Tomboy Bookclub!!!- Telling Tales!!!

I first heard of Chaucer from my mum. When she studied one of her favourite parts of literature were the mysterious and boisterous lyrics from the dark ages; whether it be Old Norse Vikings or the Green Knight and Sir Gawain in Arthurian lands. I had never read any old medieval literature myself until university, but I must admit I was dreading it. I thought it would be gobbedly gook; too hard to read with ease, old, musty and gruesomely boring. But I was wrong, marvellously so. Perhaps it’s because I had a teacher who really, really loved what she taught, but reading Chaucer’s Canterbury tales really did grip me. They were profound, bawdy, hilarious and sad- sometimes all at once. I found myself seeing so many parallels between the dung heaped and bejewelled carnage of middle England, against the fibre-optic entangled and petrol dowsed world of today. Who knew that a good fart gag would be funny for people who lived hundreds of years ago the same as it is now?

This brings me to today’s Tomboy recommendation… a 21st century reworking of the world famous Canterbury Tales: ‘Telling Tales’ by Patience Agbabi. It is ambitious, riotous and enchanting in what it seeks to do. Taking Chaucer’s tried and tested lyrics, and exploding them outwards to give old stories new life in a variety of forms, from sonnet sequences to long skinny poems ricocheting their rhymes page after page.

Chaucer wrote for the sound and performance of language. Not many people could read back in day- what a surprise– and Chaucer wrote in English at a time when most ‘upper-class’ writers would have written in French; he was a proto-slam poet rebel me thinks, endorsing a language which normal people could hear and enjoy, instead of keeping all the literature in a language exclusive to nobility. And this attention to pleasing crowds with the tonal beauty of language is a tradition that Agbabi has mastered perfectly. Whether you’re reading in muted breaths on the train, or muttering the words to yourself in bed each poem has a different cadence that not only entertains, but helps reflect the story of the tale she is reworking. The lewd hilarity of the Miller’s Tale comes out with a freshness that nods to the past whilst still being perfect in reflecting how we speak and keep ourselves amused today: ‘Get me a pint of Southwark piss!/ It all took place in a pub like this.

Not only has Agbabi reworked The Canterbury Tales in a whole host of different forms to access different paces of rhyme (not all carry ordered meter, some poems use looser arrangements, fractured and sparse, more tender handlings), she has also given the pilgrims themselves a make-over. No longer are they travelling to pray at Canterbury Cathedral, competing with each other for a meal with their stories. Agbabi has them touring a poetry show, performing their poetries for each other on the way to their final destination. The characters are poets, writers- all unique, and often Kooky. The wife of Bath is now Mrs Alice Ebi Bafa, a Nigerian business woman out for money, men and laughs. The Reeve is no longer Oswald- entrepreneurial landowning sour-puss- but ‘Ozymandia’: ‘expelled from school before she learnt to hate poetry. Taught herself Anglo-Saxon… now lives in Leeds.’

One of my favourite re-tellings is that of Ozymandia Reeves’, ‘Tit for Tat’. In the original (to summarize very briefly), two clerks try to get revenge against a dastardly miller, Sympkin who lets loose the clerks’ horse and steals their grain. Vengeance is had by fucking Sympkin’s daughter and his wife, then stealing back their bread and running away after Sympkin’s wife hits him on the head with a pan (bit mad, but that’s why Chaucer is great). In Agbabi’s version, the clerks are not Cambridge scholars, but Butch Al and Fem Gen- two dykes in need of weed with a pet dog instead of a horse. The poem is told through the view of the dog (named Little Weed) and it is hilarious: ‘me, sniffer dog/ laid off, Bad dog, for sniffing drugs’. Sympkin is Psycho, a dodgy dealer who tries to sell Butch Al and Fem Jen dried lawn as purple haze. Their retaliation is based of Chaucer, and I don’t want to spoil the funniness of the poem, but I shall say this- it’s a tale of two dykes and their dog swindling a dealer with the end result of ‘free food, free dope, free cakes, free love’ (what’s not to get gassed about there?).

Ultimately, I think Chaucer would be proud of Agbabi. She takes universal themes, concerns like farting and death and fidelity and love, that were all as important back then as they are today, but re-energizes them in a way so that it doesn’t matter whether you’ve read the original (though I do recommend). She gives our multi-cultural society today a glimpse of itself through time, showing that we don’t just progress and leave what’s past behind. Humans are humans, we will always be heroic and gross and romantic- and united. I like to imagine Patience and Geoffrey together: a bi-black woman of the 21st century and a middle aged white male scholar from a time where the world was flat, both believing in the power of language to entertain and inspire, to reflect and celebrate the chaos we will always live in.

Chaucer Tales, track by track, here’s the remix
from below-the-belt base to the topnotch;
I wont stop all the clocks with a stopwatch
when the tales overrun, run offensive,
or run clean out of steam, they’re authentic
cos we’re keeping it real, reminisce this:
Chaucer Tales were an unfinished business…”

TOMBOY BOOK-CLUB!!!- ‘Please Mind the Gap’

At work recently, I have taken up a lunchtime habit. To walk outside towards St Paul’s Cathedral, plonk myself down on a bench either by the roses still hanging onto their plump colours or next to pidgins scratting around thinning grasses for crumbs or seeds, and I read. Also, I like to treat myself to some MacDonalds (but only on Fridays, so I don’t become enslaved to their global corporation of capitalist exploitation of animals, and also so I don’t become an actual potato) whilst I peruse the pages of my book of choice, exploring a whole other world contained, yet beyond the concrete noise of London. This week has been a delight, words mingling their power with the delights of tomato ketchup. I have been reading Sophie Sparham’s ‘Please Mind The Gap’.

