For those who love words

I have always loved radio and over the past year I have been lucky enough to be invited to appear on quite a few different stations. In a moment of crazed enthusiasm I put a Facebook status up that I would really like my own radio show. Jude Cowan replied and now we are both co-hosts of a new radio program 'The Conversational' and friends too. I could not have wished for more.

Reel Rebels Radio is a popular and really special community radio station based just down the road from me in Stoke Newington. Jude and I decided that we wanted to present a radio show that celebrated words, written, performed and sung and were really excited when Reel Rebels Radio said yes to our idea.

You can listen to our first show, presented on National Poetry Day here. The show has a great line-up and features: Raymond Antrobus, Dzifa Benson, Matthew Caley, Zena Edwards, Nathan Penlington,and the Desperado Housewives.

[soundcloud width="100%" height="81" params="secret_url=false" url="http://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/6363862"] The Conversational on Reel Rebels Radio

Pregnant Again

My sleeping has been pretty erratic recently. I have a sense of urgency, something that almost feels like panic but isn't. One of the wonderful things about writing poetry is the clues it can give us about all the feelings and responses we have inside us that we do not have names for yet. Most of my work begins as a freewrite. This is this morning's poem written before the traffic began and when the house was still asleep. It has a deliberately attention seeking title and one, I hope, that makes the connection between procreativity and creativity. Pregnant Again

Perhaps you get to be awake at this hour because the one who's always looking for the moon is up, tugging at your sleeve, telling you to open the shutters and face the milk-black sky and just wish on the cloud thick neon hum, the blue choked with the night time orange. Just wish on anything. Even if it's invisible or, worse, not even there at all. Do it anyway and feel the sensation of hope, that slow crawl inside you. The thing that tells you hard as you are, you are not a lizard. You are a creature so big, one of such impossible substance and size that desire will always be thorny. An appetite like this can not be fed with just one gulp. Get over yourself. Love the insomnia and the moon-cry girl. Wear what you must to face the weather, breeches if you must - anything you can ride a horse in. The mythical won't wait and, like your wide-awake heart needs the sort of song you only sing when facing the sea, with a belly full of whiskey and too many stories to tell in one night. So give in to it. Let it spill. You may feel like a rock, but the shell is there for the cracking. Tell it like it is. Howl at anything that will listen. Live a little. Break open. Yolk or blood it will run and run. Let it. Breathe and pray. And let the wishes run your hours, pregnant again with the possibility of being more than you are.

Less than Perfect

I am lying in bed at 430 am and cannot sleep. My leg is still hurting after the bike accident and whatever way I turn my knee lets me know that, for now, it's running the show. My thoughts are a shuffled deck of cards - there is no order here. It's been a few weeks since I have done any proper writing. Although I realise the term 'proper' may not help me get out my pen and address my journal. I am pretty suspicious when it comes to tending to my muse. I see it as a 'she' - one who ignored will go off and find her fun elsewhere. Elizabeth Gilbert's ideas on the subject of responding to the call of creativity are interesting.

I know that if I ignore this call then it may be weeks before it comes again. I also know that if I get up before dawn, enjoy the delicious silence that my sleeping house offers, I will experience a freedom and flight hard to find elsewhere. When I was lying in bed thinking about what I was going to write it wasn't this. I was ready to talk about the freedom of dressing badly and a day spent in the park with friends. Denrele and Gemma know how much I love them and how the day unravelled in to something quite special without really trying to be anything but itself.

This is not as easy as I thought. The birds are stirring outside and my fantasies of writing an awe-inspiring blog are slipping away. Perhaps what I should do is tell the truth. It is always better that way. Just over a week ago I was lying in Accident and Emergency in a neck brace. I was alive. It's still pretty much a miracle that I got away with a few surface scars and a limp. I was not unhappy or angry and was, unsurprisingly, greatly relieved to be still here. That is a somewhat new feeling for me.

Being thrown off two wheels and ending up under four has knocked the gratitude in to me that was missing. For a long time I was very ill with depression. I could not feel love in any form, for others or from others. It was like the mute button was permanently switched on. I felt hollow all the time and saturated with such loneliness that I could not distinguish between my personality and my pain. It felt like the same thing. Nothing seemed to make it leave. Not the pills, not the therapy, not the love from people who cared, not facing it head on, not ignoring it and struggling through it. Nothing. I wanted to die. And even today I cannot say that my extended depressive episode was a chapter in my life which I will not live again. But something has shifted and the accident was an expression of that.

