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Blog: Word Art

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Clubbing.

Clubbing.

It begins with shackling necklaces across throats:
the distorted custom of wearing amulets to battle
talismans to war; we are new hunters, wear jeans

to camouflage, clutch mobile phones like spears
journey for the village / town / city square, meet
the rest of the tribe mostly in short skirts, armed

with stilettos, armoured by Chanel. Dusk thickens,
the customary bickering between us commences
through the jungle vines of power lines/stampede

of zebra crossings/night growth of streets bustling,
our ritual is natural, till the traders come. Greater
armed, they divide with such ease that most of us

are taken. Those who resist are swayed by liquor
deals, sailed to darkness where the master spins
a tune not our own. We move stiffly to it as minds

force indifference, but spines have a preference
for drums. Rage building, we make our melody,
fight to find our feet until the master tries to mix

our movement with his song… but the rhythm is
uneven and the tempo, wrong. Against its waves,
we raise voices in anger, fists in protest, dancers

in the tide, militant against the music, a million
men marching through seas. But we still know
how to cross water, the ocean holds our bones;

explains our way of navigating past bouncers
like breeze into the cool air, where clouds pass
like dark ships and find us beached, benched

with parched lips, loose-limbed and looking
to light. Now, the best thing about clubbing
is not this, or the struggle to make hips sway

just so, not the need to charge cloakrooms
as if through underground railroads. No. 
best thing about clubbing is the feeling

of freedom on the ride home.

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Freewrite // 1st of May

A ‘Freewrite’ is a writing exercise designed to see what the subconscious throws up: to write freely without editing, planning etc. There are many variations. I use this one when I lead writing workshops, I ask participants to give 10 random words (which we add in roughly one-minute intervals) and also a half-sentence to begin with. Words: Chocolate, Yellow, sky, cardboard, door, scent, blue tack, gravel, dog, bowl.

For a moment, I forgot what the wind feels like, what it is to run with something infinitely faster, lighter and barely of this world. There are parts of earth that are liminal, things we only see in the briefest glimpse, and are gone, a blink's worth of words: the faint faded taste of chocolate on a lover's tongue and you wish you were there before. Or finding an old book book yellowed at the edges and wanting to have held it white and just pressed. The sky is filled with this liminal energy, clouds, those gatherings of water hold faint traces of all who have drank before. When it falls, rain on open mouths, hard faces, cardboard in alleys, roof tops, reservoirs, its the dead falling all around us. The rain drops on windows are warnings, the door is splattered with screams. The after rain scent is of wounded soldiers, blue, tacked to the living, they are clinging, sinking through our skin, through gravel to the soil of us. A dog barks, lonely and knowing into the heavy dusk and the curved bowl of earth waits to drink again.

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2012: A Snapshot

Earlier this year The Houses of Parliament and Apples and Snakes commissioned me to 'crowd-source' a poem democratic engagement and parliamentary representation. On Twitter, Facebook, here on my blog, in workshops, on bus rides, at the optician's, in supermarkets I asked questions and this is the by product. Thanks.

2012: A snapshot.

A pub on stilts. Its shadow: long and dark,
cast along the tall grass, St George’s cross
ripples in breeze, a tartan kilt dangles off

a window sill, a sky ever stuffed with rain,
one red dragon - half sunk on the horizon
is how I picture the United Kingdom.

There are steps carved of wild wood and
old stone, they shake but master the weight
of all who come. Hung over the fireplace is:

a stuffed bird, sketches of veterans, framed
paintings of chalky cliffs, ceramic castles
adorn the mantle-piece, and if you listen

to those closest sat, whose voices rumble
out of broad chests decorated with medals
you’ll hear stories of days gone by,

when men were men and that was that.
The pub sits on stilts. By the long counter,
Miriam, 25, wise for her age, giggles

but finds enchanting the frayed man
who yells in opposing voices; she finds
truth in the rough quarrel of his tongue.

He yells: his voice is never heard, then
yells: he is just misunderstood and Liz,
46, seeking solitude, asks him to be quiet.

For her, we are snowflakes; our leaders
stand in blizzards, their task is difficult:
to sculpt us into beautiful. Further back,

in suits, tapping at computers, measuring
the slow gait of growth are the savvy mocha
drinkers, tech heavy heads who talk rapidly

of financial liquidity, the cost to the nation,
the worth of things. Dan thinks of whispering
to his unborn twins. He is with the fathers;

they nervously seem to count loose change,
frown, then order one drink. The cleaners
stop their second shift: a cup of water before

the third and overhear journalists speak of
finding ‘dirt’. For all their fancy talk, one thinks,
they don’t know the meaning of the word.