I have actually met Sophie irl, and she is lovely. A bespectacled punk with red lips surrounding a smile, unmistakable with dreadlocks the colour of chilli peppers that hang down past her waist. She performed in Peterborough for a FreakSpeak poetry night in honour of Pride, and her poetry made me laugh and wipe away tears in equal measures that night. My slightly drunken appreciation fixed on her as she commanded the stage with a down-to-earth confidence that was not shy exactly, but was not too boisterous or forced. I spoke to her in the bathroom after she had read, we were both washing our hands. I told her how wonderful I thought her poetry was, and she thanked me with laughter and smiles, wished me luck when I said I also wrote then we went on our ways to watch the rest of the night’s wordsmiths.  Sophie is from up north in Derby, and her thick accent wasn’t difficult to listen though, it made the poems even more heartfelt and unique, evoking the places and people with whom her mind wrangled with to write these AMAZING poems.

Sophie’s poetry is the best ‘fuck you’ for days when you feel shit upon by the universe. Her work focuses on political and social issues- especially women’s issues, depression and LGBTQ+ rights. Her poems are about the mental impacts material suffering perpetuates on the mind. How anti-gay sentiments seep into the pavements of her childhood, how the rush and crush of ceaseless production wilts the heart to a hollow calculator of survival, unless we try to let the beauty in. I love her work, because the topics she talks about are serious and difficult to grasp, yet the way she phrases her work is so fluid and delightful to read I almost feel guilty sometimes for paying more attention to the control she has over rhyme and rhythm than on the crippling suffering she is trying to address and heal. It’s not only me who thinks her poetry is bomb either, in the edition I have, Benjamin Zephaniah, a poetry great, has written a foreword where he states: “I was very impressed with this fearless, compelling performer, who is unafraid to seek out the truth and comment on issues that others might shy away from“.

Her work flies above the country, and sets its visions to lands even further out to sea when imagining the unity fighting oppression demands. Her work spans the universal disappointments and difficulties of trying to be honest and happy in a world that cares more for profit and shallow popularity. But alongside these searing commentaries that I am sure Ginsberg would approve of, she also talks about her own life and memories with an intimacy that allows her point to be sharp without becoming too concerned with the details of life that she could include that would make the poems less lyrical, but more rich in specific moments. I’m not saying here that her poetry lacks imagery, it most certainly does not- but her talent and power truly does rest in the structures she can build out of rhyme and rhythm, the true gift of a poet whose work is most alive when read aloud. And, considering she tours her poetry with punk bands and at festivals, I hope many more people will be able to hear her songs, her battle cries for the release of old pain to help make concrete changes.

After first seeing Sophie perform, I expected reading her works would be the same visceral concoction of song and sadness and soul. I was not disappointed. This book is for anyone who cares, and who wants a book to pull out in fleeting moments stolen from the machine, as well as to curl up with for longer in reflection. Its style flows easily, but the issues Sparham writes about will make you want to slow down and think before rushing onto the next delicious rhyme. Her poetry will bring you eye to eye with the most confounding and saddening of injustice- social and personal- before bringing you back up to hope again and be strong against what potentially lurks behind each stranger; a smile or scorn. Her work makes clear the inevitability of our suffering, how unwittingly and silently it is committed by and against each other. But on the flip-side and more importantly, how we are all able to help each other overcome these problems we’ve made for ourselves. The words affirm that strength is not to be measured by the mainstream standards of clout or wealth or popularity: “Success means the paths we chose chose to explore/ not how high we climb”.

So, in this blog-post I want to include the first poem I heard Sophie read aloud, and the first in ‘Please Mind The Gap’. It is beautiful, and I will be damned if it doesn’t make you feel even one degree warmer inside after maybe wiping away a tear or two. Thank you for being such a wonderful and kind person Sophie, and I hope more and more people get the life-enhancing pleasure of reading and hearing your poetry!!!!

Introductory Gathering

Oh come all ye faithless, joyless and defeated
Come all ye washed out, ye chewed up and ye beaten
I want every loser,
As far as these eyes can see
To climb out of your corners and sit next to me.

Oh come all ye rejects, ye homeless, break out from your margins
Come all ye lost, troubled and drive no hard bargains
You’ll soon find that there’s no leader in this hoard
Worship yourselves
Christ, you fucking lords!

We are gathered here today to witness revolution
The coming together of our demons
As we learn the meaning of evolution
Our song birds will scream from the branches of burning trees
Not be left in their cages to sing peacefully

But they will create lawful reasons why we cannot rise together
They’ll tear us and they’ll beat us amidst this stormy weather
However, there are no exit signs here so I urge you, please don’t run
You’ll never leave this bus stop, if you’re waiting for the sun

And I don’t have faith in a god,
But I know everyone needs something to believe in
And you can build your own angels if you feel you really need them
But I would rather bow to your monsters
Put them on the committee intake
Our problems shouldn’t rule us
But it’s important to learn from our mistakes

And have you ever felt lost?
Are you lonely?
Are you the talk of the town for not buying the butchers baloney?
And are you hurt?
And are you hated?
Are you tired and wired, feeling wrong and exasperated?

