Hello, hello,
Thanks again to
for the brilliant writing prompt last Sunday. If you missed it then head back here. After sharing the complexity of her emotions as an African-American woman living in Scotland, Shondra asked for us to consider our own connections to the past. The ways in which these connections might sit easily, or not. The ways and means that we existed before and will exist in the future. The stories we might now want to tell as a result.This week I’ve got so many poems that I want to share, so I’ll get straight on with it.
The Ancestors by Jackie Wills. Found via The Guardian where it was picked as a poem of the week so you can find some commentary on it, if that’s your thing.
Cutting Greens by Lucille Clifton, from her 1987 memoir and poetry collection Good Woman.
Here, There: a Ghazal, by Sara M Saleh. Read more of Sara’s poetry here.
Rupi Kaur, from her collection, Milk and Honey.
And finally, two others that definitely deserve a mention but are too long to be put in here as images - How I got that name, by Marilyn Chin and The Idea of Ancestry, by Etheridge Knight.
And if all of these don’t fill your poetry cup for a Friday (or a weekend) then head into the comments where there is always so much to enjoy and plenty of space to share.
Over to you,
Nelly x
This prompt was such an interesting one. I had planned to sit down and do some research into my family names but then this morning I found myself thinking about my last visit to Scotland (where my family are from, well, as far back as I know). And this kind of fell onto the page while I drank my coffee. I'd like to spend a bit more time with it. For a few different reasons.
Doonfoot beach.
I took him for a walk down Doonfoot beach.
He pointed out Isle of Arran, murky mound across the sea.
I’m sorry to say that this was the first time I felt
anything like sorrow.
He told me of childrens homes in Glasgow.
Of belt buckles and absences.
Asked whether we could go somewhere for a wee dram,
I agreed, that would be nice, those days long gone.
Two figures in the distance braved the tide
as we navigated driftwood and estrangement.
His fingers stung with the wind, he told me,
stories arriving and leaving again as quickly as hopscotched seaweed.
At the far end we stopped beneath the remains of Greenan Castle.
Hardly a castle, anymore.
The light fading on stone now precariously close to the edge.
Pigeons calling a return to their makeshift home.
And straining our necks, we burst into life.
He wanted to take pictures, as did I
This homeland of mine, what defence is there?
What gained and lost on these rugged rocks?
He was quieter on the way back.
Only seagulls and the promise of frost on the sand.
Asked me where we’d just gone.
And did I remember the way home.
What to do with memories you can't remember.
I wanted some of Scotland's wildness for a vase.
For the first time in my life I said yes.
But also thought, no.
The next morning I’d wake and leave the house in darkness.
Return to scramble through thistles and up banks,
until I got right to the very edge.
Stand so close I felt dizzy with it all.
Sit and watch the dawn ask me where I’d been.
Thanks Nelly and Shondra - for the prompt and for the poem, I so enjoyed watching you read it on your own newsletter 🙏🏼❤️
I think, for me, ancestry and place get all mixed up, because my family haven’t moved very far from where I am sat right now, not for centuries. I’m Northern. All of my ancestors are Northern. Further back, my mam had her ancestry uk results back last year and she’s a 98% mix of Gaelic Celt and Irish Celt so I feel pretty safe to say I’m from these islands. My dad’s last name is ‘Wilkinson’ which google tells me is a Northern name but comes from the Norman invasion in 1066. But I also know nothing of my grandmothers. Their last names are always lost. Then there’s the whole autistic identity which I am just leaning into - for my whole life, despite being from here, despite knowing that in my bones when I stand on the beach or in the woods or whatever, I’ve always felt like an alien amongst actual people. Tied up in knots with unpicking the privilege I have to be able to say that I still stand on my Motherland, in the same spot my ancestors have stood for centuries, and how so many have been denied that privilege because of my ancestors, because of my country… it’s a lot to unpack and I definitely need to keep going with this one.
Sorry for the essay 😂 here’s what I’ve written this week, I don’t think it ends yet because I’m still figuring it out…
#15 - Motherland
Names are funny things
Solid or slippery depending
On which side of the coin
You fall
Or on the pigmentation
Of your skin
If I trace this red thread
Backwards where does it get me?
No where with words
Colonised by man
Taken by invaders of
My small but magic island
My foremothers names were
Stolen like her land
Like her gods
Like her power
Mere whispers left
In their man-made religion
But I feel it, still deep
Tug and pull and I hear it
Most strongly amongst the trees
And the wild places
With the fae whispering
Lost memories in my ear
Still left alone and with bare feet
I feel at home
And I wonder -
Of the people for whom
That feeling doesn’t exist
Stolen from their lands
As they were
Of the people for whom
Homeland feels dicy
And filled with traps
Or maybe cuts them
In half
And of my ancestors
Part in that story
Of my continued part
In that story