Tense are professors. By the dart boards,
they wonder if the veil will fall, if students priced
from tuition fees will cease to fill UCAS forms.

These young ones fill the centre, feel ignored,
battered, berated, bullied, bored by those who
speak for them. Betrayed by flashing bulbs,

some huddle into headphones, their heads
bound to driving beats. Their conversations
turn around music; how bass alleviates

the weight of their world, how sparse snares
hold their sense of loss, how rappers speak
best for them in this pub that sits on stilts.

By the juke box, the writers try to mix
free speech with unflinching sincerity.
The pastors preach their God’s true word,

scientists break what puzzles us. Athletes
shrink from alcohol to meditate on starting
guns, the gold, silver and bronze that call

for muscular perfection, turns the world
to our capital where identity gleams with
questions: Who are we? What's our thing?

Some murmur gently quiet themes of food,
beer, football, equality, a shifting cloud
of answers fill this pub that sits on stilts.

The economists, shop keepers, postmen,
midwives, bus drivers, the pharmacists,
mechanics, most want the simple things:

The farmers, chemists, bankers, plumbers,
chefs... the endless list want better healthcare,
decent housing, jobs and truth above all this;

Truth of headlines. Truth of law. Truth of
taxes. Truth of war. Truth of power. Truth of
knowledge. Truth of who and what corrupts.

The pub rocks on stilts. The doors creak with
a passport’s opening, immigrants come;
strands of songs rise from their hopeful lungs

and outside, if you happen to walk along,
if you gather up our raging symphony,
if you catch our twisting varied tongues,

if you listen to our many songs, we will
teach you all the world’s knowledge:
the complex right, the complex wrong.

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Ahmedabad four.

The last leg of The14thTale is to Ahmedabad in the Gujarat region of India. Right after the workshop at Pune, we hop on a plane and Rob, Preeti (of the British council) and I fly to Mumbai to meet Christina my producer from Fuel, and we carry on from there to Ahmedabad. It is further up north and the weather is cooler, such that we reach for jackets as soon as we exit the airport. In the morning, we go to visit the theatre. It is called Natarani and it is an outdoor amphitheatre. I have never performed this play outdoors and all sorts of new fears assault me. I began working in theatre after a bad experience in Glastonbury Festival where I read poems to a drunk/high/wasted audience who cared nothing for words, with rain, wind, far off bands, screams and loud laughter crashing into me, I ran to theatre because indoors, I could control silence, sounds, light... even smell. Natarani meant none of that and during the first sound test, the passing traffic, rustling trees, dogs barking and birds arguing above bested my voice and we agreed that I would use a stage mic. Rob gets to work and Pretti and I leave for a little bit of shopping. Ahmedabad is known for having the best fabric in Gujarat and the shops do not disappoint. It is tough to choose. The clothes are earthy coloured, patterns are just DOPE! I buy scarves and shirts for me and mine, and we hurry back to the hotel to rest before arriving at the theatre for the show in the evening. Before I am to tell the tale again, there is a tryptic of India dance performances, the first is classic, others contemporary. Christina sits beside me as these masters take the stage, the women wear marine-blue fabric adorned with bells and intricate jewellery, just stunning, the light and their movements are precise, each muscle controlled to perfection. The audience roar and backstage, I thank them for their work. 30 minutes pass and it's my turn.

It is safe to say that I have troubles. I am not accustomed to using a microphone. It keeps slipping down or up my face, or rubbing against my skin. My throat dries up in the night air and the lump between my chin and throat grows irritating during the play. I try to focus, to tell the story rather than 'act' the story. I take my bow, thank the audience and disappear off stage not entirely pleased with myself. When I surface, Rob who controls the light and sounds says simply 'that was hard work' and I nod. He has seen the show more times than anyone and knows it well. To everyone else, the show went well and I thank them for their compliments. Dinner is served on a gorgeous restaurant on a rooftop and the next morning I go to the British Library in Ahmedabad for my workshop.

