‘One in eight kids live in book poverty, not owning a single book.’ – The Big Issue (29th August 2019)
The book box library lid is closed to those without keys to unlock creations of pages of inviting illustrations and words for igniting imaginations.
Children picking picture books off bookshelves for story time before bedtime is a world unopened to those shown repetitions of closed hope.
Parents sharing cluttered collections of baby books with infants whilst they imitate sounds of impressions projected soft and loud are adventures unknown to those unable to receive available first books.
Helping hands are providing access to book stacks, gifting new beginnings, closing chapters on narratives that circumstances lack stories, giving flight for hardback and paperback pages.
I’ve built wings for this voice:
Unstitching traditions I’ve worn ever since
these lips became eclipsed by broken screams.
These wings are breaking the boxes-
Dissociating from pressures to project
mainstreams sketches of red roses.
Untangling from the crocheted expectations,
to start sewing together
the speech
that’s been sitting dormant amongst discouragement.
I’m interrupting transmissions to exhibit strands of patterns
that have been hidden under hats of unworthiness.
I’m rejecting societies efforts to redress my elegance,
I’m wrapping myself in reinforcements that I am worthy of love.
These wings are embracing courage-
Stepping out of suggested stereotypes
into a life layered with tailored horizons,
Picturesque for rejecting rejection
and struggling towards prosperous conclusions.
I’ve built wings for this voice:
Wiping away symptoms of feeling insignificant,
to stand on designed stages
and walk through restricted gateways
into rooms decorated with reflections
of suppressed ambitions,
becoming watered by broadcasts
of new sound waves-
arising erased dreams
and sowing new visions.
My Grandad, my friend, when I play your records I’ll think of you, I’ll think about how we used to sit on your sofa and talk about Jamaica. I’ll think about the first time you showed me your first passport picture. I’ll think about the stories you told me –
You stepped off the boat and breathed in the British mist, holding in hands heavy dreams uprooted and upheaved onto three weeks of turbulent waters, waving farewell to your mother and sisters and infant too innocent to fathom his father’s intentions.
You paraded along new streets that you were told were paved with gold in your black leather laced shoes that shone beyond cold fog. You tipped your brim hat to other West Indians you passed, they too wearing suits, carrying suitcases and ties tied tightly.
You shared rented rooms in houses built with bricks of brass, with windows that wouldn’t glisten, framed within window pane cracks and a torn front door, with a path surrounded by overgrown grass.
You pushed your shoulders back and held your head high to walk through the intolerant tide, to imprint new bricks for rebuilding British businesses. Based at a Birmingham depot you attended to broken down double decker buses.
You carried Jamaican rhythms in your suitcases, unpacking ska music in your memories, reminiscing on the routines that defined the dances. You held your accent close to your chest, turning down its intonations when you were loudly oppressed.
In your jacket pocket you carried a black and white picture of your mother, she’s standing in a floral gown against the garden gate in Jamaica. You pondered on your fathers status as a tailor, you’ve taken the baton passed on from his legacy, continuing the story with your journey.
I gave my niece the book I used to read when I was six, she sits and reads it in anticipation, turning the pages, meeting the characters I once met on the street I once knew.
amandahemmings.co.uk 