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  Poets' Letter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poets' Letter Arkive
Life: Poetry You Are Always Written in the Alphabet of Light on the Dark Papyrus of the Universe
 
The Renovatio August 23: 2016

VII London Poetry Festival 2019: October 14-15 The Humanion Poetry Poetre
Featured Poet in Poets' Letter in January 2019: Claudette Athea Douglas
Featured Poet: Claudette Athea Douglas
 

 

 

|| January 27: 2019 || ά. Claudette Athea Douglas is the Founder and Artistic Director of the Holy Apostles Theatre Ministry, which is an urban mission, that brings the gospels to life by using intervention theatre, innovative interpretations and their reality roleplays ‘I am a believer get me out of here!’ to “take the message of love and redemption out of the confines of religiosity and bring the Spirit of humanity to a whole new audience”. She is an ordained inter-denominational Minister with a strong passion and long history of campaigning for causes of social equality, justice and peace. Claudette works as a College Chaplain, Singer, Poet, Actor, Teacher, Drama in Education Specialist and community cohesion expert throughout the UK.

She is, also, the Manger for Glows in Tulse Hill, which is an affordable work space for creative entrepreneurs in Lambeth, South London. She runs her own social enterprise, called, Spirit First Creatives where she is both a social philanthropist and cultural activist, who is able to combine well-being, creativity, personal empowerment and spirituality to transform hundreds of lives through her regular preaching engagements and her decorating the spirit events, workshops, creativity boot camps and resources.

Claudette’s theatre work began in Jamaica where she migrated to as a teenager. Here she won numerous awards for speech, music and drama at the National Cultural Festival of Arts. She studied performing arts at Dinthhill Technical High, Self Theatre Company and The Jamaica Cultural Development Commission. She stared in Village Rooster for Ed Brims Lewis Production.

When she returned to the UK she trained at Harmony Music and Dramatic Arts London Studios with Eugene Thomson and went on to co-form La Compagnie Collective, where she produced Mixty Motions, Court of Jah and monthly community based showcases at The Dick Sheppard Théâtre in South London. As Artistic Director of Athea Hall Theatre Company she directed and appeared in many successful fringe theatre touring productions, such as, Bups, Hurricane Baby and the Award Winning 1888, which toured Nigeria in 1992.

As a playwright she has written Dear Pastor, Baby Father-where’s daddy, Our beautiful Launderette:Scarman Trust, The Wickedest Slam:Women’s Aide. Her films include Concrete Garden:Alrick Riley, Velma’s Drink up:Adrian Brown and 1888 , winner of Caribbean Critiques Circle Award:Don Buckner.

Claudette has written plays for touring youth theatre productions, including, Bam Bam, Ragggella, Romeo and Juliet in the hood and To lose this world. In 2016:17 she starred as Harriet Tubman in the new production, Voice of Black Folk. She is presently working on her first one woman show and publishing her debut poetry collection ‘Black Blessed and British’ which will be published in Spring 2019.

English Spring

Daisy and buttercup scatter ore the field
in yellow-white confusion
dancing with joy my heart does yield
to English spring colour profusion

Summer spills over irrepressible with splendour
butterflies and lady birds come into their own
drenched in the sunlight I sit and I ponder
and listen to the sound of hoof on stone

Autumns appearance a promenade of contrasts
Bronzed leaves and Conkers drop all around
nature announces her kaleidoscopic broadcast
Rag and bone pony chart offer the sound

Winter sneaks up with her nippy embrace
Salvation Army band play in our cul-de-sac after church
Cowslips, Snowdrops and red berries cover all space
the perfume of the pine wood, heather and birch

Ahh here spring comes again, completely reborn
with the refrain of the dawn chorus new
Fragrance the scent of the newly mowed lawn
Silent the sunshine on morning dew

Daisy and buttercup scatter ore the field
in yellow-white confusion
dancing with joy my heart does yield
to English spring colour profusion



Identity

Intercultural intersectionality
Conjures up a new polarity
experienced through the washed up of exodus shores.
Pirate plunderers
face-off
Windrush wonderers
Crossing continents
rowing ores.

From the ancient kingdoms of Africa’s womb
I arrive.
Prehistoric traders
architects
labourers
Mercantile
venders
uprooted embers
emancipated harvest
all of whom were destined to be free.

From the earliest seekers
Hardcore
Reapers
Planters
Teachers
we continue
to mould new vessels of ourselves.

Our history hinted
we would be
differently tinted
by thirsty sun and genetic perfection.
This is my situation
not a fragmentation
but a hybrid aggregation
Part of everyone
that was
and is
I come.

middle passage crossing
I
Survived.
My past was radicalised.
Though
I was demonised
colonised
ameliorated
yet
self-liberated
I come.

Many different views
many different clues
in shades
of skin
chants of creed
cultures collide.
We came by way of faith.

Intercultural intersectionality
proffers a new scrutiny
expressed through the offspring of exodus embarkation
entwined in this nation
a newer generation.
now migrant wonders
facing
shipwrecked ponders
Crossing continents again


Red Dirt

Bitter-sweet Bauxite brimming
over with
enflamed minerals
that spread
bejewelled droplets of
embedded richness
hidden by the
forgotten past.

Golden bronzed pathways
that continue onwards.
Gushing out
mirage like shimmers of rosy dusts
Stretching far into the
Heat soaked horizon.

Pulverized by a thousand
Pilgrims that walked these
Planes when
Cudjoe led the Mormons
and the wealth of the ground was understood in
the reddened tinge of Freedoms yield.

