Black Families History in WWI

As part of Black History Month in collaboration with Museum of Liverpool, we had a brilliant poetry workshop with poet Levi Tafari. Taking inspiration from the First World War, several participants read their poems. Here are some pieces if you missed the performance... 

A colony of the unsung,

repression built upon unknown,

minorities of legacy,

distributed through hidden tyranny,

hereby implanted to the stock,

of segregated essence,

feed the privileged alterations,

directed to blind provocation,

rotting to the core,

in anger,

commonalities buried beneath the slander,

a unison forbidden within this hidden decay,

waiting to evaporate,

weakened paupers blame the others,

a virus breeding from the mother.

By Reece

I wonder what it was like returning after the war? 
I wonder what the black ‘Tommy Soldier’ saw when he arrived from the home front feeling very sore,
From being on the battlefield, fighting and buried in bunkers made of sacks and sand,
Was he fighting for ‘his’ life?
Or was it for the colonies they call the mother country a place called England?
I wonder what it was like returning after the war?
Did ‘Tommy Soldier’ get a hero’s welcome with people lining the streets,
Waving banners, flags with children playing oh wow what a treat,
Oh no, it was not so, he came home on a train,
Having to walk the final eight miles on foot,
There was no room for a black soldier with shrapnel in his right leg and shoulder,
Oh the pain, the pain, the pain.
By Jacqui

I try to comprehend,

even yet I can’t explain,

the black letter I received has darkened my day,

my child who I though was missing,

Is now dead,

bombed in a far-away land, 

and I won’t see him again,

I gave him life,

was a mother to him,

I was there for his first step,

even heard his first swear word,

his death brings me sorrow,

I tried to comprehend,

I tried explaining,

now I just feel sorrow,

only numb,

I read the headline paper,

just another dead negro,

whether it’s in the mother continent,

or the Caribbean Islands,

all I can hear is mothers and wives crying,

they say death isn’t biased,

but when one of us dies,

there’s no celebration,

no smiles shown,

just a sigh and whimper,

like we’ve been down this road before,

as I conclude this piece,

all I can say is we’ve been in this road all too long,

I pray all those black souls who died in this tragic war,

can be at peace,

as we honour their names, from now to forever.

By Hassan

It’s on me

It’s on me,

Same sun shone on me

Same rain dried on me

Same wind blow on me

Same snow fell on me

It’s on me,

Same flesh and blood pulsated on me

Same clothes put on me

Same documents carried on me

Same names called on me

It’s on me,

Same family album inspired on me

Same fireplace burned on me

Same chair ordered on me

Same household charged on me

It’s on me,

Same uniform and arms heavy on me

Same hands in shoulders laid on me

Same masks pushed on me

Same bombs dropped on me

It’s on me,

Shame only smashed on me

Worst duties cast harshly on me

Lower ranks though tolerated on me

Fewer medals then thrown on me

It’s on me,

No welcomes shout on me

Only stones and fist hit hardly on me

Buried alive by their hatred on me

Yet no trenches built in me

It’s on me.

By Roger Williams

A family at peace,

A family at war,

That is the fall out,

Life is no more,

Life is no more,

Life is no more.

By Ray

Inspiration for children workshop with writer Jon Mayhew

Author Jon Mayhew has been doing creative writing workshops in Primary and Secondary schools as part of Writing on the Wall's Make Doves Not War project.

Flora and Michael wrote about their session.... 

We walked into the room, with a number of other pupils already sat down and Jon Mayhew and Mrs Ludlow standing at the front.

            Jon started by introducing himself to the class, continuing by showing us his many fantastic books and explaining what they were about.

            He told us about the new campaign called “Make Doves not War.” It is a children’s literary competition to commemorate world war one’s one-hundredth anniversary.

            During the experience we watched a short clip from the film of Michael Morpurgo’s book, War Horse. We then discussed how the poor horse would have felt and different topics we could base our flash fiction or poem on.

            After we discussed this, the sheets were passed out and we all started to let our imaginations flow onto the page. We were allowed to write a flash fiction, poem or fable. Jon used his experience and story-telling ability to help us, giving hints and guidance all the way through the time that we had to write, with excitement and pleasure. We then had our books signed. It was a wonderful experience and we really enjoyed it!

                        Flora Stinson and Michael Hart 

7GR

The Bluecoat School 

Mental Health & Me Winner

We are proud to announce that the winner of our Mental Health & Me writing competition in collaboration with Liverpool Mental Health Consortium is GEMMA ROGERS. Congratulations to all the finalists! All the winners have been published, you can get a copy of there book by ordering from Writing on the Wall or online at Amazon, iTunes and Barnes & Noble. 

