Final Poems

MAKING THE EVERYDAY

of 25

In January 2010 C-SAP sent out details of a two day creative writing workshop for social science students. This workshop was held in Sheffield in March 2010 and was repeated in July due to popular demand. Few of the students had any previous experience of creative writing. The guidance given was that of the ‘sociological imagination’ which underpins all social science disciplines. The list of student contributors shows which disciplines are represented.

The workshop was intensive but was not directed to achieving outstanding poems. The two workshops gave students an opportunity to think abut how a sociological imagination might illuminate a topic or question they were interested in. Much of this is personal and the stimuli used included scents as well as ideas. The workshop moved away from ‘telling’ and ‘generalising’ to try and capture particulrities and specific experiences. Of course many experiences raise questions, emotion and require answers.

Several poems here are set in terms of questions. The writers experiment with different approaches including the ballad form, the argument. The emphais on capturing the particularity of experience gives us one prose piece which shows how reflection leads in to observation.

The workshop made a considerable impression on participants. It is a pleasure to thank Dr Elizabeth Barrett, Principal Lecturer in Education at Sheffield Hallam University for leading the workshops. Elizabeth is an established poet who is able to encourage and support novice writers experimenting with the unfamiliar and to respond to their enthusiasm.

The poems have been organised under notion of ourselves and other selves, whether seen or reflected upon Most lent themselves to each category used here. I hope the reader will enjoy reorganising the poems and reflecting on them.

Anthony Rosie Sheffield Hallam University

of 25

Authors Liam Clegg, PhD Candidate, politics and International Studies, University of Birmingham (Now Lecturer in International Relations, University of York). Laurence Cooley, PhD student in political science and international relations, University of Birmingham Samantha Foster, final year sociology student, Manchester Metropolitan University, now studying for an MA in sociology at the University of Manchester. Flor Gonzalez Correa, 2nd year PhD student in political science and International studies at the University of Birmingham

Amilla Maria Anthi Kastrinou Theodoropoulou, PhD student in anthropology, University of Durham

Adeelah Kodabux, second year politics student, University of Birmingham Luke Jones first year history and politics student, University of Birmingham

Lucy Mayblin, second year PhD student, University of Warwick

Maria Nakhshina, PhD student at the University of Aberdeen (Scotland), Research Fellow at the Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology, Halle (Germany). Meg Newark, 2nd year PhD student in Anthropology, University of Durham

Samuel Ameyaw Ntiamoah , Final year, Development Studies and International Relations, London Metropolitan University

Billie Rosa Tomlinson, 2nd year student in international relations and law, London Metropolitan University.

Desmond Wee, PhD student, Leeds Metropolitan University

Ours and Theirs

of 25

OURS AND THEIRS

Ours and Theirs

of 25

The other mothers Women are told they can have it all It’s up to us to take it! A nine month break will suffice Occupations in waiting An uncompromising choice Resentment, guilt, uncertainty Public expectation Discarded responsibility? We put our family first in all our work They put their work first for the family We look after our children Their bank balances care for theirs We made a sacrifice to stay at home Career, confidence, identity, perish. They say it must be nice If you can afford to do it. We give our children our all Days run into each other They have their time divided: Childminder, work, tea, PTA. They compartmentalise it Once a someone in Barclaycard Trip to the gym to start the day Smart suits, briefcase, office, own PA. Jeans, comfy shoes, t-shirt, orange stain Park first, shops with adult conversation, soft play. Tears, entertainment, toys litter the floor Book on jam making, present from mother-in-lay. We are homemakers in unmade homes They are the yummy mummies Right to work? Right to stay at home? Meg Newark

