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.

#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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

DO YOU THINK YOUR VOICE IS 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 England. (Yikes!)

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

DO YOU THINK YOUR VOICE IS HEARD?

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

Who Speaks for 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 England. (Yikes!)

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

WHO SPEAKS FOR YOU?

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

Reprezent

The 'Z' is not a typo. It is an attempt to touch cool, to nod at what it means to be 'down with it' or, dare i use the word, to be 'hip' but it is the project I'm working on. Lemme recap. Parliament, the massive building whence the country, is run are hosting an arts-in-parliament festival this year. There'll be dance, theatre, visual art, music and the bit where I come in: poetry/spoken word. Rather than just - 'here's a handful of coins, write us some poems about Parliament' - approach to to it, the government called in Apples and Snakes to devise a project were yes, a poem is written, but not by a single author, instead a lot of folks commenting, tweeting, submitting video responsese, texting, writing letters, postcards, blogging etc. The job of the poet on the project is to gather all the answers and stitch an epic poem together. That job is mine. So, essentially, I've been commissioned by Parliament to crowd-source a poem about Political Representation. It is also about voice, identity and democratic engagement. I have to ask a lot of questions about how well represented you feel you are by the government / if you think your voice is heard / who you think hears / what you want to be heard / why you should even be heard in the first place etc...

I will be asking lots of such questions and this is what I need help with: the answers. Essentially, I'd be grateful and honoured if you could ask the questions to your friends, family, neighbours, work colleagues, school mates, bus drivers, anyone, ANYONE and let me know what they say. You can give the answers back to me as videos loaded onto YouTube, as tweets, notes on Facebook, audio recordings on sound clouds, poems, drawings, postcards, comments on my website here... anything. For more info, see the page on the parliament website here: http://bit.ly/LmuSWY

The poem has to cover as much of the UK as possible so please ask folks of all ages and from all backgrounds. Finally, please ask a friend or two to follow me on twitter as it is my main point of engagement. As soon as the project is finished, encourage them to unfollow me - cause I chat a lot of breeze on that thing - but for this project, 'the more the merrier' is vital to its success.

Thanks for reading, please pass this along... Your friendly neighbourhood Nigerian, INUAMAN // twitter.com/inuaellams Thanks

Denmark 10

The last show is here, Denmark, Western Australia. Earlier, Elke took Thierry and I for long drives through forest, woodland, desert and beaches from Katanning here. We stopped off, dove into the clear cool salty water, lay on the beach a while, returned to the car, sped off again. We visited a honey farm/honey winery - who knew such things existed? - visited Elke's artist and friend in his gorgeous exhibition space and studio, before arriving at the venue for the show. We pulled into the parking lot and Colin, our production assistant had a barbecue cooking in the back of the tour van. Onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, bread, cheese and the meat was Kangaroo - sausages, burger and a steak so fresh, it was hopping. Thierry couldn't contain his excitement, kept hugging and thanking Colin as a child might for a new toy. The steak was finished medium rare, diced and we tucked into the meat, our legs dangling from the back of the van, talking excitedly in the perfect perfect weather. Our mouths full. There are a many things I will never forget about this journey. Of the team with me; playing Bob Marley's 'No woman no cry' as loudly as we could in Katanning and singing - if you could call it that - as loudly as we could in the town hall, and this moment, our fingers stained in the parking lot, goats cheese, cherry tomatoes, content. The meal is done. I persuade Thierry to come play basket ball with me and a few kids who played locally and halfway through the game, Rob, our production manager calls us to begin the tech for the show and we return to the venue to begin. Thierry sits in the dark, I field questions to him on positioning and he answers, asking Rob other questions for clarification. But, the more I ask Thierry, the shorter his answers get. Thierry, says I, are you okay? I don't, know says he, I'm feeling hot. He comes to the edge of the stage in the pitch darkness of the theatre, I shine my torch light on his face, and gasp. His face is swollen, red and blotchy. He darts out of the theatre and I follow seconds after, into the men's room, he is doubled over at the sink, his eyes reddening. He gets steadily worse outside and we try to figure out if it is something he ate?...

Thierry says he once had a similar reaction to Ostrich meat. His chest is tightening, his throat closing up. We call Elke, the qualified nurse, who takes one look at Thierry and asks him into the car. As they drive off, Colin, Rob and I hop on the side of the road like Kangaroos, laughing at Thierry who is good humoured enough to throw up his middle finger. We return, finish the tech and just before the show starts, Elke returns and we realise how much danger Thierry was in.

His throat was closing up, he chest tightening and he could not breathe Elke says. She considered contingency plans as they sped to the hospital. She would have to resuscitate him on the roadside if he passed out, or cut a hole in his throat and stick a straw down so he could breathe. They got the hospital, finally checked him in and even then, the nurse had a shot of adrenaline ready just incase everything failed. I gulp in the changing room, imagining how close it came, but the show must go on. I am called to the side of the stage and before I go on, do the obvious thing of dedicating the show to Thierry.

But also to Australia. It is the last performance and I want to make it count. I think of Elke's advice of living in the moment. Of the life I lead in London and things I want to, must change. I think of this vast, sprawling conitinent-country, its triumphs, truths, lies, and tragedies. I imagine a current of stories - spinning in all this out of controlling, all this dreamtime and waking - I imagine something flowing from here, to Thierry in the hospital, to those at Fuel who got me here, family, to poetry itself, I say the rather egotistical funny lil prayer I say before stepping on stage "God, grant me wings, I'm too fly not too fly". I sit down, the light goes up and I begging telling the 14th Tale. "The light that limps across the hospital floor is as tired as I feel..."

