How to Witness the World with a Distance Barbican Young Poets 2013–14 Barbican.Org.Uk How to Witness the World with a Distance Barbican Young Poets 2013–14 Contents

How to Witness the World with a Distance Barbican Young Poets 2013–14 barbican.org.uk How to Witness the World with a Distance Barbican Young Poets 2013–14 Contents

Anthony Adler 6–7 Rena Minegishi 30–31 Coconut Crab, Mia Anima Tokyo / Beijing Canute Goes to the Seaside After the Argument Shoshana Anderson 8–9 Luke E.T Newman 32–33 Redwood How to Father the Father Indea Barbe-Willson 10–11 in Three Minutes Where Charred Minds Go Ya Hobb (In the Name of Love) Paint-Stripped Doors Damilola Odelola 34–35 Sunayana Bhargava 12–13 Lego People Toiling And the Stuff that Comes Before a Fall Wallpaper Ghosts Kareem Parkins–Brown 36–37 Cameron Brady–Turner 14–15 It’s Not the Hinges; Change the Door Bend Sinister We Knew Before Living Alone: An Experiment Kieron Rennie 38–39 Katie Byford 16–17 Tottenham Letters Amaal Said 40–41 Night and Day in the Midwest He Loves Me, He’s Just Hurting Omar Bynon 18–19 Vollsmose Are We? Ankita Saxena 42–43 The Blue To Blink (Verb) James Coghill 20 Times Square – Halloween / IP6 9PS The A4 – Karva Chaut To a Station of the Overground Isabel Stoner 44–45 Greer Dewdney 21 Innocence Meant to Be Why Don’t We All Dance this Way? Sibling Rivalry Will Tyas 46–47 Emily Harrison 22–23 Illinois I Can’t Sleep Specular ‘Cause My Bed’s on Fire Harry Wilson 48–49 T-Cut Light/Gold Dillon Leet 24–25 White Cliff Country The Accident Antosh Wojcik 50–51 Thank You Letter Living in the Ozone Layer with Lana Masterson 26–27 Major Tom After He Lost Ground Control Lost Generation The Novelty of Flying has a Strange Odour Kiran Millwood Hargrave 28–29 Dulcet Cover image: Amaal Said Golden Shovel Courtesy of Susana Sanroman, Barbican 2014. All rights reserved 2 3 The Barbican Young Poets featured within this anthology are a central In 2009, I was searching for a new home for the work I was doing part of our now established community of young artists here at the to build a community of young poets, a community that would be Barbican and Guildhall School of Music & Drama; their inspirational focused on an appreciation of both the craft of writing and the work continually feeds into our vision for world class arts and learning. performance of poetry. I approached the Barbican – I’d worked on Barbican projects in the past, and I was inspired by the way We are grateful to the young poets for their sustained commitment the Creative Learning department invested in young people with to the programme, and for the wonderful poetry and spoken word a genuine sense of care and faith in the quality of work that young that they have created over the last six months. They made a fantastic and emerging creatives could produce. impact through their cross arts interaction with UVA’s Momentum, currently in the Curve, responding to the installation and performing Fast forward to present day, and I find myself poring over another inside the gallery during our Barbican Weekender: We Create. The of our annual anthologies, celebrating the continued successes of the poets also continued to inspire others to write and perform, setting programme we started five years ago. As a project, we’ve grown in up a writing studio and audio booth at the Curve exit, where they size, and we’ve diversified. We continue to maintain a balance of fresh encouraged people to write and record their own responses to blood and longer-serving members of the community in our intake, but the exhibition. Their presence was also felt at Dialogue, a major we’re also doing more for the extended family of poets who can no

Introductions annual Creative Learning project, where current and alumni poets longer participate in the core programme. This year, I’m proud to be Introductions worked with participating community-based groups and performed able to welcome Kayo Chingonyi to the teaching team as my assistant as part of the final event in the Guildhall School’s brand new tutor – a celebrated young poet in his own right, he joins a lengthening Milton Court building. line of poets who’ve shared the load of leading the programme with me, a line which includes poets and educators such as Miriam Nash, Coming up we have Snapshot Songs, which will see seven poets Dorothy Fryd and Jasmine Cooray. working in collaboration with composer Stuart Hancock on a new song cycle – generously commissioned by the SHM Foundation – to The stakes are higher. Our poets are studying at Oxford and write and perform poems that will provide a thread linking the various Cambridge, managing and programming their own events in south- songs together. As if that wasn’t enough to be getting on with, the east London venues and beyond, launching their own publishing poets have also been involved with the extraordinary collaboration companies, collaborating with national and international partners, At Sixes and Sevens, creating and performing with musicians and but the centre – the core of our effort – remains: each of the poets you poets from Derry-Londonderry in Northern Ireland. What a year! read in this anthology is invested in being the strongest poet he or she can be, and true to his or her own particular vision. That investment On behalf of all of the participating poets and Creative Learning is one of the many things that makes this programme such a joy to staff involved in delivering the programme, I would like to thank work with. Jacob Sam-La Rose and Kayo Chingonyi for their commitment and dedication to each of the poets, and for continuing to As always, many thanks must be extended to the Barbican for support them with their ongoing development as young artists. their sustained support of the Barbican Young Poets project, and particularly to Lauren Monaghan-Pisano, who doesn’t just serve as a It is ever a delight to work with such a talented group of tireless liaison or administrative staff member, but is truly a part of the young people; we hope you find the same enjoyment in community we’ve created. reading the work collected here in their anthology. Jacob Sam-La Rose Sean Gregory Barbican Young Poets Director of Creative Learning Barbican and Guildhall School of Music & Drama

