outspoken press

Guest Post: Hannah Lowe: Reflections on The Neighbourhood, with poem ‘Deportation Blues.’

Today we have the poet, life-writer and academic, Hannah Lowe. Her recently published pamphlet ‘The Neighbourhood‘, written before the current crisis, is so relevant to how we are living now; stuck inside yet still in close proximity to our neighbours. Hannah also addresses the critical issue of the Windrush scandal, with her poem ‘Deportation Blues’. You can buy ‘The Neighbourhood’ here (with ebook option here). So, here’s Hannah:

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credit: Dirk Skiba*, 2019

“I wrote the poems in The Neighbourhood as part of my residency at Keats House in 2018-2019. I thought the theme an interesting one to explore in terms of Keats’ life, but really I was thinking about the difference between wealthy, rarefied, predominantly white Hampstead, and multi-ethnic Wood Green, a few miles away, where I live, with its down-at-heel town shopping centre and shabby rows of pound shops and arcades. Poverty greets me every day in Wood Green. I live right off the high street, at the end of a precinct flagged by a big multi-storey car park, used as a base for local drug users. All the accoutrements of poor urban living are here – homeless people in the doorway, unkempt streets, fly-tipping. It’s not unusual to see a couple of kids running for their lives with an armful of tracksuits just lifted from JD Sports, the shop staff in hot pursuit.

HannahLoweFCBut for all of this, this little area houses many people, or perhaps a better word, it homes them. Above the shopping centre are two residential complexes, Paige Heights and Sky City – architecturally unique when they were built – like neighbourhoods in the sky. You wouldn’t know they were there, looking up from the street. And on one side of the high street lies the vast Noel Park estate, street and after street of Victorian cottage style houses, originally built to home artisan labourers.

So the poems in the neighbourhood emerge out of thinking about how people live close by and high up in overpopulated urban areas. But the emotional energy of the poems probably comes from becoming a mother during the time I’ve lived here. The sequence opens with a dream-poem about losing a baby in an unfamiliar neighbourhood, but closes with a small boy (my son is now six), freely scooting down Wood Green high street, levitating cars and buses out of his way.

In between are poems about gentrification, communal spaces, how children negotiate living in busy, urban spaces, and of course about neighbours. Though the poems celebrate community, not all are cheerful. Both ‘The Trucks’, and more explicitly ‘Deportation Blues’ (see below) concern the forced removal of people because of the hostile environment policy. The latter poem is based on the crucial work of the academic Luke de Noronha, who has traced the outcomes of those forcibly deported from Britain to Jamaica. The form of the poem – a pantoum – with its repeated and varied lines, I hope captures the sense of this ongoing repeated cycle of violation. I also hope it injects some feeling of the personal into a story often generically reported in the news. All the details in the poem are based on real deportees.

I write this from my balcony, three weeks into the Covid19 crisis lockdown. Out of this unfolding tragedy has emerged a great sense of compassion within communities and social action at a grassroots level. It reminds me of how important our neighbours and neighbourhoods are, and how we must fight to protect them.

Hannah Lowe’s poetry books include Chick (2013), Chan (2016) and The Neighbourhood (2019). She has also published three chapbooks: The Hitcher (Rialto 2012); R x (sine wave peak 2013); and Ormonde (Hercules Editions 2014). Her family memoir Long Time, No See was published by Periscope in July 2015 and featured as Radio 4’s Book of the Week. hannahlowe.org @hannahlowepoet

 

Deportation Blues

From small and airless rooms,
they are taken, handcuffed, to silver coaches –
the ex-soldier, the diabetic, the boy who came aged three.
The aeroplane leaves at dawn.

They are taken in silver cuffs
with black-coat escorts on either side.
The aeroplane leaves at dawn.
They are body-belted to their seats

with black-coat escorts either side –
security guards on hourly rates
who body-belt them to their seats,
the man who struggles and shouts

until the guard on hourly rates
closes his hands around his head
until the man cannot struggle or shout.
The one who drops his head in prayer,

closing his hands around his head.
He has six children, three under five,
the one who drops his head in prayer
and two convictions for weed, for speeding.

He has six children, three under five.
He can’t remember Clarendon, Jamaica
but two convictions for weed, for speeding.
They deport you for this.

He can’t remember Mocho, Jamaica,
the young one who grew in care.
They deport you for this.
I need to get back to my son, believe me,

the one who grew up in Manchester.
After the heat, the fingerprints, the interview,
I need to get back to my son, believe me.
It was my little daughter’s birthday.

After the heat, the fingerprints, the interview,
the one who grew up in Yorkshire,
it was my little daughter’s birthday.
Up all night dialling his wife, his mother,

the one who grew up in Yorkshire,
in these small and airless rooms
up all night dialling wives, mothers, England,
the ex-soldier, the diabetic, the one who came aged three.

