NTW Soul Exchange Reflections

I really enjoyed taking part in the Soul Exchange recently (which also doubled as a Germs Exchange – hence this late blog post!!!) and thought you might be interested to see some of the photos I took (on my rubbishy, 2 megapixel camera – apologies – I only got it because they me a free Wii), as well as read my spoken word piece(yes! A poem), written specifically for the event. It’s basically a first person piece in the voice of a Christian grandmother, whose daughter marries a Muslim sailor, around the same time Butetown’s first ever mosque was built, in the 1930s. She is unhappy that her grandson might be given a Muslim name – so, steals the baby away and gets him secretly Christened. It’s based on real event of the time, with real nans nicking real sprogs and getting them really named, without their parents’ prior consent. If this hadn’t happened, there’d probably be more Achmeds in that generation, than Peters and Paulines, which would make hardly any difference to us, now, but for the innocent babies, angry parents, and adamant nans, must have been a huge hoo-ha.

In any case, I tried to keep the piece as unjudgemental as possible, and as much from the view of the old lady as I could, rather than paint her as a busy-body or, worse, some sort of interfering old witch. It’s likely these naughty nans really thought they were in the right – if a baby wasn’t Christened, and died (more of a possibility in those days of Suchandsuch Fevers and Smallpox), the its soul wouldn’t go to heaven, they believed. Information on this (mal)practice is largely anecdotal; the Butetown Museum can provide some documentation, however. My thanks to Soul Exchange director, Kully Thiarai, for suggesting the topic in the first place. I’m really glad my own nan only had enough power to give me a middle name (youwillneverknowwhatitis!), anyway!

You can read my poem here > > > > > >

(Note: this is a performance poem, so made for hearing rather than for reading. Also, it begins by talking about Welsh cakes, and finding a hair in one – this is a real event, that occured in the WMC cafe, when I asked the Fates for a bit of inspiration. Then result was long, dark hair embedded in the Welsh cake I had ordered. Thanks, Fates!!!)

I remember, long ago,
I found an hair in uh Welsh cake.
And I remember, even though
The hair was black as coal and as long
As from yur tuh the back of beyond and not
The sort uh thing you'd expect tuh be in
Uh cake uh that make
Like the shilling they puts in at Christmas, well -
Still, I ett it.
Said nil, because I bet it
Fell from the one who baked the cake.
I knew from who the hair escaped
Like the leaves that fall intuh Roath Park Lake
That she took us to when we were small.

It was my mother's hair, wan' it?
So I kept stumm, forgot it;
Ett and never spoke of it
'Til now.

Cos in those days if you found a thing
In food you knew exactly who
And when and where
And how it got in there
And didn't really care
For that reason.

But you never know what you'll find, these days.
Like when I go round my daughter's place...
There's other cakes made by other hands.
Her husband comes from other lands
You see.
Skin as dark as my mother's hair...
And he
Cooks, an' all! Little cakes but not cakes, really.
My mouf, it got all hot, and nearly
Burned! My stomach turned, and I have learned
Not to eat round there.

In my day, we had only three types of spices, for cakes:
Cinnamon, ginger, and cloves.
I’d never yurd uh CAR-duh-MON!
And when she said she was three munfs gone, well -
My mind was reeling.
Some things are wrong
And so is stealing –
But, I didn’t want no grandchild uh mine having no funny name,
Some strange word I could hardly say
Like car-duh-mon.
It isn’t wrong, is it?
To pop along on a visit
To the local church, taking the baby wiv me,
And at the same time incidentally
Having him Christened.
It isn’t a sin
To save a baby’s soul...

Of course, they didn’t know –
I didn’t ask!
Just took the baby and fast
As I could, got him named
As he shoulda been at the start.
Paul is what he’s called.

My daughter was appalled uh course
To have her baby named by force
By me, but see
Tuh name the baby any other way
Would uh been –
Like carduhmon in a Welsh cake,
Or an hair off an head of someone you ain’t met –
Just plain wrong.
He wouldn’t belong,
My grandson, with a name like Achmed
Or Mohammed.
Paul is what he’s called
And I’m glad, by God, that I done it.

Soul Exchange!

This week, I'm very busy rehearsing to be in National Theatre Wales's SOUL EXCHANGE, in which I play a 1930s nan from Butetown/Tiger Bay. It's a really interesting exsperience, meeting people from all walks (and runs, and sprints, and -in my case, stumbles - of life)! Specifically, I am working with an actress called Pauline who, a while back, co-wrote this pretty great film about the landing of The Windrush, the ship that brought the first immigrants from the West Indies to Britain. You can watch this here:

ME REACH (White Lantern Films)

The Soul Exchange itself is the culmination of 2 years' work, researching into the history of the once-Tiger Bay, interviewing residents, collecting stories, and so forth. I have written a spoken word piece based on true incidents: basically, about a white woman (as I am!) who doesn't want her mixed-race grandson to be given a Muslim name... Can you guess what she does to achieve this??? Well, you'll have to come along if you want to find out...!!