Well, I’ll be your comfort in this darkened shade of blue
I don’t have faith in a god,
But I believe in you and you and you

And have you been wronged?
Are you conflicted?
By this bullshit we’re living in as long as we don’t get evicted?
And are you as tired of this everyday slog?
Did they use you and abuse you until there were no parts left to
flog?

Well bring what’s left to this table
And lets put together what we’ve got
Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not able
Your’e capable of a lot
Because blessed are the wicked, the weird and the truly despised
For allowing us to see the world through other people’s eyes

 

 

 

 

 

TOMBOY BOOK CLUB!: Hera Lindsay Bird

Today’s post is about one of my fave modern poets, Hera Lindsay Bird. She is a New Zealander poet whose work I first came across a few years ago online. Hera (such a lovely name) is a riotous mess of caring too much and not at all, of dreaming in fluffy pastel unicorn clouds all drenched with an acrid whiff of scepticism and wit. She is a lot to handle, but anything else just wouldn’t be the same.

Some may think she is arrogant, Bird did name her first book after herself using a picture of herself for the cover. But I think this hyper-exposure of her self in poetry is also a mockery of the cult of narcissism/ egotism that fuels how we interact with the world today. IDK about you, but a lot of what is ‘cool’ now seems to be based not on substance, but on who is saying it and how. You don’t actually have to believe in what you say you do, so long as there’s plenty of followers to like and retweet the version of yourself you most want to sell. Hera’s poetry blends an awareness of self necessary for sincere emotional bonding with a biting sneer towards the supremacy of the individual; simultaneously pointing to the fact that the 21st century obsession with personality and celebrity is ridiculous, yet somehow sentimental. We all want to be somebody, we just don’t know who we already are and that other people also exist.

Her poems blend the cuddly with the cruel. In one sentence she will proclaim unceasing vulnerability and then proceed to douse it in gas and set softness alight. Profane and profound, Hera uses images in her poetry to undermine any concepts of emotions being unsullied by the world around us. She even uses her front and back covers to undermine the seriousness of having a book published by one of the worlds biggest publishers (Penguin). She places praise from Carol Ann Duffy and her friend Ashleigh Young’s mum side by side, blurring the boundaries between what counts as ‘making it’. She points fun towards the darker sides of us it is often tempting to turn into elevated grandeurs of suffering. Her love bleeds, but not roses. Hera’s love bleeds a realness entangled with the similarities and depths of sadness which taint each day. As she herself says in the blurb, the poetry is “heroically and compulsively stupid………….. whipping you once again into medieval sunlight”.

Her poems aren’t that political, though I’m sure her contemporaneity ties written words to material circumstance in ways that I am currently missing. Her work points towards more general woes of our time: the often shocking extents to which we make our emotions available for public consumption, turning love either into a funeral wake or a freak show. the concept of loneliness which plagues and hounds so many of us in each acts we attempt to do with gusto each day. And, like any poet, she talks of love. But never love like you could find the Romantic lot wafting praises about in a gondola (though she does have a poem about romance being dead and Keats fucking her from behind…). Hers is a love that stumbles, stutters and spits itself out towards the beloved in lines ricocheting between honest vulnerability, and hiding softness through prosaic sentences littered with imagery from calculators for hippies and windows 95, to deer splattered with red paint to save animal activists time in the long run. By evasion, often we unwittingly reveal where our attentions really lie.

I highly recommend Hera Lindsay Bird’s poetry for anyone who is romantic and questions themselves for it every day. Who think celebrity is stupid yet still pout at themselves in a lonely mirror. Who feel deeply, but can only communicate the divine infinity of cosmic faith via emojis and text talk. Her work is young, wild and unlike anything I’ve read by any one else! I want to try think of something as cool and witty as she would say to end this post, but I can’t aha. I shall leave you with the poem that I first read of hers and I’ve already mentioned. A marination of bitterness and hope. Softness and sarcasm- I hope you enjoy xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Keats is Dead so Fuck me From Behind

Keats is dead so fuck me from behind
Slowly and with carnal purpose
Some black midwinter afternoon
While all the children are walking home from school
Peel my stockings down with your teeth
Coleridge is dead and Auden too
Of laughing in an overcoat
Shelley died at sea and his heart wouldn’t burn
& Wordsworth……………………………………………..
They never found his body
His widow mad with grief, hammering nails into an empty meadow
Byron, Whitman, our dog crushed by the garage door
Finger me slowly
In the snowscape of your childhood
Our dead floating just below the surface of the earth
Bend me over like a substitute teacher
& pump me full of shivering arrows
O emotional vulnerability
Bosnian folk-song, birds in the chimney
Tell me what you love when you think I’m not listening
Wallace Stevens’s mother is calling him in for dinner
But he’s not coming, he’s dead too, he died sixty years ago
And nobody cared at his funeral
Life is real
And the days burn off like leopard print
Nobody, not even the dead can tell me what to do
Eat my pussy from behind
Bill Manhire’s not getting any younger

