcoming that first evening and I’ll see you guys soon!

 

Jordan