A Poem

A Poem

A poem is the rainbow you see within greyscale,
The beat in every silence.
It reaches into a realm unrealised and
Chokes it to the surface.
It cries in the desert,
And smiles when you’ve forgotten how;
It pains where there are no nerves.
It knows no nerves.

It runs when you can’t go on,
And swims with a hole in the sail,
Binding you with me
And me with him
And him with her
And her with you,
Joining us together like a constellation in vast darkness.
It hears the tears dissolving into your pillow
And sees the beams that prop up your smile;
It evaporates your tears, holds them in a cloud over your head
And pronounces your pain to the world.

It dreams in consciousness and unconsciously dreams,
Inhabiting your inhibitions until it bursts through the roof,
Smashes all the windows and falls through the floor,
Leaving you to climb out from the rubble,
Shake the dust from your hair and
Wait for the wounds to heal.
It exposes you:
Fraudster,
Liar,
Cheat,
Coward.

It wraps itself around you, strong arms raising the hairs on your neck.
It tells you, “Me too”
And you entrust yourself to it,
Fingers licking at the pages,
Hungry for more of
This bittersweet truth.

By Martha Everitt
October 2012

Surplus To Requirements

No one is superior nor inferior.

We are equally different, good at some things and bad at others.

We all came into the world with the same proporties of promise, but our behaviour and the choices we make from thereon separate us.

Do not disregard this. Do not see yourself as more or less, better or worse. Do not consider others disposable unless you consider yourself on par.

Your leading lady represents women; represent them well.

Been super busy these last few weeks. I'm delirious with busyness, hence my careless and dorky use of the word "super". Yesterday morning, I actually had to give myself a pep talk before I could get up. My alarm went off at 7am, and these were my first thoughts: "What in Santa's name is that noise? Aliens? What are they doing here? ...Oh wait. Alarm. Oh dear. OK, come on, girl. You can do it. You are strong. You are a strong woman. You can do this, YEAH!!!!!"

And then the little bitch inside me reached out, hit snooze, rolled over and went back to sleep.

That's just the way it's been lately.

But I've discovered a lot, writing-wise, lately. I've learned to be disciplined, for one. I actually have a timetable now, would you believe. When you work full-time and still want to pursue other stuff and have a social life, sometimes you just have to walk the dorky green mile and set yourself limits. Monday to Friday 9-5 is when I make money; Saturdays, Friday evenings and one other weekday evening is mine to go out, chill out or slob out, and all the other weekday evenings and Sunday are writing time. So far, it's working. I "finished" my play, then read it back, gave an inward sigh, proclaimed "No" and decided to rewrite half of the thing entirely. Perhaps that sounds like the only direction I'm headed in is backwards, but I prefer to look at this thing as glass half-full. This play is going to be epic. I spent lunchtime today writing a monologue for "Adam", an underachieving 37-year-old single father to one 17-year-old superbrain girl. I used to think that it was crazy - me, a 23-year-old, well-educated woman, trying to put myself into the mindset of someone my polar opposite - but it's not, really. We're all people. We all feel stuff, we all get happy and sad and angry and insecure. We all fart, we all shit - to put it pleasantly.

One thing that has become evident is that my writing is always going to slant towards bigging up women. I am never going to write something exclusively sympathetic to men. There are enough men in positions of authority and enough women still being regarded for solely their sexuality, that I think it's important that those who can should do their bit to change that. And as well as working on my own play, I've also been dabbling about on my brother's upcoming feature film, Goodnight Gloria, and acted as a bit of a "scriptwriter consultant" on occasion. Here's a film with a leading female character with so much potential to make a statement on behalf of women: we make stuff happen; we make our own happiness.

And so, I have formed my writer's motto: "Your leading lady represents women; represent them well."

And on that note, I went to the pub yesterday evening, which means that Thursday evening belongs to the notebook and biro.

She's too fat, she's too thin.

A trend has developed in recent years to oppose the onslaught of size zero supermodels, celebrity diets and tummy-tucked c-section patients: the trend of “She’s too thin.” I understand it, I do. Most women – not all women, but most – are made to have extra padding. Hips, bums, breasts and stomachs are normal, and why shouldn’t we encourage women with womanly proportions to embrace their curves, to hold up two fingers to the unhealthy perceptions of the female physique and accept that they are the way they are meant to be? I support that. What I do not support is slamming “thin” women.

I’m a size 8 on bottom and a size 6 on top. When I was a teenager, when I had what I ironically refer to now as “puppy fat”, I had an exceptionally large bum which had to be squeezed into a size 10. And I know what you’re thinking: “Size 10 is small!” And yes, size 10 is small to someone who is supposed to be a size 14 or 16, but I am not built to be a 14 or 16. I am narrow-shouldered, with thin wrists and tiny hands – hence why I am often mistaken for being just out of school. I know what I am and I know how I am meant to be; I have lived in this body for 23 years, I have grown up with it and I know it far better than any random stranger who chooses to pass off their “concerns” to me as I peruse the shops for my lunch.

“Is that all you’re eating?”

“Why don’t you eat?”

“Eat!”

I wonder if it would be so appropriate to ask a curvy woman why she eats so much, or to order her to stop eating. I wonder if it would be so appropriate to part some comment like, “You’re too fat. There must be something wrong with you”, as apparently it is appropriate for people who barely – if at all – know me to tell me, “You’re too thin. You must have an eating disorder.”