Ours and Theirs

of 25

13

Lucky for some. That’s what we said. What we tought. Two up, two down, needs a lick of paint. Just right for us. Perfect. Bought. The future seemed bright those June afternoons As we stood hand in hand on our lawn. Two names on the deeds, one future ahead. Safe. Rock solid. At home. Summer rolled by, the garden looked great, The birds and the bees did us proud. Work going well, bonus time soon. Clear skies. No cloud. As autumn fell, the newness wore off. Silence started to form. Sitting together, alone in our worlds. Frustrated. Less warm. Then winter blew in, the boiler blew out And soon a chill took hold. At work therew was talk, in your team and mine, That finance ewas getting cold. Cold turned to ice, the market froze up. The panic and run was intense. You were called in: no longer required. A temp. No payoff. Makes sense. Money was tight, no let-up through Spring. Rows crept into our life. Store cards – your cards – from twelve months ago. Shouting. Tears. Strife. Soon it got worse. Red letters. Debt. Mortgage falling behind. And then the shock – Repossession end of the month. Thank you Northern Rock. It’s summer again, but not like before. Our birds and our bees stayed away. Number 13, no longer our home. The echoes still say Lucky for some. That’s what we said. What we thought. Two up, two down. Needs a lick of paint. Just right for us. Perfect. Bought. Liam Clegg

Ours and Theirs

of 25

The postman

They praise the summer, these city swallows - we villagers embrace all seasons. They had escaped in times of hardship - we stayed when the light was cut off. Their feet cruise the hot gold beach - ours struggle in the sticky autumn sand. Locks guard the metal doors of their city flats - the wooden handles of our doors are polished with many strangers’ hands. Their children play with computer farms - ours play with the breeze from the sea. Their bread is the same rectangle every day - our loaves reveal the touch and mood of the baker. They dare to say we ruined the village - we take pride in the postman still bringing letters. Maria Nakhshina The poem is dedicated to the village of 'Kuzomen' on the White Sea Coast, northwest of Russia.

Ours and Theirs

of 25

Little Harriet

In ten Duke Street one evening Some two hundred years ago Little Harriet, a servant maid Could hear the noise below As asked by dame and master She joined the revellers’ gang Climbed on the dinner table And this is what she sang ‘My father was a sinker A sinker man was he He sinked my dear old Ma Before my ma had me’ And with this show and ditty Little Harriet sealed her fate For jurors would not believe Little Harriet had been raped She told them how her master Had pushed her on a chair And forced himself upon her Her skirts up by her hair. The medical examiner Confirmed the hymen broken ‘In a specimen of such low class This is but a token The life they lead is quite perverse It is not so strange For such a girl of thirteen years To’ve already played the game’ So in that awful courtroom The jurors sat and heard How little Harriet Stomp Had dittied so absurd ‘You shouldn’t dress so tartily And sing such filthy songs You clearly had it coming This man has done no wrong!’ Poor little Harriet Stomp The tart, the tease, the whore, She threw her body in the Thames And lived her life no more Billie Rosa Tomlinson

Ours and Theirs

of 25

The Hole

I sit alone sick in my stomach divorced of light and air greystone walls stoic, invasive. I sit alone locked in pressing my finger against thick glass contained from life.

I contemplate who it is that I have been I sit alone pale and weak. Victim?

The grey-haired widow robbed of her pension The twelve year old convict The blonde-haired blue-eyed girl robbed of her innocence The raped prostitute The teenage marine robbed of his life The anorexic actress The political activist robbed of free speech The AIDS-infected drug user The mother robbed of her breasts The inmate released just in time to die.

Samantha Foster

The Gaze

of 25

THE GAZE

The Gaze

of 25

Carrying Gazes: Towards a reflexive visual anthropology Between you and me

Is a silver sheet You,

An object of intention Making me see a certain way

You carry me

Stuck like the crest of a tourist Wanting me to see

The same as in that postcard Of far away

Like the others

You await the momentary gaze In the wee hours For the snapshot

That holds the key

I carry you In a trigger happy way Poised to shoot life immortal Baring observations Finer than culture you see It’s about the stage I say Of what you do Rather than what you see About some unique experience Not so far away

You carry me And look back to

The familiarity of place After which a gaze To stress it is to be

But only ask

The potentiality of me Making the everyday

Latching to routes Not needing to be away

What I assume to be An object of intention

I, Am a silver sheet

Between you and me

Desmond Wee

The Gaze

of 25

The Security Dilemma We didn’t want to But we had to The pressure was huge The mood not good The clock ticked The oil dripped We heard the whispers We saw the sighs The sue was blue The women were grey The nuns could wait But it was too late We didn’t want to But we had to

Samuel Ameyaw Ntiamoah

The Gaze

of 25

The Home

Screaming at me my Carer does not understand I am of sound mind Luke Jones

The Gaze

of 25

To Belfast

To Belfast? Why would you go there, they’d asked To understand, of course Disoriented by the greeting of that accent On the bus I heard it What language, I wonder It’s English – time to tune the ears!

