Listening to Billie – a Poetry Mosaic commission for Trespass Magazine

I’m driving through Nevada
at sun break in an open top Cadillac
listening to Elvis, a thin-tooth comb
in the back pocket of my faded jeans;
James Dean couldn’t be from anywhere else.

I’m praying in a masjid in Bed-Stuy,
sitting on Brooklyn stoops listening
to Billie Holiday. My aunt is crying
at the news of Obama’s win, the Swahili
under my tongue pushed to the back

of my throat. I’m not ashamed to say,
that his skin makes me love him. America
feeds our appetites for everything. A country
that births legends. I’m drawn to this dream
because it’s almost impossible.

The stars and stripes are prison bars,
in-mates in orange jumpsuits, held
without trial. I’m burning the flag,
protesting against Vietnam. This regime
has changed hue, but remains intact.

There’s no easy description for this strange
new fruit. There’s so much greed, people
consume themselves. The American dream
is a lottery, but if we win we win millions.
America – All I can I recall are the names

carved by your fists, your drunken elegies.
Gives her back to her teachers and waitresses,
the wildstyle writers who paint the city
with colours, not blood. She belongs to those
who dance in Harlem, tears running down their faces,

to all those who think and dream about her.

© Copyright Naomi Woddis 2009

Inspired and taken from answers to the the following questions:

What do you feel when you see that stars and stripes and has that changed since Obama became President?
What does the American Dream mean to you?
Whose America is it?

Please email me on poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part.

Brian Jackson
I feel no different about the stars and stripes; the regime has changed hue, but remains intact. There will be no deep ideological difference in the goals although the means seem to be in the process of being rethought, as indeed they must be.

This is a new world with new players. New techniques must be devised to maintain the old dominance.

Rosie Knight
The stars and stripes remind me of the scars and prison bars holding in all the prisoners in orange jumpsuits, without a trial.

In my heart the American Dreamt means driving through Nevada in an open top old Cadillac listening to Elvis with someone you love. In my head it’s the relentless search for power, driven by money, whether out of greed or poverty.

I want America to belong to all the young spoken word poets, teachers and waitresses, all the wildstyle writers painting city walls with colours instead of blood. Though I truly think America belongs to the bankers, the government and a very small few rather than the masses it should belong to.

Chrystine Bennett

The stars and stripes are a charged banner, years spent Pledging Allegiance then watching it burnt during the Viet Nam War. For some, those who like America and Americans, the stars and stripes is the flag of saviors. For others: a symbol of greed, a sign of bullies and foolish naiveté.

America belongs to all those who think and dream about her.

Andreas Grant
The American dream has always been the dream of the enlightened despot. I tend to be drawn to this dream because it’s the dream of the impossible. And sometimes the impossible does happen. The American dream is a lottery, the cruelest of all, but if we win we win millions.

Sean Thomas Dougherty
After you got laid
off all I could recall
in that restroom stall,
were the names carved
by your fists
and their drunken elegies.

Maura Flynn
I feel the Stars and Stripes will in the very near future come to represent a less imperialist ideal now that there is a new leader at the helm.

The old ideology of the expression seemed to allude to success, fame and wealth through thrift and hard work. Now it seems to be about vulgarity. Excesses. Insatiable appetites. Greed to the point of people almost consuming themselves.

America sort of belongs to us all. James Dean couldn’t be from anywhere else. American can feed our appetites for just about everything with greater aplomb.

Warsan Shire
America belongs to those who danced in Harlem with tears running down their faces. I pray in a masjid in Bed-Stuy, sit on Brooklyn stoops and listen to Billie Holiday, ride the subway to queens, smile at strangers in carriages, think of the legends this country gave birth to, the wars it had begun, if one cancels out the other.

My aunt cried when Obama won, the Swahili under my tongue pushed itself to the back of my throat. I’m not ashamed to say, that his skin makes me love him.