TOMBOY BOOKCLUB!!!!- The Body Is Not An Apology

Hello!!Happy Sunday! I finished this book yesterday in the bath, and honestly it made me feel so jubilant afterwards I knew a blog post was waiting. This book is like a little explanation manual of why you feeling shit about yourself isn’t always your fault, how you hating yourself is actually the product of years of subliminal indoctrination into shame and how this shame builds divisions and inequalities that fuel ‘Body Terrorism’. Body Terrorism being, according to Sonya Renee Taylor, the ubiquitous bombardment of stereotypes, hierarchies and judgements we subject our own and other bodies to.These ingrained negative messages about ourselves and others ultimately being the energy powering every kind of ‘body oppression’, every kind of discrimination there is from racism, misogyny, fatphobia, abelism, ageism, homophobia and more.

I found this book so relaxed, yet so rich in potential ways of re-organising the brain away from inertia and hatred, that I found myself repeatedly rereading the same passages and dog-earing many of the pages for future reference. Sonya Renee Taylor is an activist and founder of the ‘Body is Not An Apology’ website and movement- so her book isn’t set out in a traditional format, with chapters for readers to get through without enquiry as to how the material they’re reading is making them feel or what they’re learning. She sort of makes it like a school text-book for emotional growth (and political empowerment), interspersing text with small bubbles of her ‘Radical Reflections’ and ‘Unapologetic Enquiries’ for the reader to engage not only with Taylor’s words, but with the brain of themselves that is processing and reformulating the book back in terms of knowledge their own brain can retain. Though this book covers some timeless and universal struggles that I’m not sure can ever be easily addressed or answered, Taylor makes the book manageable to read, without being condescending or reductionist in how she proposes her tactics for the eradication of body oppression and terrorism everywhere: radical self love.

The Body Is Not An Apology is split into sections. First examining the roots of our self-hatred and internalised stigmas against ourselves and others, excavating how those who tormented us ultimately aren’t the originators, but pollinators of hate and judgement they’d learnt from external forces. Second, it explains how we are subjected to ideas perpetuating body terrorism- via the media, culture, and intimate pollinators of shame- and how these ideas are made concrete, made real and painful by systemic and structural enforcement by governments, and more cruelly and baffling, ourselves. This book does not endorse a binary organisation of thinking at all, Taylor is not in favour of any ‘you’ VS ‘them’/ ‘He’ VS ‘She/ ‘Black VS ‘white’- she offers radical honesty into admitting when we were victims, and learning to write new stories for ourselves to live by. But, equally, Taylor gives us a mirror, questions to hold up to ourselves so we can realise how we are never purely victims or enforcers of judgement, but always simultaneously being harmed, and (unintentionally, mostly) causing harm to others.

Her argument is simple: if you treat yourself with suspicion and animosity, if your’e forever giving yourself a hard time for not being ‘perfect’, if you don’t afford yourself empathy and compassion then how can you begin to extend that to others? If you cant hold yourself accountable for who you really are, not who you are told to be, how can you honestly hold other bodies accountable without reverting to bias and cruel stereotype? Taylor cites a perpetual reluctance to accept difference and ‘not understanding’ as ways our inherent capacities for self-love are intercepted. If you constantly hold up a default standard of body which deserves more love, respect, and grace than any other type, becoming hostile and confused whenever bodies not conforming to your rules choose to be something the rules don’t allow, then how will the mysteries of life ever be anything other than fear? If you can’t come to terms with differences that have no ‘why’, with not understanding the various reasons people become who they are, then how can you truly try to love everyone without making your love hinge upon some category that must be fulfilled? Basically, by Taylor grounding oppression and injustice in the body, the physical homes which keep us ticking, she is making the political issues that seem beyond our grasp a literal part of our DNA- she brings the fight truly home.

Her book is about honesty, forgiveness, curiosity into the why things are structured the way they are; and how by becoming more aware of who we are, our true potential for love is the long-term revolution that will truly sustain the world for future days. By examining the intersections of our identities, we can become more aware of how our worst fears about ourselves are not isolated or arbitrary, but indoctrinated into so many other people there’s no need to feel alone or afraid. Equally, by being honest with how who we are impacts our thinking, we can begin to understand why we have absorbed negative messages about others whose ‘faults’ are different from our own. By seeing ourselves more clearly, we can more effectively see how  we treat others-regardless of whether we actually ‘understand’/know them- you don’t have to explain yourself or understand yourself to deserve love.

Sometimes it may seem that Taylor is being too idealistic, too lovey-dovey for her idea to actually be radical, but that’s why I think she is genius. Her revolution doesn’t propose us all to be sitting in flowery fields, congratulating each other on how beautiful our bodies our and how all corruption is finally gone. Her revolution is material, embodied and so close you can literally touch it: it is within each push of the lung as it heaves out more breath. Her revolution reaches to the poorest of neighbourhoods,to the richest of banks, because her argument is applicable to all: if you have a body, love it- and that love will spread like the best ever virus you could hope to catch. If you constantly try to organise humanity into tribes to be trusted VS targeted, you could have the best intentions in the world and still result in cruelty when you finally get the power that was held away, and use it to do to others what was done to you. Without loving yourself, and by extension all bodies, nobody is there to interrupt the infinite figure of 8 the devil has somehow spun hatred into the seconds with.