There are about 20 participant, all of them female. The one guy who turned up freaked at their numbers and disappeared. The workshop is on imagery and metaphor and I focus on 'Litany' a poem by Billy Collins (google it, there is a three year old kid who recites it from memory on YouTube) and the participants get, and love the poem, such that towards the end, it descends to chaos as they suggest their own interpretations and I have to yell to get them back on track. After I break down the construction of is poem, the task is to write their own versions of this poems and they come up with some stunning stuff. The lady who makes the peace sign below, writes about Facebook and keeps us guessing till the final line on the final word.

20121110-091245.jpg

After the workshop, it's a whistle stop to the hotel to grab bags, dash to the airport, fly to Mumbai, land and get to a clinic to see yet another doctor about the alien life form growing behind my chin. In the waiting room of the private clinic, Preeti and I talk and I discover that we have much, much more in common than I thought at first. The conversation is deep and shallow, personal and general, poignant and playful. She speaks about her husband and family life, I swap similar stories and soon, we are the last people in the clinic. The doctor calls and he is an old friend or Preeti's. He examines me thoroughly, prescribes my medicine and I thank him for his time. We stop by a pharmacy. I spend my remaining rupees on medicine and though it feels far too soon, we say goodbye to Preeti and part ways promising to cross paths once again.

I type this on a Piccadilly Line train back to my home after a long flight. I will meet my sisters and parents and give them gifts, tomorrow, I shall meet my lady and do the same. Weeks after, two or three at the earliest, I imagine my subconscious will spit out an image that is symbolic of the last eight days. Perhaps in its dissection, I will discover an epiphany. Something bright, patterned, hot, spicy, that reeks of people and place, perhaps it will hold a poem.

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Pune Three.

Pune three. Pune is a whole other kettle of fish. It is one of the satellite cities of Mumbai, a four hour drive past mountains, over rivers, past lorries, motorbikes, coaches, people carriers and taxies screaming past us and less often, us past them. I fall asleep for most of the journey. Something of the rocking on roads, regardless of how bumpy, lulls me to sleep. I wake up when we stop outside a filling station/food court and, for want of a less patronising phrase, it looks 'authentically Indian' same clash of bright colours, of patterns, aroma and sounds, tucked into the humid night. It feels so familiar, so picturesque and typical of the exported idea of India, that they oddest thing about the experience is the Korean pop song 'Gangam Style' blasting from a bad speaker. We are staying at a university campus for our time in Pune and there is a music festival going on. Rob and I go down and attempt to get our individual grooves on to the band, but it finishes quickly and we return to sleep for the night.

In the morning, I'm dropped up at the British Library in Pune which is similar to the Free Word centre in London, and prepare for a morning of 'media interactions' - essentially, interviews with various journalists. The first guy I meet is Rohan Swamy, about 22years old I think. I am first struck by his name, which I hastily mention was used in The Lord of the Rings trilogy and Rohan successfully hides the yes-I-have-heard-that-many-times look on his face, but a hint of it comes out of his voice. It is raspy, quick and his English is brilliant, perhaps better than mine. I like him instantly and we spend about half the interview talking about him and his work. He promises to send me a short story of his and we step outside for pictures, shake hands and he leaves. The next journalist is more reserved and old fashioned in the sense that he does not record our conversation, but makes small notes as we talk. The final interviewer just hands me a white sheet of paper with three questions, points a digital SLR at me, pushes the record button and asks me talk. I do so. We shake hands and downstairs, I wait for the taxi to take me to the theatre and arrive to find Rob hard at work.

The theatre is beautiful but the stage is too far away I feel, to easily recreate the sense of intimacy that The14thTale truly comes to life in. It worries me. Despite how well the show went in Mumbai, I am nervous about clarity and meaning, how parts of the show turn on a single word and if it is lost, the moment is lost and as both writer and performer I want to try and avoid this at all costs. I begin to think of the text and how to make it more local. Are there any words I can can ground in India? Are there culture references that have equivalents here? I find that though 'Lynx' is the prevalent deodorant in England, here, it is 'Axe'. They do not use 'McCleans' as much as they use 'Colgate'. I change 'tubes of red acrylic paint' to 'bottles of red paint', 'supply teachers' to 'substitute teachers' and after the cue-to-cue check to ensure the lights and sounds are working in order, there is 10 minutes to warm up before the show goes up.