Ironically, being on the receiving end of comments such as these does eventually begin to instil in people like me an unhealthy perception of our bodies. I often pass by the mirror and glare at the way my top falls off my shoulders, too loose around the bust, or look at my legs poking out from under my skirt and wish they didn’t look so frail. I am aware of people watching me as I eat, and it makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable, as if every bite, every chew and every crumb on my plate is being analysed. I remember being 18 and in college; I had a chest infection, and I was in a toilet cubicle coughing up my lungs, dribbling phlegm everywhere. (It was sexy, trust me.) As I emerged from the cubicle a couple of minutes later, two glassy female stares met mine – judging, critical, assuming. I washed my hands and left.

I find myself facing increasing interrogation the older I get. I cannot have a bad day and be off my food without “concerned” individuals slamming my physical appearance. I understand that people’s intentions are good, but whatever the intention, it is demeaning to tell someone that the way they are supposed to be is “not right”. And if I wasn’t so used to it, it would probably be pretty hurtful, too...

Breathing

Breathing

Living with an incurable illness is like breathing with a wire in your throat.
What should come easily must instead be pushed,
But push too hard and risk hearing that tearing of flesh,
The warm metallic blood rising to your mouth,
Sticky on your tongue, dribbling venom down your chin
Like the vampire that sucked away your life and left you with this
Nonentity.

There is no coffin that seals this illness shut,
Or shovel that pats it on the top of its head
And renders it tragic.
They don’t talk about how young you were or
The life stolen by waste.
You persist in the world, wasting away an existence you feel you stole,
Constantly waiting for the heavy hand on your shoulder
To come and take you away,
To make you stand trial for your sufferance.
Explain why.
Why?
Stand before judgement in the box they have classed as ‘wrong’
And tell them you don’t know why,
Or how,
Or how to stop.
You are a menace to yourself and to those who have no say in whether to love you,
Who somehow hear a heart beating in that hollow chest,
Who look into your eyes each day and see the child who promised
They would grow up to be happy.

I have stared through the cracked skin and weary eyes
And found a spirit buried so deep in sadness that it no longer knows
It is there.
I have touched it, felt the shock of it at my fingertips and
Snatched my hand away fiercely,
Shamefully offended by its presence.
I have known him,
Comforted her,
Clamped my arms around them and
Hoped to suffocate their suffering.
I have loosened my hold on their pain
(as they do from time-to-time)
But forever remain hanging by a thread of barbed wire
Tearing at our throats,
Blood bubbling to the surface,
Making it harder to breathe.

Just... write.

Write a line.
Stare at it,
At the blinking, expectant cursor.

Backspace.

Keep going,
Keep typing.
You’re Blake,
Folded beneath a tree in Peckham Rye,
And the bark is imprinting its age into your skin.
You see angels – real angels,
Like the one you felt resting its chin on your left shoulder
The same week Nan died,
Or the one who slapped its tiny hand across your forehead when you were sleeping, and not living.
No one else sees them, but no one else needs to as much as you do.

You dream of Fear.
He’s always hiding at the top of a tower block.
You drag your feet toward him,
A slow slog, shoulders always slumped because the lift never works,
And what good is going anywhere if you’re not moving?
He waits for you: the storm that tears the sky in two and ripples through your bones,
The rain that bursts through the opening and drenches your consciousness –
Soaked, cold and panting,
Gasping for air like the Piscean whose fins were clipped at birth.

The angel must have woken you when she saw the tears on your face and
Inhaled the perspiration on your perpetually frozen palms
As you inhaled the hail.
Breathe,
She wants you to breathe,
To loosen your grip on Fear and climb higher,
Beyond him,
Toward the gaping hole in the sky.

The Power of Lies

The Power of Lies

I hear you got a promotion:
Crack open the champagne.
And yes, you worked so very hard –
That nine-to-five’s a pain.

You’ll send your kids to private school;
They’ll get the very best.
You’ll have to pay high taxes – though
Who cares about the rest?

Just ignore those small boys and girls;
Failure is in their genes.
At twenty he’ll be inside; she’ll
Be pregnant by fourteen.

You must blame their low-life parents,
Who can’t be arsed to work.
But you do nothing but: always
With your hands in the dirt.

Those immigrants are coming in,
Trying to steal your job.
But if they can’t, they’ll make do in
The luxe life of a slob.

Of course, they’re a threat to your world;
Let’s send out our forces.
They just want to blow us all up;
You want their resources.

Your profit’s smashing through the roof;
Your kids are going blind.
Your life is so very perfect,
And should I tell you why?

Debbie works at the factory, and
Night shifts at a café:
Working hard to feed her kids; you
Pay her minimum wage.

Her kids are at the local comp,
Classes of thirty-five.
Another teacher has walked out;
There are no more supplies.

They come home and their mum’s not there;
Dad’s nowhere to be seen.
They don’t understand their homework,
So they just watch TV.

And what about that man Nasir,
Who’s living on the streets?
Trying to sell the Big Issue,
But whose glance you can’t meet.

After work in some seedy bar
Your drink’s spiked with your shame.
Is table-dancing really the
Liberty you proclaimed?

It’s not as bad as where they’re from:
A land not scarce of debt.
Your ancestors screwed over theirs;
You continue the quest.

While you stand on their shoulders, they
Line your pockets with gold.
And as long as you’ve power, we’ll
Believe the lies we’re told.

By Martha Everitt
April 2009