I know that I’m definitely going to be revisiting this book a lot. Taylor has included many tips and tricks for helping unclutter the mind from the shit-show named body hierarchies. If you’ve been feeling not enough/ frustrated with yourself and where the world has placed you/ hopeless at what you can do to make it better- just generally confused/ ugly/ worthless but forever glimmering with that shadowy dust of hope, then this book is for you!!!!! Sonya Renee Taylor has a big heart that we can all learn from, and I really hope you give this book a try! It is not tedious, too complicated or far-fetched. It is beautiful and necessary. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this post, and to conclude, I’ve decided to quote someone who I know would agree with Sonya and L.O.V.E the message of this book…. RU-PAUL!!!! ‘IF YOU CAN’T LOVE YOURSELF, HOW IN THE HELLLLLL YOU GONNA BE ABLE TO LOVE ANYONE ELSE??!?!?!?!’

“We are not simply good or bad; vessels of pure, divine light or mongers of hate; interrupters of body terrorism everywhere or singlehandedly upholding oppression of bodies across the planet. If ‘good’ and ‘bad’ were the choices on a quiz about who we are, the answer would be ‘all of the above’. Humans (i.e., you and I) are doing and being all those things all the time… Binary thinking limits our possibility, squelches compassion, and reinforced narrow ideas of how we get to ‘be’ in the world. That marginalisation is a function of internalised body terrorism. If you recall, the practise of ‘I am not my thoughts’ prompted us to examine our thoughts from a place of curiosity and diminished judgement. The same is true for our behaviours. We can change our behaviours, but only when we see them as mutable- of us but not us. Honour that you will be many things throughout the course of your life. Sometimes you will be a phenomenal gift; sometimes you will get on someone’s damn nerves. There is gorgeous potential and heinous instinct in all of us. Singularity does not define us. Our instincts influence and shape us but do not define us. When we find ourselves in the land of either/or thinking- characterised by words like never, always, only, every time, mostly, rarely– it is a great sign that we may be off our path. Binary thinking is the antithesis of radical self-love…”

TOMBOY BOOKCLUB- Rise Like Lions: Poetry for the many

Today’s post is in honour of national poetry day, grandma shouted it out up to me whilst I was washing off London muck in the shower. But also, this post is in honour of an even more important date to my grandma… today was my late grandads birthday. She never mentioned it to me before, and I was a bit annoyed (probably just feeling guilty that I didn’t know and never cared to ask) she didn’t make more of a fuss. But that is my grandma; straight forward, and never sulky, always lovely.

So, in honour of my grandad and national poetry day, I have chosen to write about Ben Okri’s compilation ‘Rise Like Lions’, a collection of poetry across British history of political activism and thought  (left wing, of course). My grandad was what some people would call a champagne socialist. He would sit and pontificate about the woes of the world with a glass of rose in his shaking hands (a rose socialist, is perhaps more fitting for him), and to my shame, I used to think in juvenile delinquency that he was  just chatting shit. But my grandad knew struggle, and how those who suffer from it aren’t to blame. He never had a dad, as my great-grandad died in a WW2 plane over the North Sea, and was left to care for his younger brother ( he brought a prostitute home one Christmas and grandad punched him in the face- happy families!) and alcoholic mother, Alice.  She was devastated by the death of my grandads dad, and tried to open up a care-home but lost all her money. She relied on an army pension in her old unemployed age, spending it all on toys for my dad and uncle… and of course on more than a few glasses of barley wine in the pub. I’m not saying that my grandad suffered immensely because of the government for who he was. But, circumstance did render him vulnerable- and circumstance is always beyond our control. He knew poverty, and he climbed out of it with his mother on his back, whilst supporting his wife (my grandma) and his kids (my dad and uncles) at the same time. My grandad was no revolutionary political prisoner, but he knew that caring matters.

Today’s book is in honour of my grandad for that reason: he cared. Ben Okri’s book is a celebration of caring. It is a collection of various verses, giving voice to their politics through angry indictments or lyrical odes; but all probe at the concept of truth and how poetry reveals it. From working class revolts, anti-racist rallying and women speaking out their truth- this book fights all battles of oppression.  The poems are organised into different sections- Ideas, Vision, Protest, Change and Truth- which each come with introductions by Okri that mediate on the theme of that section. The book uses multiple individual voices, all speaking at different moments to show how even though its expression may vary, truth always holds central place in a poets vision for language, whatever ‘truth’ may be to them.

One of my grandad’s favourite poets was Shelley, and we read ‘Ozymandias’ at his funeral. I asked my grandma why he loved that sonnet so much, and Chrissy said its because he probably won a prize at school for reading it out loud (haha). So again, I can’t pretend that my grandads devotion to Shelley’s ode on the inevitable fall of autocratic power is rooted in some blood-deep militancy, but it must be said, the man had taste. Although ‘Ozymandias’ is a political powerhouse, Okri has not included it in his collection, probably because he knew how popular it already is ingrained in the back of all our minds… “LOOK ON MY WORKS, YE MIGHTY AND DESPAIR!” So, instead I have chosen to put another poem by Shelley from ‘Rise Like Lions’. It is dedicated to those who go unrecognised for their struggles and pain in having to serve a country who doesn’t serve them. In my 21st century mind, I like to dedicate this poem to all working class people slogging it out for what feels like nothing. To migrants, immigrants, refugees and minority groups (whether they be oppressed by race, gender, disability or sexuality) who are the backbone of this country. We need to do better for you, and even though grandad isn’t here, I know he would agree.