Ancient hatreds No parallels outside this province Cities split by walls, graveyards too A place apart, they say

A Sunday morning walk ‘The Village’, not the place to be An unexpected flag fluttering, Israeli white and blue A place apart, they say On the Falls Road Near the leisure centre, where the others don’t dare swim Clinton stood here, shook hands A place apart, they say

Shankill in the afternoon Murals left and right The Titanic shines brightly, and KFC too A place apart, they say

Leaving day Said goodbye to friends cast far and wide Back on the bus, accent familiar now George Best Airport – no longer ‘City’

From England? Why would you come here, they’d asked To understand, of course Lawrence Cooley

The Gaze

of 25

Nothing’s being done!

Global warming! Myth or reality?

Sitting idly, Leaders consider it just a warning

Whilst tectonic plates shift

Tsunamis cause the poor’s house to drift

In the North, the oval room concocts remedies Meanwhile, the South suffers from the contrarieties

Fumes burp

Earth warms up

Leaders gather over and over again But in vain

Failed Kyoto expires

So, they fly to Copenhagen And talk to a never end Don’t they understand?

In the meantime, Earth does not stop suffering Talking is not enough!

Frustration mounts Outside, a mob crowds

Why doesn’t their cry cause a change? Simply because, they are too few to gain fame

Scholars devise a green state theory The populace considers it a mockery

Then, the outcome from Copenhagen

Nothing! Result: We perpetuate earning at the expense of her sufferings

So, who are to blame

for not abiding by the rules of the game? The state, us or both?

Whom to loathe?

If Mother Nature can change So can we

To avoid the global meltdown. In an ocean of inedible oil, We must not let her drown

Support the green goals Let’s amend our roles Unlike our leaders, let’s not be weak Then maybe, our future will be less bleak Adeelah Kodabux

Writing Different Lives

of 25

WRITING DIFFERENT LIVES


of 25

The theatre of the not-so obscure: cooking as unfolding

Tabah roho

Sweet winter afternoon in the ancient city. The sun is shining but it is still too cold to stay outside. We are sitting on the floor of the living room; between us courgettes, a few large tomatoes, a kettle of nearly but not quite boiled water, a small glass of mate. She’s peeling tomatoes, talking about Ahlam, her youngest daughter: ‘she didn’t go to nursery but straight to primary school.. our children don’t like to leave home.. she knew all the letters of the alphabet before she started… her older brothers and sisters taught her. She’s good at school, she’s shatra (clever).” Umm Samir stresses her last phrase as she looks up, finished with the tomatoes she passes the glass of mate to me.

Courgette, kusah in Arabic, next. Finely chopped.

A broad clear smile paints her face as she recalls how all her ten children came to her aid for their homework. But she could only help until grade seven.

The almost mechanical movement of chopping stops, then starts again. “But they give up when they reach the baccalaureate.”

Umm Samir cooked tabah roho1

--

. A soul for the plate of the poor or the poor for the sake of the soul?

Broad beans and broad beans with coriander and garlic (foul wa foul ma’ tsisjabarah wa thoum)

April 21, 2009: the broad beans come fresh in a big plastic case, five kilos, maybe more. Pealing the bean from its large coat is a delicate, time-consuming process. It entails dealing with each bean separately, carefully snatching the top part open, inserting a finger along the green side line, ripping the bean open length-wise, then using the big thump to separate the fruit from its garment.