The show goes down to a round of applause. It is by far the hottest space I have ever told the story in. The fans were switched off as they interfered with the play and in the dressing room afterwards, my shirt is entirely and supremely soaked with sweat. I collapse into a chair in the theatre after the show and thank the audience members who stayed to see me. I sign a few books and thank Marukh. Without her the show would not have happened, she runs a theatre company and school here, helped with marketing and a part of me thinks her blood flows through everyone who came. I think of her as the unofficial mayor of Pune. She seems to know everyone and their mama. Marukh, I say, I'd like to see a doctor; there is a swelling between my chin and my throat that seems to have sprouted the day I landed and steadily grown bigger. It is late Saturday night but Marukh reaches for her phone and calls a doctor who happens to be her neighbour, who isn't in town, who calls his assistant, who comes to meet me the following morning at Marukh's house.

She lives in a closed compound as colonised by greenery as it is by mopeds (the default mode of transport in Pune) and dogs. The young doctor arrives, grabs the girth under my chin, pokes and prods it, says it is a glandular infection, prescribes some medicine and leaves quickly, Marukh thanking him for his swiftness as an aunt might thank her nephew. I get a taxi to the pharmacy and race back to the campus for the first of the two workshops I am to deliver today. The first starts 40 minutes late and I rush through the 'Poetry for Performance' workshop and get another taxi to the the second venue for the 'Crafting Personal Narratives' workshop. This goes much, much better. I break down themes, personal experience, structure, inciting incidents, trigger, conflict & response, climax, resolution and return. I explain how all stories have this structure but they are remixed, reordered, told from multiple perspectives, in multiple of ways and there are such things as open endings that don't tie up the story, but suggest there is more to come. Endings such as this one...

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Mumbai Two.

Mumbai 2. The show goes well. The14thTale struck again as a testament to the universality of relationships, of fear, anger, mischief... The coming of age story came of age again in the theatre and the audience laughed in all the right places - I say this because in a country where English is not the first language, it is the most obvious maker that the story is being understood; And when on stage, naked with your emotions, alone beneath the spotlights and the audience is sat in the dark a distance from the stage, you need to know the story is being followed. They laughed in the right places and I heard enough to carry on. Enough of me. After the show, I step out and dusk has come over the city of Mumbai. I rush to the larger theatre to see Akala and his Hip-Hop Shakespeare company and they tick every box in the book; they are entertaining, passionate, powerful.

The next day, I check out of the hotel early at 10.30 to deliver my first poetry and performance workshop with AVID, an education initiative. There are about 15 people packed into the air conditioned room and everything goes as planned. The bits of wisdom I share were siphoned off workshops from Jacob Sam-La Rose, Roger Robinson, Malika Booker and Apples & Snakes - the poetry in education organisation who trained me years ago. There is nothing like a Spoken Word, Performance Poetry or regular Poetry reading events in India. Or if there is, it is so small that none of the participants in the workshop are aware of it. I dish out my email address and answer questions on how one might be started. Sabina, from the workshop, turns her ready smile into a frown as she laments its absence, says that there was once a rich oral tradition, and now there is nothing...

I imagine it is to do with language in India. They seem to be as numerous as they are in Nigeria, if not more. There are roughly 250 there, but I reckon in this country of a billion people it is double that, and English complicates the problem: it is the official and commercial language and Hindi is the National language, though in Southern India, you can be lynched for speaking it. I am to leave for Pune, one of the satellite cities of Mumbai and as I say my goodbyes to the organisers of the festival here, we begin to discuss language and how it affects name. Quasar, who saw The14thTale in Edinburgh 3 years ago and brought me here, Q says that the renaming of cities was carried out by a nationalist and right wing party. Bombay was the name imposed by the English, Mumbai was its original. This party wants India for the Hindus, no Muslims welcome, no other faith. Arzanne, who stage managed my play, says that for this reason, she will always call it Bombay, fuck the right winged ones. But it works both ways: do you call it Bombay because you are proud of your Indianhood and Multiculturality? Or Call it Mumbai because you are proud of your Indianhood, and given the legacy of English rule, its Multiculturalilty?

Some of the people I meet call it both depending on who they speak with, or which language they speak. When speaking Hindi, they call it Mumbai. When speaking English, Bombay. Theoretically speaking, language is largely completely and utterly useless. It is so rudimentary and unpolished a form of communication that sometimes to me, to write poetry which relies on specificity, is a pointless task. If I say the word 'love' for instance, it is based on my past relationships, my emotions and memories associated with the word. If I dated a sumo wrestler, Love is a big strong squishy thing. If a listener dates a ballerina, it is a flippant, fairy-esq creature. We come at the word with different perceptions. To write then is to HOPE, and nothing else, to HOPE that the reader gives the same meaning to my words. When I say Bombay or Mumbai, I mean Lagos, Nigeria, I mean hope, I mean the struggle of identify, I mean a battle of languages, I mean... I guess then, poetry?