4 5 6 Anthony Adler I’ll beafossil. Anossified footnote. Aflash-frozen shadow. building acastleorknockingitdown, it doesn’tmatter which. because I’llbeafact; partof therecord, they’ll say indisputably Iwas amanwhogot hisfeet wet One way ortheother, they’ll say Idabbled inthetide; one way ortheother; they’ll say Idabbledinthetide. They’ll say indisputably Iwas amanwhogot hisfeet wet, because I’llbeafact, partof therecord. building acastleorknockingitdown, it doesn’tmatter which I’ll beafossil, anossified footnote, aflash-frozen shadow, Canute Goesto theSeaside probably, miaanima,my life, my soul. to doingwhatever thingIhad beendoing, I take itout&holdinmy hand,goback it’s raining andmy sister’s askingfor alift. because you love meorbecause My soulisinmy pocket, humsagainst my leg A kitten-eating crab? (They’re real; lookitup.) no cluewhatitwould be.Achimpanzee?shrew? an inescapablefamiliar I’ve got & ifImurdered someone&was saddled with moment saidmy daemon mightwell beanowl. which isgratifying. Mysister inakindly you tell meisentirely unsuitable, My patronus? I’dlike agiantsquid,which Coconut Crab, MiaAnima 7 8 the couchtoo fast. when shethrows herselfonto an imperceptibly smallcloudof ash in theairwhenshecoughs, but Icanstillseeflecks of metal she forgot to breathe, She says sheran sohard The skywas falling. The lasttimewas over ten years ago. forty year oldcigarette smoke. I canseeherbreathing in the carheusedto drive and Other timessomeonegoespastin in herdreams. and sheonlycatches flashes of it like ithappenedinanother life Sometimes shetalks aboutit Nothing ever quite realigned. Nineteen seventy something. The first timewas whengrandpa died. like fresh cement. Morning coffee pours there are nostraight lines. the sidewalk ripples, The buildingsbendwiththesky, she spendsweeks trapped incurved glass. She says every timetheworld ends branches curved around thesun. Roots pushinguppavement, but there thenext morning. stripped of leaves a tall tree inalongstorm, My mother hasalways been Redwood now leaves grow. A tall tree inalongstorm, She wants usto learnto letthingsgo. but now shesendsusphotos of thesunsetting. I know sheisalways waiting for theworld to end every timeIforget to quietlyclosethedoor. collapsing oneby one I know shehearsa hundred floors

9 Shoshana Anderson 10 with theplanesof thefloors our bodiesaligned on thesoft bed over usaswe lie spangle andshower the stars onthescreensaver perfectly zenontheirhinges balanced with theplanesof thefloors their bodiesaligned of naked timbers with soft scent like lotus flowers paint-stripped doors blessing, like rain. slow moving structure and The unbeliever’s sacred form, and humthrough bonesandore. the mountain starlight of thenorth of slow, earthlystrength, thatsmith the deeptarns andlochs in thesilver bowls of thenorth, of awet moorland, Between thepurpleheather in silver offering bowls. or bruised,fragrant flowers more thanvermillion Sindoor are seen,sunglike ancientsongs; where ourstanch offerings where tired eyes rest, Where charred mindsgo,

11 Indea Barbe-Willson 12 and never yours. ‘His idlehandswillalways bemy work’ My lipsenrobed by your fingers that bingesonlife’s abundantchores whispered to animaginary devil, from underthecovers and nudgedthebonesinyour wrist in spite of itsmagnitude I realised thatallwork isnoble which beganandendedinseconds. into aballetsuite of Tchaikovsky some midday salvation, combined Sun-scorched headfirst sprintinto each other atthecornerof thewindow I watched dewdrops envelope the naked morningfrost with ahalfopeneye surveying in quiltsandmarshmallow pillows I almostfelt bad for buryingmyself who never requested aday off Time andmoney were workaholics fast paced heart. pollution, infirst class,to thecapital’s while rattling engineschauffeured in theback of balloonlungs, Sticky tarmac heatcollapsed treadmill. on thatunsympathetic dawn of unwitting athletes labouring I woke upto thegroan Toiling and listen for death. I eavesdrop onyour breathing Its shadow issap, fruit fly, burningonthewall. the 40watt demiseof anearby your circuit-board handstrace dangles from theceiling, A dimlimbof alightbulb Wallpaper Ghosts

13 Sunayana Bhargava Bend Sinister

And that’s where I came in: the initial switcharoo, transplanting coal for teddy in the sleeping boy’s arms, then a whole circus of tricks. I had to learn quickly; how to diffuse daddy in the phone with a click, the daily pick-up, edicts to counter intuition like ‘titles aren’t in blood but earned’ and all those doing words like ‘fathering’ that you don’t hear much – a frisbee’s deft trick of itself. We’d got away to Sutton-on-Sea, and here, disc in hand, I transfigured; would whip the air like cream, lay an eclipse across the loungers. The kid would lift the lid on my secrets, but hock it, and it would skid off the axis, capsize and freewheel to the sand. I knew better, caressed it, knew its tilt and loll, its reluctance to rush Living Alone: An Experiment and slid it lush onto a crest of air, traced its lazing zip-line trajectory Lonely the loquacious rain; lonely spring- until I got so good that I could ram it loaded; lonely faking a yawn and curling chin up into the sun and have it

Cameron Brady-Turner Cameron hurtle back to my open palm. its arm around you. Lonely in the morning Once I had learned the reverse fling trying to put socks on toes with loose nails. I could dive, predict its physic, pluck it ripe from its course with a snappy puppet hand The fridge-raider, lonely. Lonely over- and loose it back before I hit the sand. thinks it; lonely the pickpocket in I returned to my brother an Olympian, and taught him fingerless gloves, a lovely hand on your leg. all I knew about the counter-intuition Lonely forgetting to call lonely back. and this art of letting go. Lonely ticking friendship on dating sites and meaning it; lonely assiduously

taking notes. Lonely at the party, mind kept running outside, driver screaming

‘go!’; the front-page splash, mics pistoling you on your doorstep, begging for a quote. Lonely

the cut-out sprung in a house of horrors as a prank. Lonely smashing its head

over and over into a mirror in its last-ditch attempt to vanish.

