We live in weird times. In less than 10 days we’ve gone from a revolutionary moment in politics (hung!) to a tragedy fire, we’ve lost a tower! And a tower means a lot, it means people!
In these weird times, also within the last 10 days, I’ve been making inroads about writing out loud! Been shortlisted for the Northumbrian Writers Association Award, and been the runner-up of the Sappho Poetry contest, which came about to celebrate the revolutionary statue of the great Sappho in Letchworth, Britain’s first Garden City. It’s been a socially progressive town ever since its inception, that’s why. And since 1907, a statue of Sappho lives in Letchworth. So she’s seen the Suffragettes and all! So I called my poem Sappho-gette: that’s me then, I am a Sapphogette!
Then the Northumbrian Writers Association Award shortlist! Totally pleased! With my poem ‘Way Up North’, as I got inspired when I was travelling up and around there. I feel connected quickly generally, and Newcastle in particular always reminded me of Bielefeld, near where I grew up. Bielefeld isn’t by the sea, but it’s got that worker’s heritage and the very high buildings, where well above your head bridges would come out of buildings and connect them up. It’s quite thrilling.
So, so far, Newcastle and Letchworth are my most lucky places! Many thanks!
Upcoming slightly biggish performances (that is, apart from the wee ones) are as follows: at the Cricklewood Festival on the 1st July (there’ll be a rally to press for a Grenfell inquest on that day as well, so my suggestion is, start at the rally, then go to Crickfest), and at Leytonstone Arts Trail on the 9th July.
Notting Hill later, etc.
I end with a poem published in May in Fountainhead, the amazing magazine of the Black Berlin Film Festival. More info under black-international-cinema.com
Circular ritual insight
We forgot to hold hands
When we migrated out of Africa
For otherwise we would have remembered
Who we are
Down the line and the lines
Of our different colours
And our far-away places
From the original source of life
We forgot to hold hands
When we migrated out of Africa
And out of all the other places
That came after
All the countries
That had been inhabited
Before we got to Europe – well those
Who got there, those who lost much of their
Colours and their memories of Africa
If we had only held on to the old pagan ritual
We would have moved and walked in and out
Of circles we make whilst holding hands
We would have danced and walked
But not left
Without remembering who we were
If we had held hands
When we migrated out of Africa
We would have remembered
Who we are
Our spiritual link
Wouldn’t have just disappeared
In the way that it so painfully did
And created much havoc and misery
Colonialism instead of compassion
Impoverishment instead of empowerment
Death and destruction instead of life and laughter
If we had only held hands
When we migrated out of Africa
We would have remembered
Who we are! © Ursula Troche, 12.15 (published in Fountainhead mag.)
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