Jean's poems from the residency
New and original poems from Jean Binta Breeze’s writer’s residency at New Walk Museum
Walk Down New Walk
New Walk is a fabulous way
from my house into town
and the summer hasn’t been bad so far
so I have no heavy coat
The sun greets me
heats me
so I welcome the shade of trees
no cars to choke me
pedestrians only
the walk is good for the pain in my knees
But a walk needs a destination
somewhere to sit for a while
I never thought it would be a museum
at the end of a relaxing mile
Spring water
in the cafe
people watch and smile
then a quiet wander round each room
Where shall I start?
shaping new memories
from seeing old treasures
where shall I start?
Now I have a chance to be slow
in a city’s heart
New Walk Museum
I sit inside
your cool thick walls
surrounded by the art of generations
On these walls
there are journeys to be made
Shall I start with ancient Egypt
imagine myself a Pharoah’s wife
or be scared by the tight wrapped mummies
If I find the past too deep
I could escape upwards
to the space age
and travel trek like round the planets
meeting robots who will talk
and tremble at the thought of losing gravity
In the spaces held here
between past present and future
from dinosaurs to spiders to abstract art
A father holds his daughter’s hand
a mother engages with her son
the woman in the wheelchair
wipes tears from her eyes
I have been here so many times now
but each visit brings something new
I retire to the cafe
to concentrate on just a few
Will the faces in the portraits
come to haunt my dreams
will I go home jealous
and want to swap my pen
for a paint brush and some colours
for a kiln to fire clay
Or will I just come back and write
a new poem every day
Simon at New Walk
There’s a man down in the basement
thinking just of you
pouring over treasures
like archaeologists do
You may never know him
he’s the man below the scene
but from that new exhibit
you can tell where he has been
I followed him down one morning
and at the bottom of the stairs
he pulls out keys opens the door
and takes me into his world
All I had known before
were the branches and the fruit
now in one magic journey
I had been taken inside the route
And the racks of lined up pictures
each one hiding the face of the other
we walk through squeezed together
all the wealth so tightly gathered
And he knows his world inside out
introduces each one like a friend
tells me their history points out a gem
tells a story that has no end
My mind is on overload
he’s filled with knowledge and love
he’s linking and thinking and tingling
with ideas for shows up above
He says there’s no space in the museum
to show it to you all at once
in the meantime they must have protection
and this is the best to be done
I know I am one of the privileged few
and I’m trying to cram it all in
a couple of hours is just too short
his passion has me in a spin
So when you enter an exhibition
know there’s a mind at work down below
maybe you won’t ever meet him
but I hope this poem will do
Ancient Egypt
I have stepped back in time
into the tomb of ancient Egypt
and already I miss the desert
where pyramids stand out against the skies
This is more of a homely feeling
like my grandmother’s kitchen hut
over fifty years ago
no gas no electricity no new gadgets
just
doing everything the old way
I lose myself for an hour
going from cavern to cavern
learning how my ancestors lived
and what had made them great
My peace is suddenly shattered
as a class full of children rush in
and I hide in a corner and listen
as the guide talks of Egypt to them
Aware of their attention span
she soon finds them things to do
soon they’re making bracelets
or drilling by pulling on strings
They’re all excited by the mummies
too young for a fear of death
all too soon their hour is over
and I’m left contemplating my breath
I left wondering what the children had learnt
to take back to their own time
they had visited an ancient world
but could they place it today
for nowhere did the exhibition say
that Egypt’s in Africa
Portraits – Main Gallery
And what if we all came alive
yes walked off the walls
to the centre of the room
What if portraits started to talk
across the generations
Perhaps they could bring their music with them
and all their languages
yes all of them
The young lady with the hint of a smile
the dancing sailors looking for brides
the weary peasant carrying weight
the admiral showing off his medals
the skaters on the winter’s ice
the children breading bread
Yes
what if they all spoke
The nobles in their party dress
the young black man with reddened lips
the Mayans in their tribal wear
the woman as if bored to tears
Would we fight
or would we love
or would silence fill the room
would we find the way to tell
our stories to each other
Perhaps it’s only in the state of art
that we could live together
Ska for Laurel
Laurel Aitkin, the Godfather
born 1925 in Cuba
travel as a youth to Jamaica
and he heart start beat in de riddim of ska
The boogie was in his bones
in his new island home
Den de ska man from Jamaica
bring he music cross de water
win over England body and soul
from migrant to skinhead dancing in de cold
Den one night he play in Leicester
he meet a pretty pretty daughter name Sandra
tell me darling, will you be mine
35 years later and everything fine
So de ska man from Jamaica
sing Rudi get married eena Leicester
an he gather round all de musicians
he say, mek I teach you, I’m de music man
He say
you play a bad bass, come
and you on the keyboard, ah want you
what a wicked riddim guitar
you be my drummer cause you’ll go far
He didn’t care if they black or white
he just want the sound to be right
This is how you play it
ska ska ska
keep up the tempo
ska ska ska
listen to the baseline
ska ska ska
mek the drummer keep time
ska ska ska
Now de music tight
we’re gonna play it through the night
all around de world
spreading blue beat far and near
Now we meet here to honour de Godfather
from where he touched us in every little corner
what a legacy he left behind
music that will through time
ska ska ska
eena riddim and rhyme
ska ska ska
Laurel Aitkin time.