14 15 16 your company. swim hisdepthswithout abandon me:Icannot Agony, donot in purgatory. asylum, arope instrument? No;Iamyour are you adumb, blunt Dear Agony, petite chérie. brush together? Non, exist where ourclammy hands does auniverse Dear Agony, to breathe andsee. to moldlungsfor me time onme,for hebegins he mustnot waste his Dear Agony, his sweet pity. self-loathing: curdle takes hisnameseach day from my there isaghost;he Dear Agony, O Ecstasy. the napeof your neck, glance alongyour collarbone, I cannot helpbut Dear Agony, my coldbody. drape your hideover must not understand; donot small hummingbird, you Dear Agony, Letters except thepoem’sconclusion. couplet embracing ahaiku, So, ineffect, each stanza isa which changesineach stanza. at thebeginningof thestanza, but rhymes withtherepeating refrain Line 5:a4-syllable linewhich and a‘turn’or‘kireji’). syllables/5 syllables/7 syllables Lines 2-4:ahaiku(7 the poemexcept thelast. of each subsequentstanza in will repeat atthebeginning Line 1:a4-syllable line,which in aswarm of haikuplets: The structure of every stanza Form: Haikuplets Mothers know thesethings anddaughters learnthem. greasy andsweet inthepan’sdarkwell. to my hands,they willpeelandbloom But theirsuburbanskinswillgive themselves up a row of knucklescowering behindthe sidewalk. boiled sweets sucked to bald gleamingeggs, against starlight, houseswiththeir backs against thenight, on children’s heads to protect streetlamps fling wide theirglaringsheen worn red with boredom. Overbearing gnaws atchewy brick-lined teeth | gablecutfrom black butter lean over each other to spy ontheneighboursandevery have carsinthedriveway. Slatsof weatherboarding houses canreek dead from theinsideand still the solesof invisible people.Funny how and theairgetsthin,smooth tarmac slurs on itssuburbanoutskirtswhere thelandgrows flatter Further back inthecity’sbrain, initssubconscious, bronze bones,initsconcrete feet andglasseyes. whatever heaven itheard singinginChicago’s curling itshead uptowards twisted andbasked inthewarmth, Lake Michigan;theboilingsalamander’sback as ifitwere grass. Andwe stood stillontheGreat and liedown stoned onthefreeway to polaroid theirevening insnapsof grainy sunshine flocking together inapurpledaze berries drooping over theireyes; hipsters with vineswrigglingdown theirnecks, as they sprouted allkindsof colours:we watched some blue quick.We wandered through people’sheads with glasswindows scraped rightdown to thesky’s of theboilingcity, sunfocused ontall buildings or fishscales, peelingthemaway inribbons.Shereminds me into theirskinsandsheeases themoff like shells My mother boilstomatoes inasaucepan.Theheatseeps Night andDayintheMidwest *

17 Katie Byford 18 Whilst Ihowl to themoon She tames wolves But for now I sitinagrey classroom in agrey country hopingshereturns soon Meanwhile Have taught thisnutmeggirlhow to smile Children thecolourof cinnamonwhosmelllike poverty anddust So shekeeps blinkingto aminimum But sherefuses to missasecondof this Just from staying openfor solong Her eyes teary Though uncompromised Her smileweary Her face ispinkattheedges She remains subtlymajesticdespite herdoggedtiredness A Bollywood actress beingbrought upby wolves But oneof them She sitsalone Where thechildren laughinalanguage onlymy soulunderstands Where thesalmonellaicecream iscoolbuttheweather hot Where sunlightglintsoff anelephant’sbathingspot Where polyester kites fly above corrugated roofs I dream of beingwhere theblueis This citygreets mewithagrey smile The Blue You were never my everything. But we willcarryon. Exploding through life withnothing buteach other inoureyes. Blind to collateral damage, We were two Western governments smellingoil Two oppressed Arabs tasting heaven, That day we first collidedwe were Willing to give upanything for each other? Now are we Now are we? Willing to give upanything for each other. That day we first collidedwe were Two oppressed Arabs tasting heaven. We were two Western governments smellingoil, Blind to collateral damage. Exploding through life withnothing buteach other inoureyes, But we willcarryon You were never my everything Are We?

19 Omar Bynon 20 James Coghill the OrioleI’dalways dreamt of. itwas noBlackbird, but Iswear themorning: 4in birdsong at Blue murmur, IP6 9PS plugs my ears,train-sound dyingto atrickle. in farflung sensationsto thepointnostalgia soft scarp,drenching thisstation spilling onwards, outfrom thepast, over time’s a vertebral granite blanketed inalgalshades, where therock brimswitheyes: blinded, urbanshapeto Cornishgrottos from place to place from thescore of this Distracted, Istrolled thetunnelof my senses buzzing theworld into onevast, grey drawl. of roads orbitingjustabove here, off theruddybrows of bricks, off thethunder-strip of Hart’sTongue Ferns lappingtherain spilt of Buddlejaandmossesplump,wet jewels botched concrete sidesthetumblinggreens but thewholebroken glossrat-run of its running through thescenebodilessasthoughts, It was not thefaces Inoticed atfirst, To aStation of theOverground because by then, He blameditonme, butIcouldn’tbeangry the television set withoilpaintsandpushedwax crayons into thegasfire. Later, hedecorated As my father carriedhimconcussedthrough ourgrey front door, and didn’tmake aconcernedface quite quicklyenough. let himsmashhishead inarevolving door Having failed withcunning,Ireturned to brute force, spelling outtheunnecessarypresence. Yellow calligraphy ashighmy head across the upstairs hallway. My secondattempt involved scrawling hisnameinchalk Three weeks later, Ithrew atwo litre bottle of popacross thesamelivingroom. and inthemorningheseemedswaddled intheblack andred curtains. I lay obliviousinmy parents’ bed My brother was bornonablue beanbag onthelivingroom floor. Sibling Rivalry You thoughtitwas meantto be. I thoughtitwas fun. They didn’tseeareason to stay pastthelastsong. You’d allarrived together, buttheothers leftlongbefore you. We didn’thave muchto say. It was meantto be. You saiditwas impressive. I was makingtequila slammers. they didn’tseemworth bothering with. You’d allarrived far too drunk for proper introductions, andpretty soon We didn’thave muchincommon. It was meantto be. You saiditwas intimidating. I was makingconversation. Meant to Be I was ready to killanybody whotriedto hurthim. I realised perhaps hewas apermanentfixture. I was foiled by hisnot yet beingableto holdapencil. That was my first attempt to getridof him.

