Mother of a Black Woman

I am the mother of a black woman
Was called a nigger lover, black mans whore
By rabid rednecks raised with hate and war
Spat at by misogynist, racist bigots on city streets
Was I angry, hurt, sad? Hell no … hell yes, but not for me
For my girls who would have to face the world on their own terms
And when my Mama said: In whose world will they belong?
I had to wait eighteen years to say Barak Obama’s world! Yes they can!

When my girl started crumping at kindy, not dancing like a fairy
Tutted and sneered at, as though this was dirty! Not what nice girls do!
No that’s Africa dancing in her veins!
I’ve carried Africa in my womb, the spirit of joy and hope
I’ve carried rhythm and blues, jazz and soul
Rap and hip hop have mixed with my blood.
When my girls sass me, moving like Jamaican mamas
I see two spunky, beautiful human beings
You may look at me and see privilege, middle class
Aryan poster girl! But I am the mother of a black woman
So I cry alone, because I will never know their struggle
I will never know their pain, when society tells them, statistics tell them
That on the pyramid of power; they are the lowest of the low.

So I pray for my daughter with long coffee limbs
Poised in the illusions of our society.
Will her skin open doors or prejudice?
Will her beauty bring her sycophants or fools to tear her down?
What myths and memories from that ancient Dark Continent
Weave with the primordial ghosts and Celtic songs of her forebears
To make struggles and blessings in her Amazonian form?
Find your own rhythm, untamed by your mulatto biography.
Emerge from conditions, perceptions, assumptions, addictions
To have a conversation with yourself, strange yet familiar
Moving clouds of feeling; fear, sorrow, anger and joy, they pass
Let your imagination navigate the gifts that only you can give yourself.
Do not be afraid, be gentle with yourself, turn your eyes in
Beyond doubt and dismay, the judgment of others
Receive a mothers blessing: Love yourself. Be Kind. Receive love.

Because I am the mother of a black woman
My solidarity is with the poor and oppressed
Like Eugene Debs I recognise my kinship with every living thing…
I am not one bit better than the meanest on the earth
Whilst there is suffering and poverty. I am not free.

It ain't called ecstacy for nothing!

My God what transactions transpire in toilets, in nightclubs, in cities
In the early hours of a weekend!
I’ve never understood the doing it in the toilet thing…
Walking in on two folks going for it… Oh ‘scuse me
Focus on the pretty signet ring of the hairy hand, not the hairy butt…
Hey isn’t this the ladies?
You retreat accompanied by a percussion of snorts, sighs, grunts and long inhalations
Only to turn to meet Drug dealer on the Early Shift!
Hey you wanna get on it? What’s your thing?
Got some excellent caps, pure MDMA (yea right) Will get you in the zone,
Make you fly Keep you high, ‘til 9-5 comes round again!
Sure I’ll take two you say. Two? Puh! With shit this good you’d best take four
Let’s get loose, let’s share the love on the dance floor! OK!
But as soon as you are out the door… a man with a badge!

Entrapment sees you three months later dealing with the law
Your lawyer says; Stay cool, express remorse, it’s your first time of course.
Didn’t I see you there that night? You say. Not me, says he
Oh but you’re one lucky punter ‘cos the judge is gay and likes to party
Just like you, wink wink. I’m not gay, you say, and party once a year, it’s a treat! Really? Says your hardworking lawyer thinking on his feet
I’ll see if I can get you with the family guy!

After a barrage of legalese the judge fixes you with the obligatory steely eye…
I can see you’re clean, been going through hard times,
How ‘bout you pay the fine And move on…
but you’re transfixed by the signet ring your judge is wearing
Last time you saw it slammed against a cold tile wall!
Something snaps inside …

Your Honour, I work, pay my taxes, I barely drink, I’ve raised a family
Now I think it’s time to speak the truth:
I only have remorse that I was caught!
And in the words of that doyenne of teen pop wisdom, Lily Allen
Everybody is at it! Why not legalize the lot?
Let’s face it human beings will get themselves addicted to any old thing
Whether prescription, illegal or some other nefarious sin!
Let’s raise the bar, let’s expand the free market even more
We already consume GMO, why not tamper with everything that goes in
Freedom to indulge, freedom to explore the heights of being …
A chemically modified human being!