“I used to be shatra (clever) in school, a good student. [Says Umm Samir as she’s showing me how to peel a bean.] Back then, we used to live in the farm, and there was no secondary school in Jaramana2

1 Literally, ‘food of the soul’, a euphemism as the food is also known as the ‘the food of the poor’.

. There was no public transportation and it took a long time to travel. Well, my father did not permit me to study in the secondary school because it was difficult and dangerous for a young girl to be travelling alone in such big distances. [She notes, as she grabs another bean, with only a hint of a sigh; then, a tone more affirmative] The director

2 Jaramana is a suburb of Damascus, four miles away from the capital.


of 25

of the school really wanted me to continue… [A break from the broad beans, a slight pause.] Well, to make a long story short, [the phrase Umm Samir uses is al mohim, translated literally as “that which is important”. This phrase is a short breath, an intersection to the story by some cooling down breeze. A conscious anti-climax that shares peculiar similarities to a Derridian exegesis.] During the same time my mother died, I became an orphan, and we were nine siblings, so we had to stay together and many of my brothers and sisters were still very young… I was maybe eleven years old. After a year my father got married again. So, I learnt the craft of sawing and I had a job. A skirt was worth five Syrian liras. Well, al mohim, after my father got remarried, difficult days came: his wife was very difficult (‘saab’), and I had to work hard in the house and in the farm. It wasn’t only me; it was hard for all my brothers and sisters [hajintou, literally ‘sad’ as a verb in passive voice].

I got married to Abu Samir when I was 14, and everything got better after, alham du lila.”

The broad beans are boiled and then slightly fried with coriander and chopped garlic cloves. But not everyone likes coriander and Abu Samir always prepares a smaller casserole without the embellishments. She sketched her life with her husband simply:

‘Our life was hard but my mind did not get taabat (tired). When I was pregnant for the first time, Abu Samir (her husband) mbasatat iktir (he got really happy/excited) - he gave me so many kisses!’ She added as if with a slip of the tongue, turning slightly embarrassed. ‘Every time I got pregnant Abu Samir got so excited and if anyone told us that we should stop having children, Abu Samir wanted to kill them!’

--

Courgettes filled with rice, minced lamb and spices

Early afternoon in the internal courtyard of the old Arabic house. Sitting under a shade, in a constant game of hide and seek with the sun. Ten kilos of courgettes foreclose the work of this difficult meal. It is the early summer, and the sun causes the anatomically looking kitchen instrument to reflect its beams. It has a blade shaped between a knife and a shoe fitter, and it is used to swap the inside out of the courgette: piercing the top of the courgette and removing a cone-shaped flesh from the inside. Green skin and yellow flesh are separated into different bowls, to be differently prepared and only to emulate a past connection (in proximity) at a later stage.

Three of Umm Samir’s grandchildren instruct each other into play. Their mother is doing errands around the house. Umm Samir sits down on the mosaic with one leg crossed and the other extended, her dress slightly raised, revealing the contours of myriad little red veins.


of 25

I try to imitate her experienced, delicate moves. As we invade the courgettes, she spills out instances of the troubled years of her life… Her mother’s early departure, her father’s second marriage, her forced quitting off school. She talks to me bit-by-bit or, courgette-by-courgette, in her usual inconsequential manner and she always finishes a story or a phrase with an alham du lila.

When the emptying of the courgettes finishes, the minced lamb will be slightly fried, then mixed with rice and spices making the filling for the courgettes, and all will be brought to boil with tomato sauce in a large cassarole.

--

Maqdous or the making of the social fabric

Part I: Ingredients

The summer dances on the steps of its fruits, activities of the house and the farm, delineated and marked in space and time, as in site-specific contemporary dance performances or some ancient, unbound ritual: June is the month of mish-mosh (apricots), July of tout as-Sham (Damascene berries); August of jaws (walnuts).

One early morning Umm Samir, her son Ali, and I go to gather walnuts from the family’s land: Ali climbs on the top of the old tree to shake the branches and we pick up the fallen fruits from the ground. Umm Samir notes that when the walnut trees used to be more this was a communal job for the young men and women of Jaramana, a celebration aid aj-jaws. The walnuts will be cleaned and let to dry under the sun. They will mature for a year before they are used.