There are many reasons why I was so unhappy. I can now say with some confidence that one of them was because I did not have children. I think my breakdown was a crisis of mourning. I had always pictured myself having one child, perhaps even outside of a relationship, but one quiet and solid little soul who would make their own mark on the world. Like all the griefs I can almost live with this fact although it is still hard to talk about without feeling raw and frayed.

This week I met an old friend who is in a long and enduring relationship. His partner never wanted children but at some point my friend did. As we drank coffee and looked back over the 30 years we have known each other he said "In a perfect world I would have had children. But I do not have children so I live a less than perfect life." It struck me as profound and simple and what I have grappled with for so long. Some of my depression was a craving for perfection that is, of necessity, illusive. To mention a well worn cliche, it's the itch and grit in the oyster that births the pearl.

On our way back from the park, and just outside my house, the setting sun shone gold. I took some photos of Denrele in these fleeting moments. I know, like the sunlight at day's end, this uncharacteristic calm will leave me. But I hope to live a life less than perfect, but no less full for it, and never want to end it by own hand again.

A Pint of Milk

It's my friend Salena who pointed out the irony that on Margaret Thatcher's 85th birthday the Chilean miner's are finally being rescued after their underground ordeal. Amongst other things Thatcher pretty much had it in for the miners and the trade union movement as a whole.

Here in the UK we are awaiting the announcement of some of the worst public service cuts in living history. Claire Rayner was a broadcaster, journalist and campaigner. A day before her recent death she announced that she wanted her last words to be "Tell David Cameron that if he screws up my beloved NHS I'll come back and bloody haunt him."

My friend, Georgiana Orwell, sent me this about the forthcoming cuts and it's sobering and vital reading. On October 3rd 2010 the Guardian headline was, 'Osbourne: cuts must be fast and deep to avoid a decade of debt.' The second paragraph read, 'the chancellor will announce that every Whitehall department will have its head office staff cut by a third, promise to give the armed forces the tools to finish the job, and dismiss Britain’s public service structure as designed for the 1950s'.

The final sentence made me feel numb. At the Fairness Commission meeting on Andover Estate it became evident that people within north Islington are surviving a political system. One pensioner John stated, 'today is September 7th, now that might not mean a lot to you, but it does to us, this is the day the blitz started and when we began fighting an enemy. Now the enemy is our own government and they want to wipe us out by wiping out the welfare state'. In light of what is about to happen, John had made a visionary if apocalyptic statement.

John went on to talk about how pensioners could not afford to shop in their local groceries for products such as milk because it was too expensive. Then there was the issue of rising fuel costs which according to Help the Aged is leading to many pensioners choosing not to heat their homes because they cannot afford it.

Yesterday I met an ex-neighbour, a pensioner who served during the war, his wife, since I last saw them, has had two hip operations, and he will soon have a knee operation leaving him immobile. He is anxious, because, as the only carer he will not be able to shop, drive or take care of her whilst his knee heals.

Daily living details such as these are significant. When elders cannot afford a pint of milk, cannot afford rising fuel costs, are afraid they cannot take care of themselves. My ex-neighbour looked disheveled and tired but he still kept up his cheery disposition. He is of the generation who did their bit. He and other pensioners served in the war, they built the public service system and surely they deserve much better then having their pensions taxed, cut or having to rely on handouts. Surely they ought to be able to afford to buy a pint of milk from their local grocery, heat their homes, and not feel afraid of being alone.

Many pensioners feel left out of the political debates now taking place, because they, unlike younger generations do not have easy access to the internet. Added to that are the issues of mobility and health, consequently many feel that their voices and their concerns are not central. It is important to remember that pensioners as much as the younger generation are our future.

Remember what John said, 'today is September 7th, now that might not mean a lot to you, but it does to us, this is the day the blitz started and when we began fighting an enemy. Now the enemy is our own government and they want to wipe us out by wiping out the welfare state'. Within that statement is a wealth of history, our history, the history of our parents and grandparents, and a sense of hope for a greater future for all.

What has happened to lead us here is the responsibility of consecutive governments. There are some bald facts; the banks have acted irresponsibly to the fortune of £850 billion pounds, again to the cost of tax payers, which prompted the Queen to ask why government didn't notice what was happening. Margaret Thatcher did her bit by killing trade unions and bringing in privatisation. A school in Islington had to pay £9,000 by a private company for a door to be fixed a job that ought to have cost £400.