21 Greer Dewdney 22 Emily Harrison could turnwater into wine. as ifwishinghard enough his pupilssinkto plastic, I watch from thefence, it looks like thefirst timehehasever danced. and to me Danny, arminsling,doeshisbestto show off telling themthey were allowed to. as ifsomeoneheldupahugecardboard sign but slowly others joinus without physical contact It’s muchharder to drag someoneupto thedancefloor Tonight -Friday night-isagameof musicalpaperplates. thumbing theridgesof thevending machine cup. We find courage ‘Double vodka coke.’ ‘What you get?’ I had joked earlier, satdown plasticnext to Danny. it’s inapsych ward.’ ‘If there’s oneplace you can’tbeembarrassed aboutyour dancemoves, I turnto anurseandsay I Can’tSleep‘CauseMyBed’sonFire

I’m waiting for thecolourto ruboff. He’s cleanedthesamespot onthecar15 timesalready. without himnoticing. his stare setslike when credits roll but whenImentionthosebastard headaches We say thingsthatsoundlike they couldbesaidto anybody We have abondingsession. An accident atthefactory leaves himscarred. Three years later Iamhomefor thesummer. He danceslike hisshinsare beingbitten. and ifhestarts Biblequotes we know thenumberto ring. a crimsonringaround thebathtub We are told to watch outfor cling-film eyes, won’t cometo thefront door. about thewet dogsmellandthepostman One day hegetsoutof theshower andcomplains That summerinsomniacutoff hismiddlefinger withthelawn mower. the headaches are sopainfulit’slike afrontal lobechainsaw. his white MondeoRreg., hesaidthatsometimes We were satinthecarfirst time, leak into empathy. inherit hisrod-straight spineandanabilityto never let sympathy I spendmy childhoodtalking for him, He smileslike heneedstwo front teeth; barely speaks. T-Cut

24 Dillon Leet and holdmy hand. Tell meyou’re sorry, come off, I’llhave wings. When thebandages Tell meI’macaterpillar. andthelastafternoon light. in thestreet, catching grit that runsalongseams Tell meI’mrain until Iswell like asecret. with old-fashioned straws in white blow bubblesinto me that didn’trise.Fat chefs Tell meI’mbread People bounceby like discoballs. of detergent androses. in anightclub thatstinks pulsing outheartbeats or aspeaker like dirtonawindow, which smearacross my vision above messy houses flying figures of eight and lack of oxygen, half-drunk off planefumes Tell meI’mabird, stanza lengthdecreases by onelineeach time. A new form –every sentence starts with‘tell me;’ The Accident and stopped pretending itwas aghost. as ifsomeoneturnedoff anoldprojection out anopenwindow, sotheroom isempty into my front pocket andblow my smell but I’ve learntto slipmy phone Sometimes you’ll checkifI’ve leftanything, like pictures from anegative. Later bruiseswilldevelop, I’ll triponaknot of tulips. your grandmother getsyou every Christmas. as Ipickmy way through thepotted plants Behind methehousewillshrinklike alung You’ll turnaway before thedoorcloses. and I’lltell you Idon’tmind. and handswhichwillstain my shirt or stillcrying.There willbemakeup onyour hair four for theFrench, noneifyou are Japanese and kissesgoodbye; two for theSpanish, There are always coldbagels with asmileorunscripted joke. careful not to upstage themoment We’ll huglike strangers atafuneral, and you’ll wake upanyway. will smack alightorhollow vase, portraits stay silent,butmy child’sbackpack like amber. Your floorboards andfamily and theday driesandsolidifies, I’ll leave before thegarbage mancomes Thank You Letter 25 26 so I’lljustsingalongto LostGeneration and allmy feelings mightbeexcused. I shutmy eyes, dream upanything elsethanthis loudsilenceandthisrap dream overused Now you’re thetalk of thetown, andthesilenceof yourself, theviolenceof your wealth Memories crammed into Instagram, thisgeneration isthewrecking ball. To alife styleglittered withallthingsunloved, desperate andfamous. pop iconslosttheiryoung rebellion Writing ontheflood lines,Ididn’tcomedressed upto resist And we can’tbreathe italloutinacityof lostlighters, Imeanacityof losthope. Poverty deeperinto tired struggles,we inhalethefail of sales,andletourheartsendupinjail And it’sallrecent, whocansleepinthisbedroom tax thesedays that’sgrabbing Lambethand But Ican’tfind theactions? Who’susingmegaphonesonstreet endsmakingchangehappen? Russell Brand’s callfor revolution got usallsharingthatvideoquick, Mars, it’s-ifhomeiswhere theheartis,thenwe’re allhomesickwanting XFactor stardom. We’ve stopped beingguerrillaartistsandtunedinto guerrillaby Bruno that we’re allsaying YOLO thengoingSOLO... but expression getsreflected, connected andmisread itis, Hearts aren’t born subjective, A generation tweeting inletter limits,capitals andmelancholy. Lost Generation

27 Lana Masterson 28 in theheatof your wrist,itssoft fire. small words, live seedsrooting of your neck.They nestthere, breathe kingletalongtheechochamber the heatherof your arm-pit, let bluecatch andtangle through of your stomach, haruspice inthecentre-dark of your ribs, river against theweblines of your body– Now, Ilay oneto each shadow kinglet, haruspice,river, blue. between my molars: Later, Ihatch alistof words to clasp from your house,already dissolving. I make acave of my mouthto carryit as aChristmasalmond. a coin-smallegg,sugarshelled my tongue. Onitsits I leave you amazed,relearning Dulcet lids, sewing tears inyour needledeye. imal light,scissoringshutouropen er! Thesunpaces thesky, anan- wife. Slut!Bitch! Hook- distance, sheswears like afish- let curtains drop. Even ata d Ialways knew abouther!We leave. Theeye- angled shadows. Shescentsconspiracy. An- left to cast.Shehasstopped eating,isturninginto thrown scarfragged atherthroat, nohook ness. Noedgeleft,hervoice a atless to herbones,you two are withoutlike- nes every wrong you ever didher. Me- ted rubbersheetssqueakingassheinto- r mother inherhospital bed,fit- Heat shimmying thoughAugust doors,you- ii. 2013 door already latching behindeach eye. already closingbody, themomentarily open called you home.You’d gobefore yourself, an for themoonuntilshethrew herhook, pocket-child. Nights,we’d fish She had you leashedto her, a easing of heraching core; theappleof hereye. nothing else.To her, you were an line andsinker. Shewas into kind of therapy, sheloved you hook a best-loved song,you were a To her, you were golden–like You always saidshewould blameme. if sheknew theshade of trouble we were into. always saidyour Mawould have afit We were drawn by thedark.You i. 1995 In theform of Terrance Hayes’ eponymous poem After Margaret Atwood Golden Shovel

