By Anita Foxall.
The Southampton spoken word scene continues to be buzzing with fresh talent. These two poets have brought their unique voices and captivating performances to Write a Note recently, and now share a little of their work here with you.
Srishti Agarwal
Srishti Agarwal is of Indian heritage and grew up in Bedfordshire, England. She is currently working as a doctor in Southampton and developed her love for poetry alongside her degree. Her work is often inspired by themes of identity, belonging, race and hope and has previously been published with WriterznScribe, Wriot Collective and The Waxed Lemon. In her spare time, she attempts to maintain a semblance of a social life, enjoys yoga and swimming and says she can otherwise be found reading or sleeping.
Surrender
We went to the embassy when I was 10 years old,
Made the trip down to London in that freezing January cold,
It poured and it poured down with rain,
But we had waited six months for this day,
So we sat on a red double decker bus and gazed outside,
And went straight to Westminster,
Excited and alive,
Where we joined the back of the queue and did our time,
Eyes wide open yet endlessly confused,
It seemed as if every Indian person I knew was in this room,
They greeted me with a smile and a spring in their step,
As they entered Indian citizens and left being UK reps,
When we got to the front of that queue,
My parents knew what to say and what to do,
They agreed to surrender and settle here,
Not once did they complain or show us their fear.
They did this for their daughters and a better life,
Only years later,
did I recognise all their strife.
Love Letter to Be Sent Home
when I come home,
the streets dance with rickshaws
adorned with bollywood stars of old,
the air becomes rich with coconut oil,
and people make noise to greet me,
when I come home,
wandering cows offer their blessings
play with monkeys on the street,
garam chai washes my soul clean,
and the sky begins to weep,
when I come home,
hot rotis with homemade makhan call out to me,
fresh jalebi and round ladoos dress every meal,
the cool, spiced mango pickle we eat soothes me,
and I am healed
when I come home,
beaded lenghas and charming bangles beg to be worn
the red sun bindi I place, in the middle of my forehead
beams with indian pride,
and my eyes remain closed to remember this time
when I want to go home,
bad signal and poor internet connection
remind me,
one flight and two car journeys stand in between
home is where the heart is,
Yet mine is across the Arabian sea
when I go home,
my nani takes me to the temple every morning,
nana and I play rummy all day long,
the rocking chair where I first learnt to read swings in excitement,
and I finally will
breathe.
David Spencer
David’s parents are Irish migrants. He grew up on a council estate in West Yorkshire. He has lived in London, Berlin, and the North. Often, in the last two decades, he visited Southampton, where he has now settled.
He was awarded the Verity Bargate Award twice; the Royal Court, the National and Soho, London, all premiered his drama; it has been shown in the USA, Ireland, Germany and New Zealand. He worked/works for the Volksbuhne Ost, the DT Schauspielhaus, the UdK and FU; all in Berlin; the Schauspielhaus in Hamburg; the Schauspielhaus and Burg Theater Vienna.
His poetry, Real Politic, ran up for the Partick Kavanagh International Prize (2021) for an unpublished collection. He was published recently by Strix, and Pennine Platform.
Dumb Animals
I bought a bargain leather jacket
second hand, at the RSPCA.
I suppose cows don’t count, or since the animal’s already dead
only the money matters.
Anyroad, short story shorter, I always thought
any beast that could turn grass into beef and butter was magic
until I learnt their belches fucked-up Earth’s atmosphere
and so, meant and dairy meant forests burnt in Australia
ice melted oceans got more oceanic and globally
millions of babies got apocalypse, pretty fuckin’ pricy jacket that.
Fagin’s Over by the Dancette
doing the St Vitus
again and again
to ‘The Unforgettable Fire’
bellowing over Bono
about stripping off
in a January freeze
and swimming Five miles!
along the Camden canal…
Just felt like it.
Like he just felt like
shimmying forty feet of wall
followed by a swift stroll
‘round the Palace Garden
and a plonk-down chat
on the bed of Her Royal Highness.
Me? I don’t give a toss
and rip the rings off a pair of Superstrongs
hand Fagin one
say, Get out of my establishment, Budgie!
Me and Michael we love Charlie Endell.
God save her he says
that’s what Lizzie shudda said!
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