America belongs to those who danced in Harlem with tears running down their faces.

“Listening to Billie” was commissioned for the Americana edition of Trespass.

The Truth about Killing

I laughed when I got punched
in the face. What else could I do ?
I fought with my words instead
of getting even with my fists.

I’d sacrifice every book
I’ve ever read, I would bury
my love in a shallow grave,
just to know what he did.

Midnight. When life breaks
its own rules he said,
you have to follow suit.
Then I understood what it meant

to defend a family, friends
people. There are times when
for the things I wanted I abandoned
even my own sanity. Now

all I need is to feel the ground,
the drag, the cold underneath
these running feet. I moved
half way around the world

to get away from his voice,
the thought of what he did
that Wednesday night.
My two boys tear sticks

from a dying tree, it’s play
for them. Every day
I fight myself from telling
them the truth about killing.

© Copyright Naomi Woddis 2009

Inspired and taken from answers to the the following questions:

When is the time right for killing ?
What does it mean to be hidden from history ?
What would you sacrifice, and why ?

Please email me on poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part. Please make replies no more than 100 words.

Sara Bynoe
Is it right or is it justified? What is right or wrong? Who is the decider? For me- I laughed when I got punched in the face, if that’s any indication what I’d do.

Pooja Nansi
It is the right time for killing when it starts to hunt you down. When you feel yourself die from the fear of the thing each night. It is the right time for killing when it starts killing parts of you and starts hurting others. It is the right time for killing at midnight when it’s warm between your legs and the world is temporarily confused in the split second between today and tomorrow.

It means your breaths do not contribute, do not count, do not matter. It means that you never happened. Every morning you woke up might as well not have come. No one will believe you fought with your words or your swords or your silence anyway. It means you could have spent your time getting a manicure instead.

I would sacrifice every book I have ever lived in and loved. Every word I have ever shaped with pen or pencil or magic marker on manuscript or post it, every poem that has ever made me feel a little more alive and every goose bump that it raised on the nape of my neck. I would sacrifice every drop of coffee that I have ever needed to function, every kiss I have ever given or taken. If it meant, I could know without doubt that you loved me too.

Anjan Saha
When is the time right for killing ?
Wednesday afternoon

Simon Freedman
When life breaks its own rules, and you have to follow suit.

Chrystine Bennett
There are things I have wanted enough to abandon everything else. I didn’t think it was a sacrifice. I don’t know that I have ever really sacrificed anything.

Dorianne Laux
What would you give up?
Not the nose on my face, but the spite, the grindstone.
Not an arm or a leg, but money.
Not the length of the arm, but the lie,
the shot, the list, the twist.
Not the ear, but the lending, the boxing, the out on.
Not the eye, but the naked, the catching,
in the blink of, the keeping, the turning a blind.
Not the elbow but the grease, the room.
Not the leg, but the pulling.
Not the back, but the shirt, the break,
the scratch, the stab, the turning, the water off a duck’s.
Not the neck, but the sticking it out, the in shit up to.
Not the throat, but the jumping down, the ramming down, the frog in.
Not the feet, but the ground, the drag, the cold.
Not the heel, but the down at, the under.
Not the fingers, but the butter.
Not the thumb, but the green, the twiddle.
Not the tongue, but the slip.
Not the tooth, but the nail, the long in, the sweet.
Not the brain, but the drain, the all brawn and no, the picking.
Not the chest or the breast, but the beating.
Not the body, but the temple.

The bird in the hand.
The foot in the grave.

Heather Taylor
My family is important to me but I’ve realized that I’ve sacrificed my relationship with them in order to live her. If I am too close to them, i’ll sacrifice myself to make sure they are alright and in order to maintain my sanity, I’ve moved half way across the globe. I think that is the sacrifice I both regret and cherish.

Robert Henson
When is the time right for killing?
To protect your family from the bad people, but who are the bad people? I suppose the ones trying to hurt your family.

