Poem - Grandma

Today I went to a wonderful masterclass called From Page to Performance run at IdeasTap Hub by Zena Edwards. It was especially for writers who create work that they want to perform themselves on stage and about creating that unique voice, finding out what you want to say and how best to say it. I am most inspired by writers who create realistic, human character based pieces like Alan Bennett and Alecky Blythe but I'm aware that I'm still at a point that I'm constantly influenced and distracted by all different styles and forms of writing. While this is quite clearly a huge roadblock for me in moving forward as an artist I felt that I could at least take advantage of the positive aspects of my thirst to adopt the feel of the writers I most admire. So, while my focus is really writing plays that are either verbatim or at least quite realistic, I thought that since I was about to do a masterclass with a poet I'd try my hand at a form of writing that thrills me to the core whenever I hear someone really nail the sounds, beat, narrative and character that defines the perfect performance poetry for me. So last night that's what I did. 

I learnt that I'm not a natural poet. I'm not musical enough to hear the sounds, to understand the ways that words go together in the way that poets can. I don't see the world in symbols or metaphors and, too often, I dump subtext in favour of plain expression. But all these things affect the quality of my usual work too. They hamper my ability to create theatre that suggests and entices rather than tells and demands. So I reckon I should keep having a go. Because even if I don't end up as the next great poet perhaps it'll be the best writing exercise I ever did. 

I don't share enough of my writing either here or on stage. I'm not yet confident enough. But it's the only way to pave the way forward so, without further ado, here is last night's attempt.

Grandma

My Grandmother is a woman you don't fuck with
If it seems common as muck to start an ode to a well-respected older person
By cursing
Then please forgive me
But you will see that she
Is hard to encapsulate
In mapped out daily thought or conversation
And, as so often is the case
When all trace
Of carefully constructed thought through language
Escapes me
Due to an over effusive dose of emotion
I revert to words that I know emerge at such times
To mean something that is otherwise
Indescribable

If youc an live to eighty-six years old
And still see off colds

That have full-grown men licked
You must have tricks
About how to live this life
Whether that's as someone's wife
Or child or mother
Or lover
And we, young women as we are,
Should clamour round, from near and far
To hear
Your stories loud and clear
To take our lessons
And count our blessings
That here in front of us
Is proof 
That regardless of life's crazy ways
If we can find the truth 
That we are living for
That we are driven by
And stick to it
With both sass and charm 
Then there is a chance
That we will come through unharmed
And continue on in this merry dance
Until someday we too hear some young person say 
'Well, isn't she amazing!?'