The Silent Striker – The Poetry

Posted on Sep 27, 2016

Full Circle Arts is proud to present The Silent Striker – The Poetry by Peter Kalu and SuAndi

The Silent Striker: (What A Piece Of Work Is Man) is a suite of works commissioned by Full Circle Arts – including film, poetry and monologue. It celebrates football culture, Shakespeare’s “What A Piece of Work Is Man” paean to human individuality, ingenuity and diversity. While interrogating exclusions at the intersection of disability and race.

Here you can find the final The Silent Striker Poetry 

Shakespeare wrote “What a piece of work is man?” We believe that disability is represented in people, Men and women regardless of their racial identity, Gender or sexuality.

HANDS I have wrung my hands Soaked them in dishwasher Cleansed them in a weekly wash Of every Monday, Tuesday A few extra things Thursday Just the sports kit Friday And nothing for church late on Saturday I have sizzled them over frying pans Singed them with the Sunday roast And blistered their tenderness at almost every meal time These hands have slapped out in the temper of concern The sudden disappearance on back turned They have smoothed brows And wiped away tears Over and over again Late evening they have tucked themselves under an armpit Or kept warm over the right never my left breast They have sought out love And been the security of simply crossing the road Now I look at them The nails are strong but plain The palms still determined to be useful So I wonder why They move almost on their own To hold my face and hide it as I cry FUNNY THAT Old ladies tell me I look like my mother When I think of who I resemble, I see my father’s hand The fingers are bent Permanently The skin is shiny, taunt, like deep brown leather It is moving towards me To trace the line of my eye Then a gentle descent down my cheek He is looking for any sign that Bells Palsy is still obvious At my mouth, he pulls tenderly so my lips begin to open My father leans forward and kisses me When he finds nothing he smiles I smile back And see my face reflected in perfect symmetry

FUNNY THAT Old ladies tell me I look like my mother When I think of who I resemble, I see my father’s hand The fingers are bent Permanently The skin is shiny, taunt, like deep brown leather It is moving towards me To trace the line of my eye Then a gentle descent down my cheek He is looking for any sign that Bells Palsy is still obvious At my mouth, he pulls tenderly so my lips begin to open My father leans forward and kisses me When he finds nothing he smiles I smile back And see my face reflected in perfect symmetry

SHE NEVER SAW HER FATHER She tried to visualise the absent half Of her identity Wondering where he had left his mark Stroking her jaw line Tracing an eyebrow Or in her love of words Her talent for telling stories But he had gone

YOU HAVE AFRICAN CALVES I remember The shine of skin Revealed between sock and trouser cuff And remember How I would stare in wonder That legs so thin Could carry my father. I feared sometimes When he, my uncle And other men gathered I making up for an absent son And would sit at his feet In silence. Enjoying the music of their speech And hold my breath To stop a laughter (flow) Of so many thin sticks A ridicule of interruption Of their debating Like politicians Totally earnest In their passion Talking the fullness of nothingness

THE DRESS That evening minimal makeup made up her face in timeless beauty. Eyeliner outlined the wide expression of her gaze. Blush found cheekbones in the fullness of her face And her speech fell from lips rebel red And as defiant as her spirit But today This evening She was coquettish Vulnerable without the armoury she wore in life. She knew the dessert of dinner would be taken elsewhere Privacy without witnesses And she was ready

THIGHS You know what I love most about you He whispered It’s your thighs They are so huge So African And her eyes opened to he blinding blueness of his eyes. As her heart cracked.

HIS VOICE The colour of his voice Flowed cream over her shoulder Trickling slowly down the neck Towards her heart As she held the air between breathing The colour of his voice Turned a deep blue Of sadness On the turn of her face Away from his gaze

SHE WILL SMILE Holding her breath She runs hands, a little coarse from always doing, Over a girth, she never noticed spreading And raises her breasts back into a cleavage Now long gone Perfume cheap Or ridiculously expensive Could never wash away the scent That lingers And Often she inhales it Holding dirty clothes to her cheek And breathing She aims for perfect And by her own judgement Fails to measure up So no small wonder She disappoints herself And chastises all her errors with tears

This collection connects with The Silent Striker By peter Kalu & SuAndi 2016

 

You can read Peter Kalu and SuAndi’s blog which talks about the process of the commission here.

About the author

Jade Cole

Jade Cole

Jade is our Supreme Digital Social Media Overlord. She does most of our social media stuff, all our main website stuff, looks after our artists on the phone, writes our newsletter, and she tends to tweet and blog a bit more than the rest of us. (Jade likes wine tasting in her spare time).