Jocelyn Page
I cannot use ‘right’ and ‘killing’ together like that. I have two young boys who have somehow got the impression that killing, in play, is how to have fun. Everyday I stop myself from telling them the truth about weapons & war & life.

February Poetry Mosaic Questions

After a long break Poetry Mosaic is back. All you have to do is reply to the three questions below (one to a hundred word answers in either prose or poetic form) and I will make poetry of your responses. If you would like me to add a biog to the contributors page please send a short paragraph along with your answers and any weblinks you would like me to add.

When is the time right for killing ?
What does it mean to be hidden from history ?
What would you sacrifice, and why ?

Please send replies to
poetrymosaic@btinternet.com

Love and poetry and keep warm out there !
Naomi xxxx

Not Always, but Enough

I let my adolescence go for a twenty pound note.
We were skint and needed to feed the meter.

Can I forgive my mother for simply not being there?
My best friend’s dad offered me a lift, his headlights

decking the puddles. I just got in. No questions asked.
My coat was wet from waiting in the rain.

He thrust the note in my hand before
it happened. And in the back seat, I clenched

my fist while he moaned quieter
than the downpour. In the bleak florescence

of the petrol station I watched
his tail lights disappear, swapped

paper for coins. Our house lit up like Christmas.
X Ray Spex spun on the turntable.

I loved Poly Styrene, her voice – raw energy in day-glo.
It meant more to me than money.

Over the years I have learned
to forget that day. Not always, but enough.

© Copyright Naomi Woddis 2008

Inspired and taken from answers to the the following questions:

Is new always better?
What does it mean to love?
Is forgiveness always possible or necessary?

Please email me on poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part. Please make replies no more than 100 words.

Elaine Crinnion
If she can forgive her aunts, her grandmother, her mother, for slicing her genitalia away to a wound at the age of five; if she can forgive herself the strange shame when realizing how abhorrent this custom is, to so many; if the raped can forgive their violators; if the bereft can forgive those who stopped their loved-ones’ precious, beating hearts: Surely I can forgive my mother’s relinquishment; surely those two baby daughters of my own, can forgive me, for so unwillingly, unstoppably, birthing them too soon to live. And surely I can forgive myself. Any forgiveness is possible. Surely.

Karen McCarthy
Years ago I sold a copy of a rare album – X-Ray Spex Germfree Adolescents – to the Record and Tape Exchange. I was skint and needed to feed the meter but it wasn’t worth it. I loved that album and the title track. I loved the cover. I loved Poly Styrene – one of the only black punk singers around. I loved the day glo test tubes. I loved the tunes. I loved their raw energy. Her voice. I had loads of records I didn’t like and I ummed an ah’d about it. I could have bought the CD to replace it – or a reprint vinyl – but I can’t quite bring myself to do it. I have little fantasies about finding a scratched original (or a slightly less scratched original) . The worst thing is I knew even as I sold it that it meant more to me than money – or even owning a rare thing – ever could. But I did it anyway. It was my adolescence. It meant something and I let it go for 20 quid.

Miriam Nash
My best friend’s dad would drive me home from school. During the half-hour ride he’d start to talk about my father – what a bad man he was. How could I love a man who left my mother for a younger lover? That’s not a real father, he’d say. I’d clench my fists in the back seat, willing tears to stay behind my eyes. Over the years, between them, my dad and hers, they taught me about forgiveness.

A Thicket of Fists

Accept everything: this
extraordinary turbulence,
the sadness and the pain caused,

the people at this party
claiming to be your friend
car bombs, lottery wins and viruses,

the rare and the time-worn.
Then recall the oxymoron
of his love,

the journey of his hands
across your body,
the thicket of fists enmeshing

you. Remember how
you tied yourself to the tracks
hoping to be saved,

rails sung
the hurtling of a train.
Nothing is as risky as love.