So you like Prozac with your cornflakes
Valium with your afternoon tipple, Viagra at night!
You need to go shopping every day to feel that you are worth something!
Let the youth go tripping in the woods… Communing with nature
Or the monsters in their mind!

Forget drug testing; let it be a free for all!
Go The NRL …
Roosters cranked up on crystal meth!
Dragons inhaling coke!
All bought down with GBH!
Then … They won’t get into trouble at the after party!

Swimmers with bionic lungs and just the right amount of speed!
How far can we push ourselves? Isn’t time we evolved?
How fast can we go with a bit of extra this or that?
He with the best chemist wins! Instead of all this pretending…

This being natural is getting tedious.
Meditation takes far too long!
Who cares about our souls, our spirit?
What gods will show themselves in this orgy of gratuitous indulgence?
Only Bacchus!

Tell me why we spend so much time getting on it, out of it, maggoted, shit faced? Why is reality so readily avoided? Abandoned?
When half the world can’t even get access to clean water?
Every 5 mins a child dies from lack of access to clean water!

After this outburst you realize that you have gone too far
The world is surely screwed; and we are all serving time.

BELLO BARD BAGS POETRY WORLD CUP - Courier Sun 12/8/2010

A strong showing by Bellingen poets at the 2010 Nimbin Performance Poetry World Cup was capped when Hydes Creek’s Elizabeth Routledge won the cup, or half of it; the judges were unable to decide on a single winner, and split first prize between Elizabeth and Sydney’s Tug Dumbly.

The other trophy on offer, the coveted people’s choice award, was also won by a Bellingen poet: Craig “The Darkwood Clarion” Nelson, whose persuasive paean to the power of P proved profoundly popular with the punters.

The event held over the last weekend of July, attracted a field of 48 poets from as far afield as Canada, the UK and Ireland, as well as contingents from each of Australia’s capital cities.

Northern NSW was represented by Bellingen and, of course, Nimbin, which boasts the highest density of performance poets per head of population in the southern hemisphere. The standard of poeting was extremely high, and the competitors included three former winners, of which only one (Tug) made it through to the final.

The Bellingen team comprised of four poets – Liz, Craig, Brian Hawkins of Boggy creek and Fiona Kendall from east Bellingen (also called Sawtell) – as well as around a dozen support personnel in the form of psychologists, massage therapists, life coaches, groupies and a babe-in-arms.

Unfortunately there were more poets than prizes, and two of the Bello bards went home empty handed.

However Brain would certainly have won “best hat” , had such award existed, for a creation adorned with hard-earned lyrebird feathers (those birds can run!). Similarly, had there been a prize for best prop, it would surely have gone to Fiona, who delivered her powerful “Confessions of a single mother” from inside an ornate confessional box.

Hundreds of Nimbonians and visitors crammed into the memorial hall for Sunday night’s final, and were royally entertained by a diverse company of poets.

Liz’s winning poem, “Fresh Meat and Intercourse”, is a funny, biting and tender meditation on love and sex, particularly as manifested in a small town. It elicited hoels and guffaws of recognition from the audience, and was worthy winner of what most veterans agreed was the best Performance Poetry World Cup ever.

You can hear Liz and Craig do their winning poem at this month’s Bello Bards poetry night, on 27th August ( free entry, venue TBA – check http://bellobards,blogspot.com/ for updates. Alternatively, the video of the final will shortly be online at www.nimbinpoetry.com.

WINNER of THE NIMBIN PERFORMANCE POETRY WORLD CUP 2010!

Shock Controversy ! Cup split between two finalists!! Will they cut The cup in Half!

No! Absolutely NOT! Elizabeth Routledge takes the Cup home to Bellingen, telling her co-winner Tug Dumbly that he's already won before so she has first dibs!