According to Gordon Brown and Nick Clegg £150 billion worth of tax has disappeared at a cost to pensions. There are other facts but the word 'disappeared' isn't good enough when describing the mis-management of money. As a researcher I know that if they wanted to find out what happened to the money they would. Disappeared is not part of the vocabulary of smart men who are part of government. Disappeared is part of the vocabulary of dishonest smart men who are part of government.

And who will pay for the disappearing money act? Pensioners, nurses, teachers, fire-fighters, police to name a few of those who serve or who have served their communities and their country at a wage that doesn't match the bankers, politicians or celebrities but who carry out invaluable work. The political system is failing us all. The real meaning of the word politic, 'for the people' is lost on the new generation of careerists whose vision favours an American style system that has failed its citizens. It is shortsighted and apocalyptic.

The government is now far removed from the people, visiting communities only when there is an election. It's time to talk and listen to the people. At the Andover Estate meeting people had solid ideas which if put into action would create mass employment within new and expanding areas of industry. Those who live and work in their communities can best advise government on how to serve them.

Hubert H Humphrey stated, 'the moral test of government is how that government treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the elderly; those who are in the shadows of life; the sick, the needy and the handicapped'. Osbourne, before the cuts was described as a hawk with neo-con values who wanted to end the welfare system. In that knowledge does his arguments hold weight? It is time for some serious debates, abut government, the real cost of banking, those we vote into power, and the value of our vote and collective strike action. The welfare state was built over a number of years and it is about to be dismantled with the sweep of a pen and so too the lives of many.

What can we do? Join your local group. There are groups in every region. Begin protesting. We don't have to start protesting on the day Osbourne announces the cuts. We have to start protesting now.

Lobby your MP. Write to let her or him know that you vote no confidence in the new government.

Support the strikers. The tube strikes are happening to stop the loss of 800 jobs. As Londoners we cannot afford the loss of jobs. The loss will lead to more delays on travel routes that are already congested. Such cuts will lead to more problems and errors.

Post offices job losses. The privatisation of post-offices will mean varying regional prices for stamps. Rural areas will have a differing price to cities and the company will decide that price. The Royal Mail has been delivering mail efficiently for 150 years at the same cost to everyone. Privatisation will mean the loss of jobs and differing regional and area pricing.

NHS. Nurses and doctors are warning the government's scheme to massively change the health service is a risk to the future of the NHS. They've called the plans "slash and burn" and said they're a "£80bn gamble with no evidence base or electoral mandate". 

The government hopes it will be able to slip these plans through on the quiet.

When government and politics has failed us, and politicians are a part of the problem, striking is a tool that illustrates to government the power of the people. Striking gives us a voice and reminds government that they are in power to serve the people. It is a legitimate and peaceful form of political action.

With that in mind start your own strike. The only power government admires and fears is economic power. Each person that has used the NHS, has gone to school, has had help from the fire-services, the police, or any public service body about to be cut, support them by going on strike.

The poet in me sees the Chilean miner's endurance and rescue as a metaphor, in both political and emotional terms. Men stood together in solidarity underground and then finally reached the surface to come home at last.

What's real ?

On Thursday 7th October I was on my way to a posh poet's breakfast, to celebrate National Poetry Day when I got hit by a car and thrown from my bike. I spent the day in hospital, left in the evening rush hour with stitches in my face, a limp, cuts and grazes, and I now have a black eye.

It got me thinking about photography and self-portraiture. As a photographer I am usually happier on the safer side of the lens, the one where I enter the story from a distance and where I capture and freeze the rapid skidding moments in front of me. My portraits are often posed but I like to think there is a moment when the sitter settles in to his or herself, the precise time when the personality expresses itself in the relaxed musculature of the face.

I knew I needed a record of my damages as a result of my fall. Here's another image before the bruise fully came out. Am I happy in it or just smiling for the camera ? I include both photos here as although the wounds are real the feelings I experienced are complex and it needs more than one self portrait to express this complexity; the immense gratitude at still being alive, the terror at being trapped under the front of a car, the sorrow I felt at seeing my mother's desperation when she walked in to A and E, the total joy at being loved and looked after by old friends, the extensive appreciation I so very seldom feel for the beautiful broad expanse of life itself, my anger at car drivers in general...the list goes on.