29 Kiran Millwood Hargrave 30 Rena Minegishi You had itfor breakfast every morning. of dishwashing liquid.You loved power. and proposed to mewithabottle to worry aboutin-law politics,’you said imprint intheconcrete. ‘Now we don’thave minutes. Your grandmother leftaclean the housewas demolishedinseventy-three breathe in,you rang thecontractor and about your family andtheancienthousethey And painfullynew. WhenIasked and from 2047. You were fucked up. about beingdisinfected, architectural the geography of ourbrains, you were fantasising as theYamanote Lineduganoval through normal) butIcouldtell thatonSaturdays too –you’d act normal(you loved being Sounds like thekindof thingyou’d beinto, with aglistening chassisandnoolfaction. who’d wake upinthemorning pretending Iwas aprodigy of the digital age of scented bleach, Icouldn’tsleepwithout ask. Ihave ananswer prepared: you reeked Everyone wonders why Ileftyou. Someeven Tokyo with faces swept blank. All my words sank like bodies Somewhere, alament. we sat, still-tideevening between us. No fish, nostars, butmossinour mouths where thefloor had splitandbirthedalake. went upto thebedroom After theargument we After theArgument

You there, withyour dustyhairandbrowned broken up.SometimesIsay I’mrelieved and tissue Icarry, whatare you doingto yourself obsessed andblinkingcursor. Pixels frosting on theangularlinesof your body, Isendmy hot breaths towards thelittlewhite lights:my Everyone says you’re dirtiernow thatwe’ve other timesIfind myself searching for your laughter resounding inevery inchof biotic face glowing, my lungscharringandyour when Ipooledcoolbeerinmy throat and revelation of finding SomethingNew. You laughing withyour tongue onmy bruises. chimney andcarpipe,ridingaround on you paidfor themwithcounterfeit notes. The bartender beatmeandyou cried, fingers, rolling meonto thepavement, counted inmillions.We were happiest photos, my fingers condensedinto an this year? Probably smokingupevery our dead-end oathsandbloodlines. electric drillsandtheearth-shaking disrobing both of usto renew Beijing 31 32 Luke E T Newman Mystery takes leave, around ten twenty five, Dad, dead: though whowould ask themnow isaworthwhile mention. No answers now to ason’squestions, So. and thesamelong‘oh’. slurped, outof hismouth,across thedinnertable andupinto my mine,through alongnoodle; and theshallow drop of maninhim,isexposed and The final limplaborsof aboy un-sonme, I seehiseyes firm upandhisbodyfreeze infront of me. flicking soupfrom sideto side, In thedeepwater of hisrocking spoon, by itsonlyandlast‘oh?’ A tight-lippedmouthdeepwithwarm noodlesandboldexpectations isletgo, and thebowl below himoverflows. Then thesilenceexplains itself My mouthholdsone‘oh’for thelostsoul; Dad. it seems,thedownpour doespouronepatheticfallacy away withit. through thewindow, though, never endingwinter breaks itspromise to mirror my losses, The room grows andshrinks, dies. Around twenty two minutes pastten, over asmallandthinbeechdinertable,Dad A visitfrom mystery takes place. Lines initalics represent linesadapted from SamWillets’Poem How to FathertheinThree Minutes ken… ken… at amy bro teasing the folds of glass, tongue between, forever last, no betweens, Go-betweens, Broken glass, 115 lines canexpect me. Because thetwinkleinmy father’s eye didnot sparkleto fetch me, Tonight! breasts don’tneedme,mary, don’t,feed, me. Check themeans: for I’mfor ever last, nobetweens, go-betweens, Broken glass, There willbe Receipts allemblazonedon… will i,reap sensationsfrom. will i,teef somepatiencefrom, will i,gainanimmunisationfrom ? 115 lineswillibedrip-dryingthrough IV, Because thenursenever, anddonot wet me, Tonight. life, won’t, clean,me. Death won’t reap me, Check themean. for i’mforever last,yeah and nobetweens, go-betweens, broken glass There willbe, i willfind 115 linesto cleanlylife me. Because thedeathwon’t reap me. Tonight. Rest, won’t, sleepme. Bed won’t keep me, check themean. for I’m,forever last. betweens, no go-betweens, broken glass, There willbe, i willfind 115 lines,to fold andgreet me. Because thebeddon’tkeep me, Tonight. Inspired by aDhafer Youssef songby thesamename (In theNameof Love) Ya Hobb mourning. mourning. for 1 231 lines, Tonight. then itake it, because ifsomebodyelsehasmy now, Tonight then ifake it, Because ifthere’s nonow, Tonight Then, itend to naked my white torso, entirely. wears, except, well, hisoneisblack. beaten off-grey bucket hat,like theoneU-God inthisinstance, theonethatArchie gave me,that, a hatperhaps? whatitend to do,isshade my eyes withsomething, then, you have got to believe inarose tint First, between. so with me, 230 lineswillinflect me,oninfor meand Because themirror won’t reflect me, Tonight. 33 34 can stitch someone’sday together. knowing thatsympathy carves asmilethat stained andsoiledwithstuffthatbleach can’tremove, I buildtheselives thatare more often thannot but usuallyfinding thelostones. or needto be, not always taking them where they want to be, It willpick,anddrop allthelegopeople, The train willalways dowhatitwas made to. this journey ishertimefor solace. stomping into herbones, too many thingsdancingthrough her, The schoolgirlby thewindow has - years ago. and smart,tailored suit,was homelessthree The manwiththethickgreying beard - because it’snot home. with where they’re going Someone isgoingto fall inlove - because humpday needssomesortof celebration. only doesAsdashoppingonWednesday nights Single father to theleft - and they have to getoff? the train stops, What willhappenwhen - sure how to tell herhusband. She’s newly engaged butshe’snot - about reaching thedestinationinonepiece There issomeone,onthistrain, whoisworried stained andsoiledwithstuff thatbleach can’tremove. I buildtheselives thatare more often thannot Lego People