Rio Cobre

Snake river
round Bog-Walk way
you have wrapped
yourself around the
mountains
of the central plains.
Old continental
you boast hidden knowledge
many histories.

Of
Dug out boats
invading troops
runaway
slaves and buried
treasure trove.
Haunted silhouettes
as the Golden Table
dips and fall back
into the past legends
round the gully bend.
Each corner
hides
rapid waters and
buried Moorish Jars.
Awe inspiring
Your deep calls to the deeper
endless search
we have within.
Mirrored image
of a nation
continually
in the grip
of its own discovery.
Spanish worm
you curl your history and snare
those dat nuh know River Road
and Flat Bridge corner.

When rain come hard
you buss
di
bank side
and all must
look
as di
heart at the centre
is flooded.
Cleansed
then
restored
and
then
yuh
let us through
only
when uh ready.
Then
we
march past
criss-crossing
still so much
in awe of you.

Woman Transformer

Woman Transformer
gleaning from the yield
herbs
Incubator
mineral
ground breaker
Sewing seed in fields

Woman Transformer
weaving cloth from yarn
bearing fruit
making bread
nation feeder
love generator
moulding clay in palm

Woman Transformer
Communing with her soul
creating nests, collecting bits, makings of a home
Artisans’, travellers, fortune hunters, teacher’s
Merchants, workers, big dream Reacher’s
Building cites from wood and stone

Woman Transformer
Queen of her own domain
enduring
Persistent
Steadfast
resistant
For all the wave makers
Pioneer
earth shakers
unconventional originals
priceless
irreplaceable
breathless risk takers
Leaders
Freedom makers

Learning
Pruning.
Cultivating
Brewing

Woman Transformer
Warrior and Prophetess
Strategic thinker,
History linker
Shaping destiny
Making history
Female agency expressed

::: Copyrights @ Claudette Athea Douglas:::

||  || 280119 || Up ||

Life's Laurel Is You In One-Line-Poetry A Heaven-Bound Propagated Ray Of Light Off The Eye Of The Book Of Life: Love For You Are Only Once

 

 

Life: You Are The Law The Flow The Glow: In Joys In Hurts You Are The Vine-Songs On The Light-Trellis

 

Year Delta Arkive 2018-19

Year Gamma Arkive 2017-18

Year Beta Arkive 2016-17

Year Alpha Arkive 2015-16

Poetry is the Voice of Me in You and You in Me  

Poetry is the speech that I do not get to make
And the love that I could not yet make with life
In the dreams that will yet have to unfold the secret landscapes yet to be seen
 
Poetry is more than the life I lived and less than
The life I yet aspire to arise out of what has and has not been
In the names of things poetry is the nameless nouns that yet to make the news
 
Poetry is beyond the definitions of defined space and time
Germinated seeds of my being unfurling the unfathomable
That I aspire to touch and magic sprinkle the whole spectrum 
 
Poetry is my love and loss combined without any profits
And where I go and where I be and where not and pine and cry
Poetry chronicles me in you and you in me in dream you may yet to touch
 
Poetry pronounces what I do not think or may not have thought of yet
I be and not be poetry is before middle and after of my joys sorrows and living
Poetry is my first kiss imagined lived remembered in a rainbow dance and music
 
Poetry is joy raining with fun yet embedded with corals of cool breeze of sorrows
Here it is where there is yet to come and there it is where here yet to be borne
Poetry is life imagined lived and unlived by life's reality's shell but touched as lived
 
Poetry is the voice of me in you and you in me where music rests in metaphors
Dreams dreamt in joys and sorrows where agonies' beats-bones wear colours' coat
Poetry tries to sing a dance that stares at fate more or less defy itself in living the life

From Illumine My Ithaca: By Munayem Mayenin, London, United Kingdom: ISBN: 978-1-4477-1776-8: Copyrights @ Munayem Mayenin, London, UK, 2004-11: First Published: February 2008

Treasure

Tonight, as I drive along a purple lane
under the swallow-tail of the evening,
I will think of you.  I can picture you -
your delicate skirts like the petals of a poppy,
stalk legs, black, with heels clicking -
your quick-step, on cobbles in a lamp-lit square.

In the cavernous chapel of my mind's eye,
I will watch you emerge, moth-like
in soft reams of white - watch as you waltz
between pews, take the arm of a man
I recognise.  I will think of your smile

behind a newspaper counter, the sound of silver
against the rings on your hand - I will think
of your pearls, like a cold, smoothed spine
across your neck, of your thumbs, turned black
with newsprint.  I am reminded

of your best teaset, the tall, slim coffeepot;
the Welsh dresser, full of porcelain horses
and silver spoons.  In my mind I will pass
the lake you loved, glimpse its shimmer between trees,
then speed away.  I will wander through

the rooms of your house, still heavy
with flower-scent and the breath of your cigarette -
finding your knitting and handkerchiefs,
the secret bottle of whisky, your stockings
and letters in the coffin of a drawer.

I will fold you away in crackling tissue,
carefully, with the yellow photographs
of soldiers you knew.  I will fold up your image,
to carry with me - white, brittle and dry,
like a word, a whisper, always on my tongue.

Claire Askew: Poet in Residence at 4th London Poetry Festival 2008

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

|| All copyrights @ The Humanion: London: England: United Kingdom || Contact: The Humanion: editor at thehumanion.com || Regine Humanics Foundation Ltd: reginehumanics at reginehumanicsfoundation.com || Editor: Munayem Mayenin || First Published: September 24: 2015 ||
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