On Friday June 8th I attended the Poet in the City event.
I’d like to say thanks for a funny, but also emotional and inspiring evening.
Here is more information on the event.
A highlight I’d like to share with you is this poem by Hannah Lowe – Sausages.
They hang from the washing line
between the tea towels and bleached sheets.
He has pegged them in neat clusters,
dark fingers of blood and gristle
with twisted ends and oily skins.
They flame against the trees.
She smells them from the backdoor –
ginger, clove and fennel. The house is quiet.
He is hiding from her. Her mother told her
not to marry a foreigner. You always wanted
to be different she hissed. Now this. He’s black
and old enough to be your father.
The sausages are Chinese dragon red,
the red of a chilli, or the queen of hearts.
They gather fire, drying on her line.
This is Ilford, Essex, 1965.
The neighbours eat mince and cabbage
and talk about her.
She asked him not to do it
but they taste like home to him
and he is like good food to her.
Tonight they will eat sausages together
and she will lick the oil and spice
from his hands.