you. just asmuchthey love who love themselves, but beingafraid of women Loving your mother, It never quite works. to catch allthedyinginsideyou, a new oneatregular intervals, And usingwomen like sanitary towels; and bell-bars. under themirror-shined, patent lace-ups behind thecrisp,stiffened shirts, of closets,besidethestraight porn, Or hidingyour menintheback in your best-friend’scheeks. But thewell of salt-water, ‘Be aman.’ has wanted to painthisnails. and afew timesinhisshorthistory doesn’t like to fight, is too soft becauseheisfather-less, And worrying thatyour littlebrother ‘Your mum’. almost life-ending words, of your existence, whenheuttered those because heinsulted thevery cause Punching thatother guyintheface After Masculineby Terrance Hayes And theStuff thatComesBefore aFall

35 Damilola Odelola 36 We never goonholiday Silence issoaccurate. It’s Not theHinges;ChangeDoor I want to chatman-to-man. Sit meononeof them Mum singshighnotes to God. we callthelightpouringoutpeephole‘thesun’. in Heaven allthelightsstay on I know theskyisHeaven’s door I break thethingsthatcan’tfight back. Lonely onlychild:Iplay inthatLcorner. hoping Hisanswer to beawrecking ballto the face. Mum hymns God Our flat had alife before us. you’re given oarsto stay afloat. supposed to have wingsonboth sides, A singlemother salaryisnot it’s asifourholidays are onholiday.

– –

The girlscanonly break usupfor ashorttime. Earl wants usto stop beingsofriendlywith hisgirl. to begiantswe needto know thefeel of biggerfeet. buy shoeswe’ll grow into. Ifwe’re destined The four of usthough,never —ourmothers either choseto beghostsorwere made into them. The four of usthough,never as ifthey learnedlife from rooftops. The boys from rival schoolsare into jumping churning thebutterflies to butter. and my stomach does the same, [probably thinkinghow hasabeach becomemy prison?] it flails like asupermarket tantrum The first spinof thebottle: there’s ashot leftinside, I knew my voice had teeth. STOP whenhewas alone When Rickysaidheheard meshout Amber was thegirlIfancied andmy favourite timeof sky. After Roger Robinson We Knew Before

— ourfathers

37 Kareem Parkins-Brown 38 on hard ground. silently fell while your tears, The world watched you choked onsmoke. and You inhaledtheiranger grey. grew eyes while your skininflames, Your skininflamed you shivered. garments scattered, Your tears fell onhard ground Tottenham

39 Kieron Rennie 40 Amaal Said Flowers hidein dirt. He openshismouth andthe Our curtains stay closed. After hehaspassedout,blamingmy own body. I burythedogwhenhekicks itto death.Icleanthesick I tell people,‘Ifyou saw hismouth, you’d know’. Because hekissesthewounds hehasdug. I stay like thisundertheweight of araging man.Istay put He Loves Me,He’sJustHurting Vollsmose Who have made aritualoutof mourning At each other like slingshots. You ignore themothers You hurlboys whowear thesameskin Into neatpieces. Missing theknife thatwould slicethemeat She stayed rotting inthekitchen Before they couldrun. Waiting to catch theboys All thepolicedidwas stand by herdoor It anymore. Until shecouldnot stomach Leaving markingsonflesh They picked upherfavorite kitchen knife She didn’trecognize herchildren anymore. The way you do? Who elseteaches survival We thanked you. To wash away whatwas left. The neighbourhoodwomen gathered When thementook herbodyaway In your name,runningfrom bloodshed. Habiba jumpedfrom the13th floor, That cameyour way. Your hard mouthcrushingallthebrown My bonescriedoutagainst your cold, I calledyou ‘home,’ignoringtheway You were everything my mother despised. That you’d callmeyours. If Istayed quietlongenough, That you would finally love me Choking onitsown smoke. Ithought You found mecharming,agirlfrom acountry Beneath your bed. Uninvited andslidmy luggage I wanted you to admire theway Icamein I watched my tongue around you. My face again. When Ipromised I’dnever show you I canlive in’,each timecomingback ‘Let memake you soft, make you something You were somuchrage andIbegged, In your jaw. As your crushedme My mother watched on Begging for love. I camecloser My bodycomingback to you. Night after night,thatIdidn’tmind Then you spatoutaskywithsomany stars, And awall bleeding. A cupboard missingitscupsandsaucers Elbows inevery gentlespace, The housecouldn’tcontain, You gifted mewithanger His absencedug. My father boughtto cover thehole I threw away thedress When you stopped looking We allforgot how to dance. When you becamenomelody And theway theirfaces stay wet. 41 42 One blow andit’sgone. to waver and back down from you. this iswhatIwant lash of ablink,to say: palm to holdthestray away, oneback-hand Just onewish to twinkle,to glance in themiddleof it it’s thenInotice, we’re right and tuneout voices un-amplify tube lightssquirtout scoreboard when thecricket nullsto awishful every power cut they tell meDelhiblinks to lookthrough half-closedeyes so you blink,Ihorn. have In my country, thelorries you blinkto show meout. And whentheskyturnsdarkaslungs, to say slow down, blinkto say lookout. thanks for lettingmego,blink You blinkto say cheers, ignorance, to face withfeigned To Blink(Verb) Please honkstuckon, to spread tears across as inabrightglare to refuse to recognise to flash onandoff It’s not really dawning, louder thanvacuum cleaners. So we spillinto backwaters, hiding skeletons andghosts collapse. Thecity’s his handsfunny to thefirst carriage An autisticboy’s missing like deadbeats Times Square –Halloween but outsidewe seethe dawn. Behind usisafalse daze. where motels blastTVs under coats. on thestretchers, and histeeth threaten because amantwists and everyone’s relocated on thered line,uptown. Daydreams littered for fading sunlight. but darknessshrouds the day. Behind us,thestorm breaks. leaving chinesewhispersirens loses itsstanding; and everyone’s tryingto locate We have to gethome. A cloudbarsthetraffic The A4–Karva Chaut It’s not yet nighttime, So we turninto aBroad beneath smeared window glass. my mother slips headlights. Atree and theA4’sspewing with at my button holes because she’sclawing the next servicestation My mother’s fasting like afalse moon.