 

(*you can view Dirk Skiba’s photography here)

Guest Post: Arji Manuelpillai, ‘because it’s in the Lonely Planet top five places to visit’

Again, a comrade of Malika’s Poetry Kitchen, Arji Manuelpillai’s new pamphlet ‘Mutton Rolls’ is published by Outspoken Press. You can buy it here, it’s a banger!

Here’s Arji writing about Sri Lanka and the ethics of tourism. It comes with the poem, “because it’s in the Lonely Planet top five places to visit

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20200220-IMG_9172“Three years ago, Lonely Planet made Sri Lanka its number one holiday destination. Tourism exploded over night. With it, Sri Lankans across the world began to be engaged in conversations with white people about everything from beach package breaks to jungle safaris, suddenly everyone adored Sri Lanka. Who can blame them, especially if you are white. Lanka still carries around that colonial charm that means white foreigners get special perks at restaurants and bars, as well as that special British accent from my aunties and uncles.

I was on an Indian train when this poem dropped in my lap. A Californian couple in their thirties were reeling off how their time together in Sri Lanka was magical. In moments like this I do feel a slight sense of pride, mixed with a disconnection, which is topped up by a sprinkling of anger. After listening for a good 35 minutes I decided to drop in a light anecdote about mass murder, you know, to heavy the mood a bit. It went down, as you might imagine, like a lead mortar.

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image Robin Lane-Roberts*

I told them about the war and the problems for the Tamils, at which point she was surprised as she had spoken to a Sinhalese man and he had said it was the Tamils who started the war. And so, as the beautiful Indian outback flashed past the window I became more and more wound up by the self-righteous Californians ahead of me. But who was I to be annoyed? I don’t live there, it isn’t my home and they were only being honest. I did what any poet would do, say very little and write a poem which they would probably never read.

One thing really stood out that day, was when the gentleman adorned in shorts too short for his knees said ‘well, at the end of the day how were we meant to know.’ It made me feel sick to think of this lack of willingness to learn or become part of a solution. It also made me reflect on my own ignorance. In today’s climate, responsible tourism goes way beyond putting your rubbish in the dustbin. Travelling, for me, has become a moral and ethical minefield, asking us to not only question and research, but also to make sure we spend our money in the correct places. These days, it’s important to know where the county stands politically, learn the customs, measure the carbon footprint and perhaps even take a few language lessons. As our Great British Empire begins to disappear into the abyss, we find ourselves in an important position of fading power. How will we British respond? How will we deal with this change in dynamics? How will we accept our history and still create positivity in our future?

Countries are constantly chased by their histories. Every international closet is rammed full of persecution and war and often there isn’t that much we can do about it. However, now, in this time of free information, in this era of limitless online data, perhaps it is time for us all to learn more about the countries we visit. Perhaps our guidebooks have to go beyond the tourist sites and closer to the real people with real lives. Perhaps this is something we can all do to make sure we are supporting the grassroots organisations, fighting for positive change across the world.”

Arji Manuelpillai is a poet, performer and creative facilitator based in London. For over 15 years Arji has worked with community arts projects nationally and internationally. Recently, his poetry has been published by magazines including Prole, Cannon’s Mouth, Strix, Perverse, The Rialto and The Lighthouse Journal. He has also been shortlisted for the 2019 Oxford Brookes Prize, The BAME Burning Eye pamphlet prize 2018, The Robert Graves Prize 2018, and The Live Canon Prize 2017. Arji is a member of Wayne Holloway Smith’s poetry group, Malika’s Poetry Kitchen and London Stanza. His debut pamphlet is called Mutton Rolls and is published with Outspoken Press.

*(More info on Robin Lane-Roberts’ artwork and animation can be viewed here)

because it’s in the Lonely Planet top five places to visit

she is telling me how he asked her   at sunset   as the sun licked the sea red   and the birds punched shrapnel in the sky   she suspected something as he disappeared   just as their song sang from the beach hut   how he knelt into a sandy dune   where Tigers once rested their rifles   and metallic shells were plucked like poppies in the wake   how tears swallowed his words   will you   – I used to march to make change   but since then   I march just to sleep at night   that country changed me she says the bars the sea-views biryani kothu roti plus the people are so generous   they don’t hassle like Indians   they’d drop a bomb   wait five minutes   drop another to kill the rescue party   they spent that whole evening staring out to sea   she says it’s their paradise   they made a pact to go back every ten years   to that bar   in that country where bombs rained in no fire zones   where bodies are hidden sixty to a hole   it’s hard to put into words   he says as their fingers weave together   it’s somewhere we could call our second home   the soldiers were spread across Tamil land   few tried for war crimes   I don’t know why you don’t move back there