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Bombay One.

Bombay 1. Most flights are un-eventful. You step on the plane, the doors are air tight and if the electronic devices and time pieces were all switched off, you feel nothing change. Time could pass: an hour or 6 and we'd only be able to guess. I still find it intriguing how we fly in and out of time zones. To land in another country that is still yesterday, or one that is already tomorrow. We arrived, walked through the airport, gathered our luggage and after a buzzing taxi ramp, slipped into the hot darkness of Bombay. At 2.a.m, the roads are deserted and our guide from the Literature Festival, of which I am to take a part in - (performing The 14th Tale) - assures us that in midday, it would have taken 1 hour to cross the same street we just did in 5 minutes. I don't doubt him for a second. I've been told about the culture shock of Bombay, but even at night, I can sense its similarity with Lagos or Jos where I was born. I haven't been to Nigeria in 15 years, but that same buzz, that sense of all of life clashing in colourful, violent, unexpected and opposite ways, rise up from the city. The streets. The shacks on the sides of the road. The roaming dogs. The taxi driver's style of driving; of blaring horns and switching headlights from dipped lights to full beam in rapid, warn-epileptics-against fashion.

In the morning, we breakfast on the first of what I imagine will be many curries. We are based at the Royal Bombay Yacht Club, which the child of an ex colony in me scoffs at, at the same time, welcomes its familiarity. A framed aged poster proudly announces that the Prince and Princess of Wales visited the Yacht Club in 1905 and after, bestowed 'Royal' to the club. We go out, visit the venue for tomorrow's first show and meet members of the literature festival team. I scan the programme of events, there is a lot going on and I'm honoured to be representing the smorgasbord of the world that contrived to my being here: to cast my voice among the lot of writers. The names attached to The 14th Tale are: BAC, Apples and Snakes, Roger Robinson, Roddy Lumsden, Tom Chivers, Ireland, Nigeria, United Kingdom and now the British Council.

We decide to walk from Colaba Causeway back to our hotel to rest, adjust to the heat and sync with India time. What I've come to love about travelling is finding similar relationships play out; relationships that are instantly recognisable and beyond language. A 3ish year old boy looks up at his mother who is pointing at his ice cream and beckoning. His eyes seem to say, this is mine and that's all there is to it, mum. The boys in white kaftans eye the girls as the walk pass, not daring to speak. The taxi drivers are impatient. The beggars persistent. The waves gentle. The sun strong.

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#NPDLive // TwitterPoem

@poetrydayuk // #NPDLive IDEA. I'll be running one of my online poetry exercise/workshop for National Poetry Day! Simply put, I will tweet instructions and participants, wherever they are can follow these instructions. At the end, they will have written a poem. The theme for National Poetry Day is ‘Stars’ and the poem is also along this theme.

EQUIPMENT. To participate, all that is needed is something from which to read the National Poetry Day‘s twitter feed at twitter.com/poetrydayuk or at @poetrydayuk. A computer or a smartphone will do. In a school, I’d suggest a classroom equipped with a computer that is projected onto a white board. This is so the students can watch the tweets as they appear live on twitter.com/poetrydayuk. The page ought to refresh itself, but if it doesn’t, refresh the webpage manually and the instruction will come through fine. Participants can sit, watch for the instructions and write in notebooks or writing software.

WHEN The date for the workshop is on the 4th of October, at 14.00 sharp. The workshop will begin on the hour. The instructions will come every five minutes and the whole exercise will last 45 minutes exactly.

AFTER. Please have the poem(s) typed up and sent to Chris Meade of if:book UK at chris@ifbook.co.uk by the week’s end and all the poems will be collated and published online.

Happy writing! Inua Ellams.

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Who would you like to represent you?