Hopefully, grandad, if you can read my blog in heaven by some divine intervention where the angels help you work wordpress on a computer, you will like this poem and feel peaceful and happy to know that you are remembered and loved- not just by me me writing this, but every day and all the time. Chrissy misses you terribly and sends her love forever and ever. I am sorry I was so naughty, and would never be sweet and hug you before bed like you asked. But like always, good night and god bless. xoxoxxoxox

To the People of England, by Percy Bysshe Shelley

People of England, ye who toil and groan,
Who reap the harvests which are not your own,
Who weave the clothes which your oppressors wear,
And for your own take the inclement air;
Who build warm houses…
And are like gods who give them all they have,
And nurse them from the cradle to the grave…

 

TOMBOY BOOKCLUB: BARONESS ELSA VON FREYTAG LORINGHOVEN!!!!

Todays book club is going to be a little bit different, because instead of discussing one particular book/poem I am going to be celebrating the talents of one poet… ELSA VON FREYTAG LORINGHOVEN!

ELSA!!!!

I only first found out about her a few weeks ago because like too many boss-ass bitches, she has been erased from so much of her legacy and historical input towards modernism/ dadaism in art/poetry. Elsa is so insipirng, not only is she absolutley crazy and therefore makes perfect sense to me, but she had a passion for truth and feeling as much as you can, that I think only a few people can equal. She was German, but moved to America in the early 20th century to live her life as an artist in the modernist community of Dadaists. She is highly suspected of creating one of the most famous pieces of modern art- that upside down urinal, supposedly by Marcel DuChamp under the alias ‘R. Mutt’. HOWEVER, many people think it’s Elsa, not Marcel (she tried to bed him unsuccessfully, but tbh I don’t think Elsa was lacking in the D- department- YASSS QUEEN!) for two reasons:

1.) There are letters from around the time of the Urinals exhibition (I can’t remember its name, and it never got accepted into the exhibition- but I think that was the whole point) where DuChamp writes that he recieved a found-art piece from a female friend in Philadelphia that he was thinking about entering into an art exhibition. Who was staying in Philly at that time, I hear you cry, and who also happens to be female?.. FUCKING THE BARONESS BITCHESSSSS.

2.) Due to Elsa’s Germaness, many people have commented on the phonetic similarity between the ‘R.Mutt’ psyudeom, and the German word ‘Armut’= poverty. People think Elsa could have been having some witty cynicism against the art world powers-that-were, by using the name to elude to the art world’s creative and visionary poverty when it came to understanding avant garde art in Dadism.

Aside from the urnial, another example of Elsa’s boundless views of overlapping realities is seen in ‘Cathderal’. A piece of driftwood, in which Elsa saw the shadows and spires of a grand cathedral; the unspeakable sadness of her longings for a lover who could not stay, of a God who couldn’t be worshipped. I love her bawdiness and unchastened view of the world and herself, but there is a tenderness and sensitivity to Elsa that I feel underpins so much of how she percieved so densley, and created where others would have seen nothing. Elsa isn’t only an artist of sculpture, though. She also perfomed sound poetry in her Greenwich Village appartment, paving the way for so many styles of poetry and music we listen to now. She talked about things no respectable people wanted to hear: eros, vice and sexual desire as transcending gender in its agency. I remember reading a part of her work when she said that Jesus had a large a penis, HAHA. When you think about it, that does make sense though. The son of God and saviour of mankind just wouldn’t have a mico-dick, surely? (No offence to any micro-dicks out there, God made you too.)

Elsa performing her poetry, not giving a fuck for her haters 💅🏼[/c[/c[/c[/c[/c[/c[/c[/c[/c[/c
Another cool thing about the Baroness was her fashion sense, Lady Gaga aint got nothing on my girl. She used fashion as an extension of her artistic vision, and constructed modernist outfitts out of found everyday objects. She wore teabags as nipple tassles for fucks sakes- WHO EVEN HAS THE BALLS TO DO THAT I LOVE IT!!!!! (the breakfast food item theme contintues, as she also made a sculpture called ‘Orgasmic Toast’, and I can relate- toast IS orgasmic). One time she agreed to model for an artist friend, and when she turned up all she had on was a red mackintosh and a hat decorated with root vegetables, betroots and carrotts amongts others (as you do). He asked her to take her kit off so he could get painting, and she threw her coat down like a gauntlet, revealing her naked, save for a bra made of tomato-tin cans and green string to symbolise the commodifcation of the female body. HOW FUCKING ICONIC IS THAT, ALL SUPPOSED FASHION ICONS SHOULD BE QUAKING IN THEIR BOOTS! BASIC BITCHES COULD NEVERRRRRR!!!!!!!! To top it all off, Elsa even got arrested once for walking down central New York in a mans suit smoking cigarettes at a time when women were not allowed to shashay to their full potentials. She used her body and fashion to queer gender in unprecedented ways- allowing feminity to be sexually in command of the phallus, letting real bodies encapsulate both sides of the metaphysical gender spectrum-  and if she were alive now I have no doubts she’d be a superstar.