We have published the winning entry on our blog, exclusively for you! 

Letters to Myself

To my 11 year old self

This is the year when you pick up a razor blade for the first time and cut yourself with it.
I’m not going to sugar coat things for you. You’re young, but you’re going to have to grow up fast so sit down and listen to what I have to tell you.
Pretty soon you’re going to get ill. Not a cold or a stomach bug, but something much worse and harder to recover from. I can’t stop it from happening; this sickness isn’t like that. It can’t be prevented by happy thoughts and a positive attitude. Our brain is messed up. Learn to deal with it.
Your illness is ugly. It steals all the happiness out of your life and makes every single day a struggle. Just getting out of bed will at times seem impossible. Prepare to be lonely because it tricks you into thinking being alone is the best way to survive, and you’ll push friends away until they stop coming back. We make it a long time without anybody.
I bet you have a great relationship with mum right now. I envy you for that. I miss her. You can’t tell her you’re sick. It’s a secret. You won’t be able to speak a word until it’s almost too late. The pills don’t work and talking about it doesn’t help either. Self-medication is even less effective, so don’t be fooled by the high of a different kind of pill, because it won’t last forever.
Get ready to hate yourself. I mean to really hate yourself. You’ll cut and burn your skin to match the mess you feel inside to the outside. You won’t eat for days to look like the girls in the magazines. You’ll stare at your reflection and cry big, ugly tears of a person who knows they’re broken. We break a lot and have been taped together so much it’s hard to tell what’s a real part of us anymore.
I can’t stop you from hurting yourself. I can’t take all the pain away. I can’t make the next ten years any more bearable. But I can tell you this; we get through it. So when you feel at your very lowest, when you go to step out in front of that train and when you take all those pills remember that we do make it. Life clings to us against all odds. I promise.

To my 31 year old self

In ten years I hope to be a grown up. A real adult with a career and a car and a house of my very own. To have graduated university and finally have passed my driving test and visit all those places in the world I haven’t yet.
I bet to you being 21 seems like a very long time ago. University and your first crappy red car and all those problems that seemed so big to us at the time are just memories to you now. They are things that have moulded you into the person you are. I wish that your memories of illness are exactly that; memories. It’s a lot to hope for, but it gets me through my days. To think of a version of myself that is happy and healthy.
I’m a bit stuck right now. I have the potential to do anything I want but I hold myself back. Do you remember this? Do you remember feeling like all the bad things could come rushing back at any moment? I’ve been keeping busy but the darkness lurks in the corners of my mind, threatening to emerge.
We say we’re in remission. It took so long to get to this point but it’s bittersweet. It could all come crashing down at any moment.
I envy you, future me. You have all the knowledge of what I need to do now to pick the right choices in my life, but you can’t tell me. I have to figure it all out myself, and I’m scared I’ll make the wrong decisions. Please tell me that if I keep my head above water I won’t drown. Please tell me that if I work hard enough I can have everything I ever wanted. Please tell me that if I keep putting one foot in front of the other I will eventually climb a mountain.

To my 21 year old self

Just. Keep. Going.

Gemma Rogers. 

What's Your Story? Kinship Carers

Every Wednesday morning for ten weeks, four women came together to tell their story. These women are four Grandmothers who through different circumstances are caring for their Grandchildren. Author, Deborah Morgan, guided these women into creating written pieces reflecting their tales.

Debbie was very close with her Grandmother and was deeply moved by the stories told throughout the sessions. The group cried and laughed together, talking of what happened and what was to come.

At the end of the ten weeks it was time to collate all their work together and create their first publication – What’s Your Story? Kinship Carers. For some this has been a dream since they were young, others it was a new and exciting step. As a group they formatted their book to exactly how they wanted it, the artwork went back and forth until they were completely satisfied with how they were being represented. It was important for it to stand out and reflect what they had to say. These books are filled with poetry, letters, photographs, artwork and a message. A message for change and to be heard. This is the first time something like this has ever been published, true feelings about the justice system and their experiences with Social Services. Their aim is to support other Kinship Carers by giving them insight, guidance and inspiration.

On the 18^th September Marjorie, Bernadette, Kathy and Julie were presented with the books at their very own book launch. The night was hosted by Writing on the Wall and the group were interviewed by Debbie Morgan in front of an audience. The room was filled with family and friends but also councillors and judges who asked questions and responded to how the book affected them. It was a lovely evening full of emotions and honesty. The Grandmothers were bombarded with book signings and photographs.“I feel like a celebrity, about TIME too!” Shouted Marjorie as she held up her flowers to the camera. 