43 Ankita Saxena 44 And itsparting was allthemore painful. But stillthrough herfingers itslipped inribbonsof sinlessness A dimplethatlingered long into adulthood. I know agirlwhosepuritywas amayday parade Turning him sourandpurplewhere cheekand knuckleskissed. I know aboy whoseinnocencewas like asmilepunchedoutby afist. Until oneday Iwoke upandthere wasn’t. I stillthoughtitwas halffull,andthere was enoughfor one more bowl My innocencewas like acereal box. Until we allbecamenervous to venture outside. Locked itaway behindbi-fold doors andVenetian blinds They say theindoorsstole ourinnocence And marvelled atthewarmth thatitgave him? And thenuseditto lighthisbrother ablaze The first timethatmansparked afire Or diditstart before that,was innocencecrushed We asaspeciesloseourfreedom? Writhing like snakes inthegarden of Eden Did somewhere amongst thosemagnificent cables And itwas necessaryfor usto create theterm ‘cyberbully’. When Maybe we were unripefor blackberries Or maybe texting killedinnocence, But theonlyoneIever played was Tetris. I hearvideogameshad ahandinhermurder And thatDevil Have Mercy was herfuneral song. And theroom implodedwiththeforce of anatom bomb. I hearwhenshefell shesoundedlike atower collapsing,maybe even two. By two andahalfworld wars, whileminorconflicts dancedaround her. I hearshewas laidoutonthefloor inaflimsy white dress From amedley of underground rap songs. She diedbecauseshetook too muchadvice Or oneortheother hasparked wrong, And onlytalk whenthere’s gossip I heard from theneighboursthatdon’tgetalong An Rrated highdefinition DVD. A violentkids’game, told meshesoldhersoulfor theminimumwage The kidsidlingonbikes behindtheplace where thefunfair usedto be And thenewspapers have got itallwrong. I heartheword onthestreet isthatshespenttoo muchtimeonline, Emblazoned inbrightcoloursthatcovered hispackaging. Of blackened lungs And ignored allthewarnings I hearthatshewas dragged into love withacigarette, Sharing thejoke of thetwenty first century. I hearshewas mowed down by back alley clowns Innocence LOL becameNever Fucking CallMe ‘Happier’. In my own efforts to make myself Of whatIhave built Constrained by thebranches Unable to step over thethreshold, Through adoorway of sadness And Ilooked back, Yet to discover freedom’s tune. Still walking inalollopingfashion. Mere mortals. He stared through awindow of pityatus Why don’twe feel happy to seethem? As thelimbsof life gatherusin Why don’twe alldancethisway? And helooked atmeasifto say Or balletIhave ever seen. It was more graceful than any waltz, As thoughcommencinghismatinee. Slipping into each step, Of thecracks intheconcrete. Heel andtoe eitherside On atightrope of serenity, His footsteps were balanced But itsangaspassed. His dancewas awalk, I saw amandancingtheother day Why Don’tWe AllDancethisWay?

45 Isabel Stoner Illinois

After Sufjan Stevens

Your name follows you around like my home town or the cack-handed love of a bipolar mother. Illinois, you owe me a dream. Will Tyas Legs broken, spitting from my bedroom window. You spun when Jade visited after the suicide locks had been retrofitted (and I pretended to be asleep because that’s what lovers do). You belong to her now. In a clown costume. In a business suit. Clunking along in headphones at eight fifteen in the morning on the northern line. I vomited into my hands when she had gone. I breathed greedily at the gap allowed at my window. My hands were burning & you felt like a feather pillow pressed against my face.

Specular

When you say ‘you’ you mean me, I said quietly to a mirror. You replied ‘I can count myself on one hand’ if I can just let go of you If I can just let go of you

I can count myself. ‘On one hand’ you replied ‘I said quietly to a mirror when you say you you mean me.’

46 47 48 ‘I can’twait to getback to Dover.’ ‘Are you onallday? Yeah metoo.’ At sea At leastwhilewe’re onthechannel. your handatourist inhers. and castlelightsnolongerof attraction, watch hersmoke wash away thecliffs twos afag withthatonestewardess, check theload, themorningweather. You swipe onandsecure your float, At theport slurring your philosophy into ignorance. of thePrinceAlbert,Crown andSceptre, the real threat to community, infront Before you vow to vote blueto keep out more broken bottles onkebab shopsteps. It becomesmore kids,more coke, childcare andintoxication. Your timeistiedbetween In town White CliffCountry Dad’s spittingimage. A cigarette to calmdown, Unprovoked, jealous. Or somy mother tells me. and are quite harmlessafter thefirst few shots. You live indomesticblisswithwives’ ruin Yellow teeth, sunken cheek,wrinklesbefore theirtime. You’re kerosene, phosphorous, friction. Light/Gold