ELSA IS GOALS!!!!!!!!!! I have no shame so I will share this nerdiness with the internet, but I actually made a shrine to Elsa in my room complete with decorated dragonflies and a minature rock garden with dried flowers and mini crystals. I repeat: NO SHAME.

My shrine is better than your shrine :)))

Despite her lavish imagination, constantly producing a reflection of the modern world where nothing was cast in one singular image, but always moving and changing in different perspectives- the same fruitfulness cannot be said of her material life. She had the title of a Baroness, but in reality her Baron was merely a bus conductor, fallen far from any hints of aristocratic comforts. She lived much of her life in poverty, finding sustenance in her art and friendships. But, this wasn’t to last. She ended up dying of gas suffocation in her Paris flat, but its unknown whether she commited suicide, aged only 53. So much of her creativity and spirit is lost to the mainstream art world, where people rap off names like Van Gogh or Monet like muscle memory. Her sad and untimely ending haunts me, but the sparkle and colour of her imagination is enough to make even Death wince and rub their eyes in her gloriousness. I imagine her not battling insanity or capitalist suffocation, but vibrant and alive with her friends in Greenwich Village. With Claude McKay, her black and gay friend- another powerhouse queering bodies and gender- both dressed like club kings and queens and posing for the camera like they could be in any fashion show or red carpet now- just so long as Elsa can keep her root vegtable hat and tin can bra.

Elsa and Claude being iconic

Her work is obscured, and so quite hard to get a hold of cheaply in print, but honestly to anyone who loves art/ poetry/ interesting people- I would highly recommend making Elsa your new fave person to google, because she deserves the regognition completley. From Grason Perry, to the sex pistols and beyond- so many punk rock anarchists today owe their lot in part to Elsa, and I hope one day she will get the biopic/museum/ commemoration she deserves. I will include a poem here to tantalize you, but I cannot say it enough: SERVE YOUR BARONESS! ELSA IS PARAMOUNT! MAY WE REMEMBER HER WITH LOVE FOR THE GLORY SHE DESERVES AND THE WONDER SHE INSPIRES!!!!! xoxoxo

IDOL

Why is it – that for that distinctive man
We sigh- pray -cry- incessant jubilate –
That even lovely sun we shall despise –
Although he in his glory set and rise
Above exalted empire of own –
Unless that semigod bestride fair throne –
That this one pair of lips – applied –
To our own delight – spites death –
His step stark happiness –
Upon his shank we sit I state.

Why is it – that the tussle – teeming world’s
Figures appear to be dim marionettes –
Like corrupt corpses tidy put aside –
He kiss thy knee – Prince Carnival winks bright –
Merry kings house – we caper gay as god –
To humor his mad body’s ardent plea –
We spill our crimson fount exultingly –
Mount scaffold black –
Alike we would flounced bridalbeds
And yet again – and still that selfsame man –
After some spell – becomes he changeling
Loathsome to pet – we stare him down –
Where is his ermine – purple-studded crown –
Hey-well-a-way – times kindled blazing red –
And thus it stands: flesh is but fickle spark:
Flame burns eternal – tinder crumbles dark –
Idol for aye – blood sacrifice
His stipulated offering.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOOX

TOMBOY BOOKCLUB- SUCK LESS- where there’s a Willam there’s a way!

Hello!!!!! I haven’t written on here for a while, and I’ve been feeling rather sad recently like a pebble thrown in a lake, and I’m the pebble trying to find out where the fuck I’m sinking when it turns out I’ve been the lake AND the pebble all a long. This image made more sense in my head, but I hope you get what I’m saying: LIFE IS FUCKING HARD.

I tried to get drunk on WooWoo yesterday to cure my woes, but it took me 2 hours to drink one glass and then I puked LOL. My body was ravaged (idk why- i am going to the doctors but THIS IS A BOOK REVIEW NOT A LIST OF CORPOREAL AILMEMENTS) and I just wanted a brick to fall on my head and die quickly. But I’m trying to not be such a diva in my depressions, and instead of fucking myself up I decided to have a long bath and read before bed, which brings me to todays book review… SUCK LESS.

Suck Less is a guide to life from one of my favourite drag queens everrr *drum roll please*… WILLAM!!!! Willam is an American drag queen superstar in the USA who came to my attention when watching my first series of RuPaul’s drag race (Season 4). Willam is the perfect blend of couture and crusty, serving diamonds and glamour alongside cursing and general grossness. She (Willam is not transgender, just a drag queen but imma talk like the queens and call her ‘she’ so whatever) isn’t just a pretty face with a dirty mind though, she was so smart at highschool she completed her studies top of the class in only three years! Alongside Willam’s grossness and intelligence, my other favourite quality of hers is her bad-assery. She got kicked off her Rupaul season for breaking the rules and fucking her boyfriend during filming when nobody on the show was allowed to contact their loved ones. The fact she got kicked of the show for breaking the rules by fucking IS LIFE GOALS TO ME! PASSIONATE LOVE AND IRREVERENCE OF AUTHORITY ALL AT ONCE!!! It doesn’t even matter that much that she’s banned from the show- Willam has a youtube channel now where she posts regulary and it’s SHADEY AS FUCK AND HILARIOUS. She also loves dogs which automatically makes her my kind of gyal.