No in all seriousness, I am thrilled and privileged that the judges put me up there with Tug who is a brilliant , polished and experienced performance poet / satirist. I was blown away by the skills and energy of the other finalists and many of those who didn't make the finals( Randall Stevens, Brian Hawkins...),it was a fantastic weekend, intense, funny, entertaining and full of colourful characters in the iconic town of Nimbin, NSW , Australia. It was doubly exciting when Craig Nelson bought the People's choice trophy home to Bello as well!

I want to thank Susie and Bob of Upper Tunatable who put up the Bello crew and of course Iain , Marty, Ruth, Sally and Rosie for being there and sharing a great weekend. We all thought Marty was joking when she insisted we would bring home the cup! Thanks also to Gail and all the other organisers of the Nimbin Cup ... it is a special event... one that we can go on and develop with a sister Cup in Bello ???

A round of applause for Fiona who got up and delivered her Confessions of A single Mother behind the confessional box but in good voice ... many in the audience related to her words. Brian Hawkins was as usual a unique, precious and confidant voice over the weekend and Craig has started a trend ...that could be around for a long, long time with his Ode to the letter P ... it got the audience going!

There were so many outstanding performers , some old stalwarts on the scene Robin Archbold was by turns hilarious and heart wrenching, David Hallett and Zelly were in great form ( as was Ruthie - spellbinding...over the time limit but.... time is not a kouri construct!)and Candy Royale a previous winner was also excellent. But in my opinion it was the young poets who were fascinating : Doubting Thomas ...so powerful, Darkwing (wig is good too!) Dub,Steven Smart and Randall Stevens (funny and smart all of them!); in the girls camp Sophia Darcy-Cole was outstanding and Betsy Turcot and Jarrah Schmah who were in the finals were all intellingent, clever, funny poets.


I could rave on! It really was a fantastic weekend and I am on a high ... it's taken me nearly half a century to win a Cup ! I was crap at sports ... now I am the winner of a WORLD CUP !!!!!

Thanks again for welcoming us into the Nimbin community spirit...spirited community ... I am excited about judging next year already ...

Peace, Love and mung beans... Elizabeth Routledge xx

Fresh Meat & Intercourse

Prologue

A sandwich of meat and in-between
a little bit of intercourse- intercourse being
communication, communion between
the sexes, human beings and god
and should you think my observations
somewhat …mean …wait for the epilogue
a taste of an ending to The Longest War
male and female, we are more alike than not
we just forgot where we came from!

Fresh meat 1.

There’s a new guy in town
And all those flying solo
perk up …Oh did you know…?
They gossip excitedly with hopeful delight
in the fruit and vege section of the IGA…
aah he’s probably gay! But secretly feel…
that he might just be the man for me!
they sigh and they swoon
as though it’s just spring
and the world is lovewonderful.
Maybe this time, this one’s for me
maybe this time it will be…
“The One”. The One.

Friday comes around too slowly
Babysitter bought in to mind the kids
Just until the pub closes, maybe until one
Oh this yummy mummy just wants to feel
Young, again, and free, if just for tonight!
She dusts off her g-string, her jeans are too tight
She showers and shaves; moisturizes and plucks
oh tonight she feels that she might just get …lucky
but worries about her butt – does it look big in this?
and the other flaws that naturally adorn her female form
which the media has her convinced he won’t adore.
But she closes the door on responsibility
though in the back of her mind she knows this bloke
will roll into town and down to the Fedo
for a cold one or two, and nary a thought
for his past, for his issues, his growing beer belly
the fact that his daks are a little bit smelly!

The girls are off the vino tonight
It makes them too messy, and slurry
and gin is too maudlin, but vodka is good
if you have it without the soft drink and all that sugar!
You know where that goes! Straight to the thighs!
And all their eyes are on the street
The loud ones laughing loudest

Then at last he arrives, vaguely aware
That for once in his life he’s in the wake
Of attention, as five pairs of eyes
Size him up!… to the beat of their hearts
Is he the one? Is he the one?