© Copyright Naomi Woddis 2008

Inspired and taken from answers to the the following questions:

Is new always better?
What does it mean to love?
Is forgiveness always possible or necessary?

Please email me on poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part. Please make replies no more than 100 words.

Capella Silverangel
Forgive them we are told
For they know not what they do
And though they hurt and cause u pain
Forgiveness is for you.

It may seem ‘er so difficult
To let go of the pain
But forgiveness is a good way
To help you break the chain
Of hate and hurt and anger
And help you love again.

Forgive but don’t forget
They say
And that I say is true
The sadness and the pain they caused
Is a gift revealed to you.

If those who claim to be your friend
Or love you dearly til the end
Can turn around and cause you pain
Do you want them in your life again?

Whether yes or whether no
Forgiveness is the way to go
It helps you to release the pain
And take you on the path again
Of happiness, of love not tears
And helps to burn away your fears
So you can walk into the light
A happy soul with head upright.

Agnes Meadows
The oxymoron of his love making. The journey of his hands, his mouth, his breath, across her body, these things so brain numbingly, mind-freezingly dull that even the occasional thicket of fists enmeshing her was somehow preferable.

Jo Donovan
What does it mean to love ?

People at a party…a private meeting in a crowd..cuddling my kids in bed…kindness from a stranger…unity with my husband…letting go…blowing kisses…electric touches…big bear-hugs…lunch with my mum…not needing to say…doing the washing…listening…wishing you well.

Righteous Rayner
Is new always better?

Every new event is a component of the world at large; that means car bombs, babies, viruses, lottery wins, celebrations, murders, romances and disasters -everything good and bad, rare or time-worn. it all depends on whether you love life for what it is or for an ideal you wish for in your head. New means movement. Obviously, new is best when it means replacing the boxer shorts with a rip up the backside, you know the ones that torture your bare arse with cold august air?

What does it mean to love?

To love is to tie yourself to the tracks and hope to be saved; it’s a gamble beyond compare, nothing else is as risky and nothing else seems so certain; it’s staring at the ultimate high or the ultimate low and knowing that either one could vapourise your soul.

Never Too Scared

On this long train ride
I watch the world pass by.
The gorges, thunderstorms

and flatlands.
Others take their cue
from how we treat ourselves.

This journey is a gift,
a reminder that it’s always
necessary to carry on.

© Copyright Naomi Woddis 2008

Inspired and taken from answers to the the following questions:

Is new always better?
What does it mean to love?
Is forgiveness always possible or necessary?

Please email me on poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part. Please make replies no more than 100 words

Chrystine Bennett
Little love is a humming smile. Big love, a long train ride with the same person, outside the world goes by, sometimes the train goes over frightening gorges and through thunderstorms, sometimes through long boring places flat places. With big love one is never too scared or too bored to carry on.

Forgiveness can only be given to oneself, others will then take their cue from that and is always necessary to go on.

August Poetry Mosaic questions

It’s time for some new Poetry Mosaic questions and this month each has a website that may help inspire your responses but there is no obligation to visit the sites if you already have things you want to say!

Is new always better? http://www.storyofstuff.com
What does it mean to love? http://www.livehopelove.com
Is forgiveness always possible or necessary? http://www.theforgivenessproject.com/stories/anne-gallagher
Please email me at poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part.

Love and poetry
Naomi xx

To be Human

First I was a submarine commander
I launched a drainpipe torpedo
at my four year old brother,
direct hit, and a broken nose.

Then I fought my sister, she high-kicked,
I deflected. Her head split open
on the corner of my desk.
I can still see her standing over the sink,

dark red blood spreading
through her pale hair.
At secondary school a fight broke out.
I saw one boy head-butt another

who then spat a mouthful of blood
on the tarmac. Now
I understand nothing
but red.

© Copyright Naomi Woddis 2008

Inspired and taken from answers to the the following questions:

What image illustrates the true nature of time ?
Describe the first time you saw another person’s blood ?
What does the word home mean to you ?