INTRO:I am working on a project called Represent. My task is to ‘Crowd Source’ a poem. The project is for the Houses of Parliament, funded through Apples and Snakes and the poem is about identity, voice, democratic engagement and political representation. Essentially, it is about politics: who speaks for us, how they speak for us, about what it means to live in the UK in 2012 and how we make our voices are heard – If you want more info, see here: {http://bit.ly/LXFgDR} // there is also an intro on Youtube: {http://bit.ly/L5ryQ2}

The poem has to be ‘Crowd Sourced’ meaning (as you prolly know) it has to come from many different sources. I will ask questions and stitch the answers into the poem. I really, really need your help, but in a very small and simple way. I’d like you to answer the question firstly, then ask three, just three, other folks you know they same questions and tell me their answers. That’s all. They could be your parents, colleagues, folks you meet in transit, neighbours… anyone. The more diverse, the better as the poem is to represent all of the UK (Yikes!)

The responses can come as poems, lyrics, thoughts or straight forward sentences. So, this is the question:

If you could pick anyone, who would you like to represent you? and the second questions, what must they understand about you?

Thank: I'm looking forward to what you and what your people say. Thanks, Inua.

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Why must you be heard?

INTRO:I am working on a project called Represent. My task is to ‘Crowd Source’ a poem. The project is for the Houses of Parliament, funded through Apples and Snakes and the poem is about identity, voice, democratic engagement and political representation. Essentially, it is about politics: who speaks for us, how they speak for us, about what it means to live in the UK in 2012 and how we make our voices are heard – If you want more info, see here: {http://bit.ly/LXFgDR} // there is also an intro on Youtube: {http://bit.ly/L5ryQ2}

The poem has to be ‘Crowd Sourced’ meaning (as you prolly know) it has to come from many different sources. I will ask questions and stitch the answers into the poem. I really, really need your help, but in a very small and simple way. I’d like you to answer the question firstly, then ask three, just three, other folks you know they same questions and tell me their answers. That’s all. They could be your parents, colleagues, folks you meet in transit, neighbours… anyone. The more diverse, the better as the poem is to represent all of the UK (Yikes!)

The responses can come as poems, lyrics, thoughts or straight forward sentences. So, this is the question:

Why must you be heard?

looking forward to what you say and what your peeps say. Thanks, Inua.

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What would you say?

INTRO:I am working on a project called Represent. My task is to ‘Crowd Source’ a poem. The project is for the Houses of Parliament, funded through Apples and Snakes and the poem is about identity, voice, democratic engagement and political representation. Essentially, it is about politics: who speaks for us, how they speak for us, about what it means to live in the UK in 2012 and how we make our voices are heard – If you want more info, see here: {http://bit.ly/LXFgDR} // there is also an intro on Youtube: {http://bit.ly/L5ryQ2}

The poem has to be ‘Crowd Sourced’ meaning (as you prolly know) it has to come from many different sources. I will ask questions and stitch the answers into the poem. I really, really need your help, but in a very small and simple way. I’d like you to answer the question firstly, then ask three, just three, other folks you know they same questions and tell me their answers. That’s all. They could be your parents, colleagues, folks you meet in transit, neighbours… anyone. The more diverse, the better as the poem is to represent all of England. (Yikes!)

The responses can come as poems, lyrics, thoughts or straight forward sentences. So, this is the question:

If you could gather politicians, MP and the nation into a small room, What would you say to them? Or What would you like to be said for you?

looking forward to what you say and what your peeps say. Thanks, Inua.

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Who would you like to hear your voice?

INTRO:I am working on a project called Represent. My task is to ‘Crowd Source’ a poem. The project is for the Houses of Parliament, funded through Apples and Snakes and the poem is about identity, voice, democratic engagement and political representation. Essentially, it is about politics: who speaks for us, how they speak for us, about what it means to live in the UK in 2012 and how we make our voices are heard – If you want more info, see here: {http://bit.ly/LXFgDR} // there is also an intro on Youtube: {http://bit.ly/L5ryQ2}

The poem has to be ‘Crowd Sourced’ meaning (as you prolly know) it has to come from many different sources. I will ask questions and stitch the answers into the poem. I really, really need your help, but in a very small and simple way. I’d like you to answer the question firstly, then ask three, just three, other folks you know they same questions and tell me their answers. That’s all. They could be your parents, colleagues, folks you meet in transit, neighbours… anyone. The more diverse, the better as the poem is to represent all of England. (Yikes!)

The responses can come as poems, lyrics, thoughts or straight forward sentences. So, this is the question:

Who would you like to hear your voice?

looking forward to what you say and what your peeps say. Thanks, Inua.

This entry was posted on Monday, June 18th, 2012 at 9:43 pm.

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