Epilogue. It is 6.18 am right now. I have been awake since 4.40 a.m. My body still operates on Australia time and I just had a nightmare. The last seven since I returned have been crazy. One of my closet friends left London for South Sudan to work for Medicine Sans Frontier. The part of the county she is working in is a strong hold of a malicious, merciless rebel group called the LRA and a couple of days ago Joseph Kony, leader of the LRA hit global mainstream media for his crimes. I fear for my friend. I miss her terribly. Later today, Black T-Shirt Collection, my new play, will open to an audience in Liverpool. I am as excited as I am terrified of how it will be received. The changes I promised to make to my life here, I think I am making them, only time will tell, but I must focus on Black T-Shirt Collection today. I am convinced of the transformative power of language and storytelling; it got me to the other side of the world and back. James Baldwin said that "...while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we've got in all this darkness." and tonight I hope to shine something bright...

Katanning 9

Elke speaks again of her mistakes in working with the Aboriginal community, how once an older lady of a nomadic group, a desert woman, fell sick and was admitted to hospital. As with hospital etiquette, you gotta take a shower most mornings but this lady wildly fought Elke as she tried to bathe her. Elke said in hindsight, it was probably because she saw such use of water as a waste. Think of it, to roam the desert for generations, water takes on a higher significance and its scarcity is the line between life and death. To have then buckets of this precious thing wasted on your thigh or head, every other morning, just because it is what is done... But Elke describes something further, she says that as she eventually got her way and began to wash this old woman's body, she realised she was remoing layers, years of the finest dust and honey mixture used to protect the lady' skin against the harsh desert climate. 'Beneath' says Elke, 'lay the softest and most beautiful skin I have ever seen'.

The following morning, over breakfast, I ask Elke about her work promoting health in the mining world of Western Australia. The laboures are very lowly skilled or qualified. The managers do no want people who can think, they want people who can press a button over and over again in the glaring heat and not ask any question, not complicate things, just do. The kinds of people then, tend to be less educated and they quarrel and fight and drink like fountains. Her job is to sail in and teach these sun drenched men how to look after themselves, how to think. She does it using the arts, she creates plays, stories, songs, theatre, interactive, playful ways of learning and she is one of the very few doing something like this in western Oz. She has won awards for her Helathy and Safety Campaigns, but, she says, the companies are apalling.

These men earn up to $100,000 dollars a year, but treated as if disposable. If they get any sort of injury they are fired, so they never complain, never report, just work and work till they burn out. Our breakfast is light with olives, goats cheese, croissants, hot cups of tea and fruit spread out evenly between us, the relentless good weather sprawling in from the window. However what descends on us is morbid sense of how life is treated here and in parts of the west world. We lift the individual over the group and celebrate that individuality and mourn the loss of a single life, yet, with as much gusto, we belittle and cripple individuals and cast them aside till men are treated as beasts. They are opposing ideas that tug against each other. I think how things will fall apart, the centre will not hold and else something changes, mere anarchy will be loosened on the world.

Katanning 8

Her name is Elke. I am terrible at guessing ages of the fairer sex, so I put her at early 60s. I don't do this because of how she looks, but because of what she has done in her life and I think it is impossible for anyone to have done so much. We meet her at the Albany Entertainment Centre and she is to be our guide / assistant as we tour these parts of the country. Elke is a trained nurse, she has worked with indigenous Australians for three decades, living with them far into the desert. She is learning to play the saxophone, rides motorbikes on the weekends, was a sailor in her youth, is an amateur pilot, is more comfortable driving trucks and big cars than her little sports convertible, which though her twin daughters make fun of her about, she loves because it is perfect for driving down to the beach where she windsurfs. When she has spare time, or needs money, works in health promotions for the huge mining companies in this part of Oz. When she has more time, she gets away to a meditation centre and speaks openly about the deeply personal experience. Thierry reaches out to touch my arm as she speaks. On the night I really get to know her, we talk about everything and anything, from new scientific discoveries on the way we make decisions, to the global financial crisis, to how the milky way shifts on cloudless desert nights. She is German, taller than I am, blonde and her accent is strong. Inspiring is too reductive, there is a glowing tangle of things I feel about her. If I had come to Oz and just met her, I would not have been entirely disappointed. She is 52. My last play was called 'Untitled' about a child that grows up with no name and the repercussions of that - political, personal, occupational, tribal, mythological and cultural. Old witchcraft , it is said, works when you call something by its true name; you gain power over it. Even as a child, my mother would warn me that if I heard my name called out faintly, I should not answer until I made sure it was an actual person. When I came to writing the play I dug around to discover different attitudes to names, had I meat Elke, I think I might have written something different...

She tells me that in indigenous culture, death is dealt with once and for all. We in the west thrive on guilt and suffering; perhaps it comes from our religions; when someone dies, we hold wakes, bury, mourn, we keep photographs that haunt us, we return to the graves over and over again. The indigenous people mourn for a period, but once the short space of time is passed they destroy everything, everything of the person who died. Burn possessions, clothing, jewellery, everything and - this is what got me - if anyone else within the community shares the same name, or a similar sounding name, they loose that name. They have to change it, they become... Elke spoke a word that sounds like 'commoner' and go nameless for a while. She says in one lifetime, a tribesman could change his name up to ten times. Imagine the chaos this would causes in banking, health care, education and you begin to see the deep difficulty with reconciling the aboriginal people with the "developed" parts of Australia...