Ah but a good man is hard to find
We’ve all made mistakes and though longing
For love and intimacy, companionship
tenderness, a kind reality; we all know
we’ll probably settle for a drunken grope
a pash, an inebriated shag, a one night stand
and to hell with the consequences!
I can see he’s a player! but god dammit
It’s been so long, it must have been a year!
So right now I’m pissed and I want some lovin’
And though you all know I’m worth so much more
If he picks me I’m leavin’ through that door
And if tomorrow I take a dive, I’m feelin’ low
The blokes shot through, he had to go
Please don’t say I told you so!


Intercourse

It is a source of unbearable shame
It is profoundly spiritual, beautiful
It’s a sweet game.
It draws us together, it pulls us apart
a curious intimacy, an opening heart.
It is an itch, an addiction, ritual, routine
comedy, tragedy, a marketing dream.

It is a comfort, a joy, an unholy terror
a giving, a taking, an absurd messy error.
A surrender, an attack, a weapon of war
a deep, deep longing; a strange foreign shore.

A desperate grappling, twisting and twining
liquid merging, limb locking, sighing and pining
for it, the catalyst for life.

It is a need, a blessing
a contract, an exchange
a performance, a dance
a clumsy embrace.
Disappointing, predictable
dull or bon chance!
timid or bold, awake, in a trance.
In the morning, at dusk, afternoon delight
sunday siesta, ecstatic or trite
it’s a casual fling, an exciting fiesta
it’s hot n’ heavy, it’s so cool
it makes you want to sing
… a corny love song!

And, maybe, just maybe…it could be
a way to the gods.
And maybe, just maybe!
It can be the highest expression
of love.

Fresh Meat 2.

There is a new girl in town
and the men who congregate
in the tree lined street
grey haired and skeptical
over lattes and morning crossword
take note, as though it's justspring
and the world is lovewonderful
They look like pirates waiting
for their ship to come in, biding their time.

She's young, barely twenty
and only has the one kid
wearing her London funky clothes, clunky shoes.
Skinnybutcute.
They stumble into her orbit like dancing bears.
They will perform, they all have their routines.
The regulars have seen it all before
and watch with rolling eyes as the girl is charmed
by their small town eccentricity. Ringins all!

“You're delicious “he says, ”fascinating
I could eat you up!
I want to get inside your …head
I want to know you better, you're
not like the others, I could fall in love with you...”
He touches her like a dog marking his turf.
The small, still voice of her intuition
is tugging at her skirt, but she is
lapping it up, lapping it up, lapping it up!

So intuition is getting loud and sassy
“ Girl, girl! are you green?
are you really listin' to this?
girl you KNOW where this is goin’ to end
you know, what I'm talkin’ about
uuummm hhmmm ! That's right!"

Unlike the city men in their shiny cars
smiles shiny with rampant ignorance
stifled only by their neckties, C21st emblems of slavery
and the gods of consumerism who would lead you
into their chrome and leather bachelor apartment
feed you Charlie and cocktails...

These country ringins will astrologise you, ply you
with organic fine wine, after dinner talk, tantric promises
Buddhist chants, yogic flattery as foreplay
I am your guru goo goo ga joob!

But they all end up in the same place
men, on a couch
their hands down their pants
watching the box.

Epilogue - Musing

In nocturnal reverie
smiling at you through the open door
you shunned my mute sympathy.
How precisely we missed communication.
Again.

So when you accuse me of being provocative –
inciting lust, inciting war
I bow, heavy with sadness
that ruthful beauty, contrived to please
in form, colour and sway, is merely ritual, for…
the nameless flower in my heart
cannot articulate the scent of compassion.

My condolences, you fear a siren
who may devour your hoary carapace
eclipse each conflict by the by
commiseration, from a pure source
that has nothing to do with gender
where you will understand what I try to say
beyond what I have said
in another language that has no duality.

I supplicate, Mister muse.

The Lament of the Fag Ash Lil’

© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2010.