Evidence of the impeding process had slipped through our gate since last week. At first, in the form of a plastic blue bag with runner beans from our neighbours in Bayt3

Abu Khalid. Then, a more definitive sign, from our relatives Bayt Abu Salih in the shape of baby aubergines (bethintjan). “Khair al-senah”, blessing of the year, Umm Samir explained, are gifts of the first summer harvest. “These are the most tayeb (delicious),” she added.

3 Bayt means both house and family or lineage.


of 25

Bayt Abu Salih’s baby aubergines were the first of this year, and they signified one thing: the period of making maqdous had arrived.

A Levantine delicacy, maqdous is made from baby aubergines stuffed with crushed walnuts, mixed with red peppers and garlic and preserved in olive oil. Made between late August and September, by the women of most Syrian households, to last for family breakfasts for the next year, this is a long industrious process - as time-consuming as anything enchanting or tasty. The taste of maqdous is particular, varying between households: tangy yet warming, slightly pickled but rich, the different ingredients strong and complimenting.

Part II: Procedure

“Bukra, inshallah”: the baby-aubergines and the walnuts sat in the kitchen for a couple of days, foreshadowing the uncertain definity of Umm Samir’s ‘god willing, tomorrow’. My own excitement grew proportionally: not only did I love eating maqdous, not only I enjoyed sitting with Umm Samir and filling my thoughts and note-pages with the footnotes of her life, but, I must confess, I had grand designs for the making of maqdous. A process that takes up days, the ambitious anthropologist wanted to film the whole process of maqdous-making, from start to finish, in secret my plans amounted to surpassing El-Guindi’s Ghurbal (1995). I made sure Umm Samir understood that I want to film the process, and every day I’d ask Umm Samir when we will start and her reply would be the same.

On the third day I woke up at eight o’clock and found Umm Samir crushing walnuts in the courtyard, and Fatima, her eldest daughter who was visiting, swiping the floor. On the kitchen counter boiled baby-aubergines carefully placed on a large circular tray. “Oh. When did you start? Why didn’t you wake me up?” I enquired, probably resembling one of Umm Samir’s grandchildren. “I just started, sweetie. Don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything. I just boiled the aubergines at six. Bring your camera.” She replied, slightly amused by my reaction, in a kind, reaffirming voice.

The camera starts by looking at Fatima who swipes the floor as her two children play almost between the broom and her legs. It pauses at Umm Samir, who welcomes the camera while crushing walnuts. Then, the camera moves through the house to the kitchen to meet the aubergines. As it retreats back to the courtyard, Fatima’s young daughter, two-year old Lulu, spills a glass of water on the floor and her mother, myself and the camera help rectifying the accident. The camera eventually finds its way out of the house at the place where Umm Samir is sitting. The lens zooms at the movement of the hands that crush walnuts, then the picture opens up to include the whole picture of Umm Samir, and the walnuts. I drag a plastic chair and place the camera on it. The screen sees a tray of walnuts at the centre and Umm Samir and I at its ends.


of 25

I ask her to tell me the recipe and I jot down some notes: “It is very simple. Boil slightly the aubergines with water enough to cover them- make sure the aubergines are under the water by placing on top an old cloth and a plate, otherwise they will go black. Let them cool down. Crash walnuts and garlic, add red peppers if you have, and salt. When the aubergines are cold, slice each one open sideways, and fill it with the mixture. When you have finished, place them neatly in a big glass jar, adding salt upon each layer. Close the jar and let it stand for one or two days. Then, take the lid off and carefully place the jar upside down so that the red juices leave but the aubergines stay. In this manner let it stand for a couple of days, until there is no more juice. Then, fill up to the top with olive oil. They will last for a year.”