One of my favourite photographers is Nan Goldin whose work is an exciting and challenging mix of autobiography and voyeurism. An image of hers that has always stuck with me is Nan, One Month After Being Battered. It was taken a month after her then boyfriend assaulted her as both a physical and emotional reminder of the cost of the relationship she was in. My injuries do not compare to hers, however needing to keep a record of all the changes and chapters we live is something I do share with Goldin.

There is something quite special about being forced to do nothing or very little. These few housebound days have helped me realise that being a photographer means to be in the constant process of writing a story continually re-telling itself.

The Beginning of Autumn

Autumn always gives me that going back to school feeling. Even though this golden prelude to the winter is more about harvesting than growth, for me it's about new beginnings too. It seems fitting for my writing residency to finally finish at this time of year. It's been a real education about both the limits and possibilities of a writing residency and I feel a more creatively confident than I did a year ago.

For my last day I had a final one to one session scheduled with Annette, whose poetry you can read here. I have seen Annette's poetry really develop over the months I have been working with her. I was chuffed when she said 'You know I now realise how important editing is in poetry.' I am such a stickler for thorough editing !

After our meeting I took a walk around the garden one last time and thought about the residency, the highpoint being the Poetry Gazebo festival. I took some photographs of the falling petals and the last growth of summer. Last winter I bought a digital camera off my old friend Jacob and one of the unforeseen outcomes of my residency has been my renewed fascination with photography. In February 2011 I have an exhibition of my flower 'portraits' at Oval House. All in all not a bad outcome at all.

By Any Other Name


White rose, originally uploaded by Naomi Woddis.

I had a long conversation with my flatmate today about Photoshop sparked by the quite stunning re-fashioning of Madonna in Dolce and Gabbana's current ad campaign. It got me thinking about how much post-processing I do myself. Here's a digital photo I took of a rose last week. I often play around with the colour to such an extent it's impossible to tell what the original hue of the flower was. I wonder if my choice to work in monochrome is any different. A friend said recently that black and white photos always looked like they were taken a long time ago. I don't know if they always convey a timeless quality but I am enjoying the irony that this modern and digitally captured image has gone through some of the same processes (albeit a lot less) as the images of Madonna about to emblazon our city billboards.

What's Possible


Flying Kite, originally uploaded by Saswata Bhattacharya.

I'm a big fan of Flickr and, as photography is a an art form displays so well on a computer screen, it's possible to take half an hour and curate your own exhibition on your laptop before you start a busy working day. The tiny kite flying in a dark and cloudy sky in this picture said something to me about hope and possibilities.

A Certain Light


Bricks, originally uploaded by Naomi Woddis.

On my way from buying some paper for my first trip to the darkroom in a little while - I stopped to take some photographs. There's a certain light on a sunny day at the end of summer, I hope this picture captures it.

Culpeper Community Garden Residency - two poems

Square Foot Gardening is a gardening done in a square foot plot . At my residency at Culpeper Community Garden, Angel, Islington this is one of the gardening methods employed. After a suggestion from one of the volunteers I decided to write my own Square Foot Poem, 12 lines. Sadly my counting skills have much to be desired and it has 14 lines instead of 12! I shared the poem with garden users from The Stuart Low Trust – I think it went down pretty well ! Wallflower – A Square Foot Poem

This pretty blue dress waiting to be picked happy peeping her shy face from between red brick. A coy blush. I wait for the thaw, Christine sorts seeds. They fall like hailstones from dry husks, windows misted. Outside the ice clings, foot and paw prints a who’s-who of walkers and those who love the rough bite of cold on skin and fur. Inside we sup soup, dunk our bread, compare wellies and thermals, look for signs of mice. The wallflower is always welcome here, like us. Drinking tea, it’s lovely here. A poem about happiness catches us, silences our chatter, tells us that ‘happiness floats!’. It’s good to hear, cocooned in warmth when outside robust kale ignores the snow, seeds will grow again.

I also had some chalk with me and it was suggested that I made a poem from the following words that people contributed - GRASS, MYSTERY, HORSE, BIRDSONG, GROWTH, SUN

So I went outside and wrote the following poem including all the words above. Growth

Growth is a mystery, from nothing something comes, the grass trodden flat by boot and sneaker climbs and greets the sun. Birdsong flutters its gentle notes resting in the ears of a solitary horse, beautiful, wise and still.