There’s a couple of fag ash lil’s
holdin’ up the bar of a Friday night
suckin’ in a lungful of poison
yellowing teeth, yellowing digits
puckered lips like a clenched bum hole
exhaling nicotine yarns through crêpy lungs
boozy lunch confessions
sozzle’d sweat,fuesty breath
preserving things, long dead.
Not buried
as yet.

When youth is gone
desire muddled
thoughts tangled
rose colored memories
tinted with sentimentality
blurry with wishful-ness
recycled histrionics littered
with corpses draped
with imaginary B grade filters
or enhanced, for a laugh
down the well worn path
of a much told tale…
I could’ve been…
I was gonna…
One day…

Through the haze of smoke, and mirrors
life eludes, addictions ensue
take root, like lantana
a host of choking weeds
contaminate any blueprint divine
stifling miracles of DNA
and large sections of the brain remain
dormant and our souls
sing the blues.

Wistful sighs, plaintive cries
escape their lips like a wheeling bird
a furious gull, who thinks
I should‘ve been a swallow
but all I feel is hollow
the seeds of my potential
fall on the fallow, stony ground
of the human condition.

Briefly the sound of sorrow
a fragment of soul hangs in the air
wafts it’s way into the branches of a nearby tree
comforted by cool leaves, rising still further
to join a host of unspoken wails
hanging homeless over the earth
to revisit you on a windy day.

Green –eyed.


My lovers eyes are green but
His soul cannot be gleaned
I talk, I open, I reveal.
I would give it all away…
No … not my heart, not my soul
Which is well protected
Not like Ned Kelly’s in 80 kilos of steel
But sealed in a net, like spiders threads
Delicate but strong.

I feel. I feel.
I feel our hearts beating.
I want to peel away the layers
Find the jewel.

I breathe my lover in
I know his smell
But the rest of him?
A perfect stranger.
Alluring, beautiful
Hesitantly offering
Small kindnesses
Small hurts.

A few steps forwards, sideways, backwards
An anxious dance, the dance of lovers
When no one is quite sure of the steps
No one is leading or sure of where they want to go.

He looks into my eyes and I look back
tongue-tied, mutually mute.
He talks to everyone, but me…
I…feel. I feel…
I feel lonely.

He moves amongst the people like a graceful horse
Bestowing charms; Flexing, prancing, stretching
All glorious muscle planted in the ground.

My lover cooks for me
Meals full of richness and flavour
His hands like an artisan
He moulds bread, hacks weeds
Picks fruit straight from the tree.
He says what you see is what you get…
I have to disagree.


He likes kissing but is hesitant with intimacy
He likes hugs but is … lazy … with foreplay.
He knows about my clitoris
(But not the crook of my arm, my wrists, my belly…)
He likes fucking… slowly
He likes cheesecake… his own cooking.
He likes me.

The first thing I see in my lover, long before he was my lover.
His skin; like a child’s, clear, unlined, unblemished, unscarred.
Unlike mine, lined with life stories, scars, silvery stretch marks
Veins, spidery or blue, mottled and swollen from carrying children
Dimples, a baby belly, suckled breasts that tell a female tale…
She’s fat, she’s thin, she’s sad, she’s happy, she frowns.
Smiling lines, laughing lines, weary shadows.

My lover’s eyes are green.
He smoothes the bed cover over his bed
So that the pattern perfectly aligns.
He talks about commitment like he is trying it on for size…
I don’t think it fits, it constricts, like a suit and tie.
It roles off like a drop of water on oily skin.
He thinks it’s what I want to hear but
I am emerging from a connubial nightmare, so
I am curious about him, but …
He’s too scared to let me in.

I sit alone
I watch him over blueberries, a latte
Restless, he gravitates back to me.
His eyes flicker over the crowd
He strokes my hair tenderly, he kisses my face
He places his hand in the small of my back
Like he owns me
Like he’s guiding me back to him, for a moment
He unfolds, unfurls slowly, but not completely.

The seed of the end is clearly seen in the first hours
Covered in a rubble of passion, soft kisses
Fragrant caresses, earthy sighs.

How time can wear a lover down
Beyond acceptance
To look for greener grass.

My lover had green eyes.