When meeting with the group two weeks later they were still overwhelmed with the response and couldn't wait for what was to come next. Every Wednesday morning, they still come together to tell their story.

The book is available to buy online at Barnes & Noble, iTunes and Amazon. If you would like to buy a hard copy from us, please call 0151 703 0020 or email info@writingonthewall.org.uk with your request. 

I Come From

From not-quite-Yorkshire;

I come from the borders.

From shadowy gardens and crowds of hydrangeas,

from hand-outs from neighbours;

motherless summers of sun and bare feet.

From free school dinners, a house full of lodgers,

too many sisters, too many brothers,

too many rooms to heat,

from spiders in corners and rats in the cellar.

Cobbles and grit and backstreet.

I come too clever for my own good

from spare the rod; from fear of God,

from unquestioning faith in nuns

and ghosts and all authority and Dad.

I come from the silence of fog

on far-off fields; from farm and bog

and crops gone bad,

from priests and Sunday’s boredom.

I come from the butter mountain

and the steady drip of fruit in bags

over buckets of stewing wine

and I come from the moors, as angry

as flame; from the hills

with the wings I was handed;

from the blank, blank page

of the rain. From Look and Learn,

I come from a dream, I come from stone.

I come from never did me any harm

and I too come from one bad man.

From silence. But not my own. 

Clare Shaw 

Clare Shaw was our creative writing tutor for WoW's What's Your Story? course with the Liverpool Mental Health Consortium. Clare has inspired the group to carry on working on their writing and performing as a group as the Rainbow Writers. 

We hope these pieces have inspired you to write your own. We look forward to seeing you on World Mental Health Day, 10th October, at the Central Library for our celebration event where a screening of Ruby Wax will be aired announcing the winners! 

Butterfly

A butterfly does not know straight off how to fly.

With wobbling, trembling wings, she crawls

from her chrysalis. Through simple trial and error,

she’ll learn to flutter.

But by taking lessons from those

a little older and wiser

she may find the confidence to wing her way,

without a stutter, up,

up into the sky.

Liz Stokes 

Our What's Your Story? participants have kindly donated their work to help inspire you to write down your thoughts as part of our 'Mental Health Me' writing competition. 

You can find out more about our competition here. Keep in touch with our blog to read more of their brilliant writing. 

I Come From Lockerbie

Violence was never far off the agenda. Or the threat of it. Parents, siblings, cousins, schooling, etched into my psyche, my sense of identity. Given the constant levels of threat, it was no wonder it was hard to find a voice. So I sought solutions.

Having four elder sisters, I’d race home from school on Thursdays and repay them. I’d have the last laugh. The back page of the Bunty comic had sets of clothes that you could cut out. I got in first and cut the tabs off. Another battering but it was worth it. Wickedness had a price.

When I wanted a Batman outfit as the Rag & Bone man came down our street I would give my sisters’ best clothes to get the gear. Kerrunch! Kapow!

Then there was the lunchtime incident when my brother used the f-word. 

          ‘What did you just say?’ Mam screamed. 

           ‘You fucking heard’ Jim said. 

Quick as a flash, she whipped the worn, black gabardine raincoat belt from the pulley and started leathering him across the face. Buckle and all. Brilliant to watch. Ace. Ringside seats.

When Mam ran out of steam my brother got up from the table, left, and said nothing. That was bad.

           ‘Take Bob out to play.’ Irene reluctantly had me in tow. When out of sight she hung me on a picket fence by my reins and left me there. Some neighbour detached me. Irene still denies it but smiles when I remind her.

Bridge Street – early morning. Mrs White. ‘And what did you have for your breakfast?’ she asked innocently.

‘A sausage and half an egg.’ Whack, whack, whack. ‘Don’t you show me up like that.’ 

How come it was OK to lie when you had it drummed into you to tell the truth? Repression and guilt in equal measure. Nothing like a Protestant, God-fearing upbringing culture to mess with your head. 

Three miles from home in the Summer and standing in the River Milk I decided not to come out of the water. Sister Rosemary lobs a Coke bottle at me to encourage me. Big thick bit of glass in my left foot. Nice. Whilst convalescing, I told Bett Findlay, our neighbour, the truth.

Me mother overheard the conversation. Slap - that’s for lying. Slap - that’s for thinking you’d get away with it. Slap - because I’m on a roll.

Bob Carruthers