Laurel Aitkin, the Godfather
born 1925 in Cuba
travel as a youth to Jamaica
and he heart start beat in de riddim of ska
and he heart start beat in de riddim of ska
Mary Seacole
I like how they’ve given you space, Mary
a room all of your own
and the kindness of the lines marked on your face
as your portrait stands alone
What a journey you’ve made, Mary
from Jamaica to the Crimean war
fighting disease and giving much ease
to the suffering both near and far
How the soldiers must have loved you, Mary
as they rested their aching bones
the medications you gave adding a tot of rum
to send them safely back home
You never got the recognition you deserved, Mary
you worked for free all those years
giving all of yourself without any reward
and now you make me shed tears
Just to see your portrait in New Walk, Mary
so far away from home
but generations just like me will walk
through the exhibit that remembers your name
Richter
What are you doing in this room, Bridgid
surrounded by 48 men
you seem like you just want to scream
or maybe it’s a really bad dream
And the men so formal and cold
like power’s taken their souls
what actions lie behind their pose
what guilty secrets remain untold
Are you seeing behind their eyes, Bridgit
wanting to cry for the knowledge inside
while the painter hides himself in blood
while presenting clean photos around
I feel you are guarding their stories
like a servant in the master’s suite
with no hint of a smile
not even lines round the eyes
to tell us why you are here
Bridgid hidden
yet somehow laid bare
World Arts
Animals plants and stones
their skins their weaves their bones
meeting daily needs
their clothes
their pots
their jewellery
I’d like to open these cases
cook, dress up and play
belong to another generation
be born in another day
Nowadays we just buy in shops
make nothing for ourselves
we’ve lost the crafts of our ancestors
nothing handmade on our shelves
I look at the beauty around me
and think of the people at work
fulfilling their needs
not just satisfying their greed
I want to go back and join them
The Return of the Dinosaur
I am eagerly awaiting
the return of the dinosaur
just like all the children
I’m in love with this creature
I’ve seen all of the movies
given children all the stickers
made up many stories
put up all the posters
Last Tuesday I was standing
at the door to the museum
where a little boy was crying to his mum
“I want to see the dinosaur
the dinosaur, the dinosaur
mum, I want to see the dinosaur
where is it, where is it, mum”
“It will soon be back my darling
and I’ll bring you to see it then
look there’s a notice on the wall
that tells us exactly when”
Soon all the kids will be happy
and I’ll bring my grandchild in
and all us mothers will share the awe
of the creature in front of them
First Winter
I have always been a bird
yes
fly south in winter
this year
my children say
they want to experience a cold Christmas
So they are flying north
My son, my daughter
my one and only grandchild
I am going to turn up the heating
I must not think of the bills
And I want it to snow
Snow alone would make it worthwhile
to go out and play
Dear God, not a rainy wet winter
to be cooped up inside for so long
and what shall I find that we can all do together
On my own I would live in the pub
But to satisfy three generations?
I have only one light on the horizon
a way to create space through imagination
I’m sure it will solve my situation
Yes
we’re going to visit the museum