Please email me on poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part. Please make replies no more than 100 words

Kayo Chingonyi
The first time I remember seeing a person’s blood was on the first day of secondary school. A fight broke out at the end of lunch break and there were no teachers around. I don’t remember what it was about just that one boy head butted the other who then spat a mouthful of blood on the floor.

Susan Gray
The true shaper of destiny, time is the double-edged blade of both the poison and the antidote of life, taking on its many forms. It’s a man made creation that will, like all others, end up destroying us in the end. We just bottled it up in the forms of cogs and numbers, giving it just a little tick and hum to let us know that it’s still alive. To have time is to be human. Time exists in all of us, in all of our minds: that illness we can’t live without. Time is embodied in every one of us. This is the true nature of time.

Dominic O’Rourke
My four year old brother on the swing set at home – I thought I could be a submarine commander and launch a torpedo shaped piece of drainpipe at him – direct hit, and a broken nose – I think it was the first time I realised how fragile people could be – it was his tears, his pain, that really hurt me, and not the broken wooden spoon my mother cracked across my arse when she found out.

Debbi Evans
A fight with my sister as kids; she high-kicked, I deflected. Her head split open on the corner of my desk. I can still see her standing over the sink, dark red blood spreading through her pale hair. The site of the gash in A&E as the doctor stitched it up. Felt guilty for weeks.

Katrina Naomi
Blood – phoning for an ambulance automatically, understanding nothing but red.

The Sign for Infinity

There are times when
I look at men in their twenties;
young, beautiful and full
of eternity.

I was like them once.
When I die and topple
like a soundless tree
in the Amazonian rain forest

I want to be buried at home,
with those who knew me living.
No one would know me,
here in the soil of South Carolina.

© Copyright Naomi Woddis 2008

Inspired and taken from answers to the the following questions:

What image illustrates the true nature of time ?
Describe the first time you saw another person’s blood ?
What does the word home mean to you ?

Please email me on poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part. Please make replies no more than 100 words

Shane Solanki
What image illustrates the true nature of time ?
This one = 8

Alan Summers
What image illustrates the true nature of time ?
A fallen tree in a World Heritage Site, or a yet undiscovered cyclic decay process in a part of the Amazon

Shaun Levin
The body. Mostly I love how time manifests on my skin and in my hair. And then there are times when I look at men in their twenties (and their thirties, some of them) and they are so young and beautiful and full of eternity that I want that body that is still becoming itself. Sometimes, even, I get it.

Kwame Dawes
Home is where I want to be buried because I have a most un-Christian sense that I will need to know the language of those I meet beneath the earth. Somehow, the thought of the dead recognize me and embracing me comforts me. No one would know me in the earth of South Carolina.

Dark Matter

It’s Saturday morning,
the rain is streaming down.
I’m watching the telly
I just want to go out and get wet

she says, and winks at the glint
in my eye. Last night a swift one
lasted until closing time.
Another drink? better make it a half,

don’t want to upset the old lady,
alright make it a pint.
We all have dark matter
some where in our past.

Mine’s a dad who hid himself
in the far end of a bottle.
Hers – she won’t say but
I know it’s there,

makes her flinch at every date
marked on the calendar in red.
At night I whisper secrets
to her sleeping smile.

She breaks every law
I’ve made for myself.
She’s my Mrs World.
We share silence

like a guilty secret,
know what it holds for us
and do not need
to speak it.

© Copyright Naomi Woddis 2008

Inspired and taken from answers to the the following questions:

What image illustrates the true nature of time ?
Describe the first time you saw another person’s blood ?
What does the word home mean to you ?

Please email me on poetrymosaic@btinternet.com if you fancy taking part. Please make replies no more than 100 words

Niall O’Sullivan
What does the word home mean to you ?

Another drink? Might as well, better make it a half cos I don’t want to upset the old lady, oh alright, make it a pint.