Emi d'Escrivan-Nott / Nicola Ball

Reclaiming the Body. Poetry

Screen Shot 2013-01-24 at 22.45.04

This Project Aims to encourage creative discourse on the subject of reclaiming the body after trauma. Our contributors have responded from personal experiences of eating disorders, sexual abuse and breast cancer recovery. We ask everyone to be respectful of the work published in this exhibition and hope that you enjoy the project and maybe even become inspired to contribute in the future!    
 
 

    Her body… By Rebecca Lodder, editor of Razz Magazine

talks

raves and moans

aches for past

beauty with cries

for home,

safety

a box

to shut

away

the noise.

Shapeless skin

stretches

over the mouth

seals its conscience,

you mock

Philomela

as she draws

her sword.

False woman

laughs,

we harden

shrivel

to empty stones

great columns

who cannot feel

hands caress

its surface.

Fade to black-

out, she’s saved

by white noise

white ink

blank

pages cleaned

bleached

and her body

talks.

    Armour by Georgina Campbell

I am alive

because I’m not dead.

I’m sorry

I can’t stop

these thoughts in my head.

Speechless

what could I say?

When I’m told

to count

every

single

day.

It tried to

hurt me

beat me

consume me

be me.

They cut me,

tore out my flesh,

made a scar

so I could wake up

‘afresh’.

But I’m stuck

in this saggy skin,

waiting

impatiently

for life to begin.

And yes

Just because

I have one less

doesn’t mean

you can stare

at my chest.

I’ll wear it

with pride

because I’m not afraid,

even though

I’m dying inside.

And I’m willing

to wait,

so you can see

me as more

than just the girl

with the half breast plate.

I’m not finished,

it hasn’t won

because tomorrow

I’ll put on my armour

for the never ending vacuum.

Shouldn’t mean

you whisper

and mumble

about that poor girl

standing there

right in front of you.

Your eyes

may wander,

and fix

themselves at

my empty space.

    Broken Doll By Pogo Saito

A broken doll
Crumpled organza
Cracked porcelain
Grit where grace once stood.

A broken doll
Dragged through mud
Thrown so far
Still falling, so low, so slow forever.

A broken doll
Longs to be
Be the girl
Born to touch the sky

A broken doll
Feels real
Real scared
Raw where ice once flowed.

A broken doll
No
More
Stands on newborn feet
Born again
Still falling
Grace born
Raw
Touching the sky.

    Mr Green by Pogo Saito

Mr. Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
He had gumdrops
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
He had false teeth
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
He was funny
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
Long long toenails
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
Drove a Harley
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
He ate smoke kippers
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
Saw sky blue pink
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
He loved children
Mr Green

Like a crocodile
He. Ate. Them. Up.

Well maybe just part
There

Mr Green
Mr Green
He had false teeth
Mr Green

Gumdrops. Toenails. Harley.
Smoked Kippers. False teeth. Loved Children. He was funny. Sky blue pink.

Mr Green
Mr Green
Naps with children
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
He had stepkids
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
He had neighbors
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
Had a grandchild
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
Had a nephew
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
Had a sister
Mr Green

Mr Green
Mr Green
He had gumdrops
He had grandkids

Mr Green
Mr Green

He had gumdrops

He
Had
Me

But he doesn’t anymore.

The beginning.

    Sirens By Nicola Ball

Slicing through lights and music, a voice,

Can I buy you a drink?

Flash of a smile and a cheeky wink…

I won’t say no!

Can I buy you a drink?

Sink it. How many more,

I can’t say. No

longer inclined to THINK.

Fuck it! How many more

twist their arms around me like vines?

No longer prescribed to think.

Scream of a siren, or is that a cab?

Twist your arms around me like vines.

Think you like this ghostly

scream of a Siren, call us a cab.

My tounge a blunt instrument, noise and chaos.

Think you like this ghostly

flash of a grimace and a cheeky wink.

My tounge a blunt instrument, noise and chaos

slicing through lights and music, a voice.

    Perversity By Emily Pickthall.

Say when, a man with a big chin

chides me, knowing

that I have no voice yet.

Maybe it would be his fault

if when never came –

if gravy overflowed,

an oil spill

over a mountain range

of profit loss,

of roast potatoes

multiplying indefinitely.

I’m just a little boy –

I don’t want to be

a business partner

or an affiliated member

of the Clean Plate Club,

or have to sit on his knee

pot bellied

drowsy after dinner,

put to sleep by disaster

on the BBC news summary.

I drop a pea

into deserts of mashed swede

like artillery, code word

for I AM FULL –

Instantly,

the big chin blackmails me –

don’t be perverse, think of the other children

starving to death

in Africa and the Far East

My big sister knows better.

She knows that children are never perverse.

I love her –

for all the better, all the worse

she sticks her fingers

deep down, into her throat

mining her precious metal voice

to reply, loud and clear –

Well, why don’t you pack it up in a brown paper envelope

and send it via air mail!

She leaves everything on her plate.

 


One thought on “Reclaiming the Body. Poetry

  1. Wow! This could be one particular of the most helpful blogs We have ever arrive across on this subject. Basically Great. I am also an expert in this topic therefore I can understand your effort.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s