The end of the recipe coincides with the arrival of Umm Samir’s other daughter, Ilaf, and her three daughters. Fatima and Ilaf prepare mate and sit with us, one of them jokingly noting, “We’re going to be famous, we are filmed today!” while the young cousins start running around the courtyard; the two youngest ones sit with us. We start chatting, entertaining the babies, crushing and occasionally nibbling on walnuts. Soon, the children discover the camera; their mothers attempt to discourage them from getting into the picture or playing with it, shouting “la’a, mama” (no, mum4

) and “ayb” (shame). Yet, the children are too excited to listen. The camera becomes the centre of their activities and entertainment. A bit later I will move the camera to a windowsill, a last attempt to recover my project. Two more of Umm Samir’s grandchildren come to the house. Seven children and four adults, we are outnumbered. The children invade the recording camera: actors, singers and directors. Somewhere in the background we are crushing nuts, sharing mate and discussing news and anthropology. We mix the spices and start filling the aubergines. The children are performing one by one, or all in garrison and the camera submits to their delight. I submit to their invasion as well, and later on, I ask of them to play the anthropologist: I pass the camera to the oldest one, 10-year old Sarah, and show her the basic functions. Now, she’s so professional and serious, zooming in and out of our working hands. The role of the recording anthropologist gains in popularity and the rest of the grandchildren want to take turns in the direction. Huda teaches and supervises. Umm Samir, Fatima, Ilaf and I laugh at their insights, sharing looks appreciating that this is, maybe always has been, beyond our control. Maqdous, mate and camera, mothers, daughters and granddaughters, everything seems so interrelated, inextricably interconnected in the recording tape as it did in that courtyard. And somehow I realise now, that my grand plot had worked: making maqdous is the making of everything else entailed other than maqdous.

A good meal: slow movements, unexpected invasions, subtle ingredients; intoxicating but never overpowering.

4 Relatives call young children with the name describing their relation to them and by which the child should call them back.


of 25

Epilogue and Preface

A series of stories, pauses and repetitions.

Fragments of life, moments of preparation, tastes of food.

The anthropological encounter, a process itself - a process like cooking.

I often get the feeling that anthropology, like life, lingers in the finer, always artistic, details of the usual and the everyday.

Acquiring the tastes, learning the tasks of peeling and chopping, akin to ethnography and life stories, is always a process and in process.

P.S.

I will always try and never quite achieve to describe the fragmented sigh of breath treasured in Umm Samir’s al mohim.

Alham du lila.

Amilla Maria Anthi Kastrinou Theodoropoulou


of 25

Hospitality In the reluctant church of hospitality, Where echoes of empire deafen the crowd, Promises of liberty, justice, freedom, Are signed by the hands of the just and the proud. The invisible mass silently flooding, Stealthily sneaking by sea and by air, The fever of fear contagiously spreading, Like a wild fire victim to impotent stare. In the bitter refuge of sanctuary, Where echoes of torture mumble mute pleas, Gagged fear awaits asylum in a letter,

Carried on freedom’s reluctant breeze. No One is Illegal Clandestine border crosser Breath holder Impatient warrior of destiny Criminal of geography Hoper Dreamer Inadvertent invader of ‘Our Way of Life’ Storytelling smiler with kites in his eyes Travelling poet Father Bird keeper Eater of dates by the rock in the garden Book saver Critic Misplacer of time Lucy Mayblin


of 25

It I carry the smell of progress in the tip of my nose, I carry the taste of tomorrow deep down my throat. I carry strands of oil through my whole body, I carry on my chest the soul of nothing.

I carry someone else’s future on my shoulders, But I’m not carrying It, not anymore. I have my feet sunk in the bottom of this black river That used to be nature, that used to be ours. I have my heart empty, they have full their pockets. I poured its life down the Street of Nowhere. It used to be my future, but not anymore. I’m the casualty of tomorrow. I had no choice. They promised us the fullest moon, the brightest star, But all we have left is a dying dream, the collest night. They gave me mirrors, I gave them gold. They promised me life, but then they forgot. They gave me an illusion to stand for, They say it’s forever, that I need no more. But it doesn’t’ sooth me like its tender perfume, But it doesn’t comfort me like its graceful eyes. They say it’s for better, they say it’s for food. But it doesn’t’ balm me like Its hand againt my chest, But it doesn’t look like Its smile in a summer day. Is it worth it? Flor Gonzalez

Final Poems

Documents

Transcript of Final Poems