Here is Willam in her classic glam blue smokey eye LOVES IT!!!! 🙌[[[[[[[[[[[[
The book isn’t a normal fiction book, it is full of colourful pictures and instead of chapters, there is a list of all the aspects of life the book helps you to ‘suck less’ at (the book title is both cheeky and relavent aha), such as: zits, munchies, controlled substances, hair, getting high, anal, insulting someone and having a nice home. She covers a lottt of topics, and whilst you shouldn’t read this book if your’e seriously looking for advice, it is really fun and hilarious. It gives a fuck about not not giving a fuck, and that is very important. It’s a good one for when you wanna read, but not get too deep into a novel that you cannae be bothered to decipher late at night. It is lighthearted, but when you’re feeling all serious and stumped that is better to counteract demons than getting all deep and mystical.

My favourite section is her advice on how to deal with munchies. Anyone who knows me knows this- I LOVE GETTING HIGH AND I LOVE FOOD. So, learning one of my fave drag queens knows the struggle of munch made my red devil-dick high eyes cry with joy. I keep saying that the book is a joke (I mean that as a compliment aha) but honestly the advice she gives on this topic is ace. Munchies can be a MAJOR problem, especially at university where my homemaking skills did not improve as quickly as my ability to read and read and READ; where the kitchen was oftentimes empty save for dirty pans/ stale, moudly bread and McDonalds chips someone put in the fridge next to their half drunken smoothie. You either sit there piping it up, stoned as fuck and hungry, having erotic daydreams of being fed chocolate and fruits by sexy angels when actually your stomach is bubbling like a marsh with hunger (guilty lol); OR *accidentally* forget that you ordered pizza with money you don’t have, and act suprised when it arrives, eat the whole thing then pass out instantaneously from a food coma.

MUNCHIESSSSS!!!!!!!!

Willam’s advice is to not ‘play Hungry Hippo’ in your head and grub out like a black hole inhaling calories, but to try to prepare your own meals- that way it costs less, is slightllyyy better for you, and it’s more satisfying to create and be inspired when you’re high than just be a potato. She makes recepie suggestions with a little key of how to determine what you’ll be capable of achieving at your level of littiness: BUZZED, STONED OR CFYF (can’t find your feet) It makes me laugh that she mentions protein bars- that you shouldn’t stuff your baked face with them under the pretence of being healthy- because me and my friend ALWAYS used to eat protein bars with chocolate, and we’d be like ‘Ohhhh it’s all protein, those calories don’t count‘. BITCH!!! MY BODY CAN COUNT AND THE NUMBERS ADD UP ON MY STOMACH AND BOOTY. PROTEIN BARS DO COUNT.

Despite the Munchies section being my fave, the book as a whole is just really well made and professional, without it loosing Willam’s dragessence (i made up that word, I think it works). She includes SNATCHED photographs, more casual pictures, playlists of songs to suit the problem/activity she is helping with ANDDDDD, for all you folks not completley immersed in the wonders of cross dressing and queer glamour, she even includes a dictionary of drag vocabulary to help make the book easier to read and more approachable.

Willam is truly a queen in every sense, and whilst there’s other queens too who I also wish would write books (AHEM TRIXIE MATTEL, KATYA ZAMOLODCHIKOVA, THE VIXEN SASHA VELOUR, SHARON NEEDLES AND MOREEEEE) this is a great place to start introducing yourself to the drag scene. In all the glitter and jokes and club partying, drag queens really do help me cope with life. When life is happy, I shashay and shante flaunting my wares allll day singing with Rupaul. But, when I feel overwhelmed/ sad/ angry, I can watch people who know a lot more of life’s pains than I do (they often open up about lgbtq+ struggles, homophobia, eating disorders etc- these queens smile through shit storms) throw on a pair of heels and try their hardest even though in so many spaces they’re not royalty, but treated like dirt. If a person kicked out of their family home for being gay can tape his dick between his legs and constantly wear heavy wigs, make people happy from dusk till dawn even if they feel crap, AND still spill the T whilst avoiding all shade- then we can try and not cry, and try to be stonger in beauty and happiness.

WOW the ending got cheesy, so Imma quit whilst I’m ahead. If you can’t get this book, please do try to at least give watching drag race a try! Or listening to queens’ music on youtube, follow them on instagram! BE AN ALLY AND SUPPORT YOUR CROSS DRESSING QUEENS! SOME OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN THE WORLD HAVE GIGANTIC PENISES AND, AFTER ALL, “GENDER IS A CONSTRUCT SO TEAR IT APART” (quote from C.L.A.T by Sasha Velour and co.) !!!!!!!!! As always, here is a lil’ quote from the book to tanstalise you… xoxoxoxox

“So how does a typical person find their sparkle? Self reflection in a Zen garden? Sure. That’ll work fine, I bet. Although smart money says that if you’re looking for some sparkle, it may just be easier to find a fucking drag queen. Drag queens, generally, make life better all around. Think of it this way: If you were bored at home and had my number in your phone, wouldn’t you call it? Odds are, your night would be more entertaining. I do all the things you may think twice about before even thinking once. It’s probably better that you don’t do some of those things, but you could always learn from my mistakes or at least borrow my stuff while I’m in jail…”