49 Harry Wilson 50 He knows metoo well. the day theastronaut crashed through my roof. breach the ozone.Ilearnedhow they faked themoonlanding My sister knows thesamesecret, butnever letshervoice I needto practise waking upontheearth. with awoman whodesignshumanbeings. my descentwillbeweekly ground control lessons in signlanguage onaZeppelinwithfunny accent, embedded inasphaltandasmy faults float, tattooed the kites Ihave anchored to my attic,my smileIhave an atmosphere thatIcancompress withshrinktalk, pills, can’t sweep violent dustupinthisplace, my moon, the airissohighlystrung,my feet of horsehair of others asapalmpush.Itriponviolinseverywhere because slitting walls withthedays Ihave missed,wearing thecompany killing graphic soldiershopingto learnwhatitisto live, peel back therivers, soIcandrinkintheview. Ispend day hours I wake onthemoonto watch thecloudsstriptease theEarth, fruit becauseitistheonlyway Icaneatsun. Every night, of themirror Iate to gainreflections butnow, Itryto hairdress He haseaten toothpaste allhislife andhissmilereminds me and scratch into meallthestars hehasleftto save. after sunsetsto turnthelightpollutionout,sohecancount so there isnolongertoo muchto copewith.Hebegsme each light-bulletholeapower outage to fix, His reach-hands pylon thesky. It’sanemergency , hesays, inside himselfcominginto orbitandforgot to wash. the shampoocornflakes inhishair, like hedropped breakfast and polisheshisglassface inamirror, never noticing Every morning,heasks permissionto breathe ourair numb to cracks inherceilingwhere theastronaut fell through. on acurlof ozone,witnesstheworld withadistance, new experiences of nothing. She’llknow how to sky-haunt and cigarette tinsthatare onlyopenedwhenshedrags on and stashes underherbed,withrebel thongs those take-her-life anthemsshe writes inherdiary about resin beds,umbrellas andpipe-bombsing-alongs, so many funerals butthere isonlysomuchyou canlearn She wears black every day andI’mglad sheattends temps asanastronaut. Heknows my sister too well. of five, onlymeandmy sister live withamanwho who usesthesamehallway mirror asyou. Inahouse It ispossibleto beanatmosphere away from someone After HeLostGround Control Living intheOzoneLayer with MajorTom

of Transformers crashing into her lap. people whowatch aeroplane wings,hisfists wine gums.Hersontold hernot to trust a nervous flyer andhandedmeapalmof she whosmellssounds.Sheasked ifI’m as Iclimbthelightstaircase with her, who mightplay swift elevator swing say, ‘Allof thiswas doneto impress my Father,’ an averted disaster. Iwould laughfor television, tumble into theoceanthey’d callamattress, when theejector seatsandlooseshoes my watch would shoutasplanned would announcewe made goodtimeand bracing for plummet.ARyanair stewardess cram theirchildren into airbags, so allthebeltsignsflick onandmothers so itcoughedlightningandturbulence, a trombone humstinkingtheatmosphere I told heritwas musicfor landingplanes, ‘What aboutthatsmell?’sheasked. The Novelty of FlyinghasaStrange Odour

heat you hearlike orchestra pitsare abedof roses. to arunway, hummingwiththatrubberlaced the smell,whenyou crash-land back plane-watching Dad thatIjustwant to cover I ignored canceronthebox, told my Duty free soldmesticks for calm. their lastrelatives intheworld. explaining deathto thedogs, the policemanentering theirlives, those whocouldhave lostsomething, holding my nameonacard. Isaw I calledeveryone Dad, apartfrom theone When Iwas picked upattheairport

51 Antosh Wojcik

How to Witness the World with a Distance Barbican Young Poets 2013–14 With thanks to Barbican Guildhall Creative Learning The Barbican is very grateful to the J Paul Getty Jr Charitable Trust for making this project possible. Barbican Guildhall Creative Learning provides opportunities for people Natasha Anderson of all ages to engage with the performing and Malika Booker visual arts. Last year our programme involved Lillie Bradfield 40,000 people of all ages, backgrounds and Sean Gregory abilities. Our activities are designed to have a Thomas Hardy positive, lasting impact on everyone – a world Sarah Jones class arts and learning experience. These range Emma Ridgway from the inspirational, such as the Big Barbican Gini Simpson Adventure and the Big Barbican Workshop, Toni Stuart to more sustained projects such as Barbican Gemma Troughton Box and DrumWorks, which enable young people to develop their potential as human Official copyright © 2014 Barbican Centre, City of London. beings, as well as creators and performers. The Artists and Authors. We work with schools and communities across Barbican Centre East London to inspire, influence and create Silk Street opportunity in some of the UK’s most deprived London EC2Y 8DS boroughs. In partnership with the Guildhall School of Music & Drama we are developing dynamic Barbican.org.uk approaches to research and evaluation in order to establish new learning theories and practice. Editors Kayo Chingonyi Creative Learning also offers professional Lauren Monaghan-Pisano development opportunities for artists and Jacob Sam-La Rose teachers that enable them to acquire new skills as leaders and collaborators across Book designed by William Allen a range of socially engaged settings. Photographs by Susanna Sanroman, Barbican 2014

Produced by Barbican Guildhall Creative Learning

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing from the publishers.

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Barbican Young Poets offers freeB Interested you and other emerging young writers the chance to Aged 16-25? create, craft and perform Love Film, Music, Art, in becoming poetry and spoken word. Dance and Theatre? Led by internationally renowned poet and a Barbican performer Jacob Sam-La Rose, this is more than Join freeB, our free membership scheme for 16-25 just another poetry workshop - it’s a community of year olds that gives Members access to exclusive emerging poets, designed to push your creative discounts and free tickets for theatre, dance, art, abilities to new heights, build up confidence and music and film, at ‘the coolest arts place in London’ Young encourage you to give and receive real feedback. (Viktor & Rolf). Exploring diverse aspects of writing and Members get monthly email updates about what Poet? performance, you will draw on your passions, is happening around the centre and details of the personal experience and the sights and offers available coming up in the next month. We sounds of the venue’s rich artistic programme also announce adhoc tickets and offers through our to develop and showcase your work in the Facebook and Twitter pages. Centre, and at venues across London.

Sign up today and enjoy more at the Barbican. The Barbican Young Poets’ programme is for young people aged between 15 and 24. barbican.org.uk/freeb It runs every fortnight between October and March each year, and is free to take part in.

Applications for the 2014-15 programme open in July.

Email [email protected] to find out more.

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