Hope to see you there!!!

FIND OUT MORE / BOOK TICKETS

After Snow White

And after Snow White went away
The dwarves decided not to stay
In the house that by her absence she'd left hollow

They sold up, separated, split
Found lines of work that seemed to fit
Them better than that one they used to follow

So, Grumpy works in a contact centre
Takes ten thousand calls a week

And Doc's a wannabe inventor
I saw him on Dragon's Den last week

And Sneezy works in a factory
Where I think they pack M&S food

And Bashful went into comedy
I heard that his stuff's really rude

And Dopey became a huge celeb
After he went on Big Brother

And Happy just sells fruit and veg
On a stall he runs with his gay lover

And Sleepy, well, Sleepy never
Seemed to find his happy ever
After, rather he just spends all his time asleep

Slumbering instead of waking
In a mine of his own making
'Cept unlike the others this one runs too dark and deep

In his dreams he reminisces
About the princess, and the kisses
That she lay like gold dust on his round and wrinkled head

Now that dust is lost and scattered
Hearts and mirrors, all have shattered
Snow white lies to broken ties and broken home have led

Better, then, to lie alone, a stone inside his bed

To close his eyes and fantasise, not weep, but sleep, instead.

Check out my website!

For all the latest news, see:

www.mabjones.com

x

First Flag

that first dragon was
a ribbon of blood;

that first grass was
a river of mud;

that first sky
was a streak of spit;

that first flag
was a wound just split;

the first men who hauled it
tore it out their gaping hearts;

the first wives who wore it
bore it from their just-raped parts;

the bastard child
of love and hate

that first flag
was hard as slate

a kite's sharp beak

a harp's wild shriek

a brittle tongue

a battle won -

like coal it burned
it had no choice

that flag was birthed
because no voice

was ours

those powers

we had, forgotten

that first flag
took what was rotten

and burned it
spurned it
spun it into this:

first flag
our flag

wrongs righted by its fist.

No Maybe Baby

My friend came to visit me with her new baby
And asked would I like one? I smiled and said maybe
But really the creatures are not to my liking
One end’s constant feeding and one’s constant wiping
One end is all scream and the other’s all splatter
Like tumours they grow, getting bigger and fatter
And louder and larger and soon they can talk
You have to talk back to them, then they can walk
You have to walk with them, then they can run
They run away from you, they take all the fun
Out of living the giving you get no thanks for
Then the grieving their leaving begets, what a bore
Are these children, these chilblains, these horrible kids
Who turn all your might-haves into never-dids
Who take all your time and your money as well
Who constantly whine, it was funny as hell
To see my friend croon and moon over the critter
She recently pooped out, the first of a litter
Of many, I thought, as her smiling daft face
Gurned googoo and gaga with all of the grace
Of a loony baboon, a baby-mad momma
Cartoon-y buffoon, and maybe tomorra
I’ll change my opinion but probably not
As I looked at my friend and her child all I got
Was a shivering sense of all she was missing
That quivering mass was all she was kissing
While I get the whole world to choose from and take
Boys, booze and bonbons are mine, that mistake
Is one better left to birds who feel a need
To fetter and cage themselves i.e. to breed
While I with my words will live happy, no baby
With unending turds will tie me down, no maybe
About it, without it I’m glad and I’m glowing
And instead of a child I give birth to this poem.

Everything At Once

Ive been very busy recently - maybe overly so. No time to write, gigs cancelled and even missed, almost sacked at work, suffering baby bouts of burnout... I think I may be at that thing called 'a crossroads'.

On the other hand, Im very happy to report that recent gigs with National Theatre Wales, at the Wychwood Festival and the new-but-lovely Trip Festival went well.

Next up: Nozstock Festival, Green Man Festival, Cardiff Comedy Festival, and Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

Watch this space!!!

M x

Poem of the Month

My poem 'Beautiful Girl' is poem of the month on the lovely perf poetry website Write Out Loud. You can read it here:

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/features.php?year=2010&month=5&tag=Poem%20of%20the%20month

Slam!!!

I have been SO busy... Gigging all around, doing workshops in prisons and schools, trying to be on the telly (ITV Wales came to film me... this will hopefully be out soon!), organising events (including a SLAM to take place on May 31 - see www.jambones.webs.com for details) that I have been rather remiss in these missives. I am a misgiving miss who misses her mission, which is:

to write, rather than organise
to wrong, rather than right
to write, rather than left-overs
to left, rather than right

and so on.

So! Here is another blog post for you. Did you enjoy it????? Me too. x

C H R I S T M A S - an acrostic poem

C rap in wrap a
H appy chap in
R eindeer trap has brought us.
I n his burlap
S anta sack there's
T acky pap for all us.
M illions flap
A s money's sapped and
S anta's lap grows fat with stacks of cash from shit that bores us.