Spotlighting Pan-African Poetry

Biography

What it means

Enlarge poem

The campus nurse offers up pills like penny sweets.
Means it when she says
it’s just one less thing to worry about.
Her pen is crossing the prescription sheet
like a finish line.

It’s okay.
There are many freedoms.

In the first world
freedom from bloodshed

is tasted
between the legs.

I don’t judge.
How would she know

I have learned to love
the cup spilling over,

the floor of the bath
a Rothko on fibreglass

circa this month

a private showing
an opening ceremony.

There is nothing like knowing

I am an orchestra
only rehearsing –

I am an orchestra
warming up

waiting to play
at a place

at a date
not yet confirmed.

Victoria

Featured Poem:

Why can’t a K be beautiful and magick?

Enlarge poem

It exists in knots but nobody will say
how it appeared there, why, who snitched
and stitched it up, or when.

It makes the shark’s teeth cut as they do
when they slit enamel into bone easy
as plugs into coy sockets.

Does the K have a temper? Perhaps it should
because it sounds like a can’t. Change the a to
a u and it sounds like washing your mouth out with soap.

This is a litany against the commonwealth of
anger displaced onto the K.
The K is not okay

the K is the most misunderstood, ignored, indentured
letter of all. But K is a creature
unlike any else. Insouciance magical.

What and why and where did it never exist
until now? Until now. Till before, where when Kemetic,
Kush, Khan, Kryptos, Knight, Afrika, Amerikkka – hey bambaataa you

three Ks in a row that mean death. K where a C
used to be – watch me now – means a new life
existence evicted from exile into now

into the before-now,
don’t ask how yet, but,
home again.

Not all pretty words end in Cs and easy-Es. Not all
language is Romantic but all language is
loved and lived through so

don’t touch her hair
don’t say her name, it has a K in it
that don’t belong to you.

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (2)
  • Pride (4)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (2)
  • Delight (2)
  • Inspiration (4)
  • Reflection (3)
  • Captivation (1)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (1)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (1)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

Comments

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Biography

Victoria-Anne Bulley is a British-born Ghanaian poet and writer based in London.

She is an alumna of the Barbican Young Poets and is a member of the Burn After Reading collective, established by poet Jacob Sam-La Rose. In 2010, her poem The Photograph was published in the anthology Did I Tell You? 131 Poems for Children in Need, alongside the work of Patience Agbabi.

Graduating from the University of Kent in 2013 with a BA in English and Drama, she is currently pursuing an MA in Postcolonial Studies at SOAS, University of London.

Her work is an exploration of the limits of knowledge and the body; cultural origins and a search for wholeness. She is working towards her first collection.

Victoria

Biography

Victoria-Anne Bulley is a British-born Ghanaian poet and writer based in London.

She is an alumna of the Barbican Young Poets and is a member of the Burn After Reading collective, established by poet Jacob Sam-La Rose. In 2010, her poem The Photograph was published in the anthology Did I Tell You? 131 Poems for Children in Need, alongside the work of Patience Agbabi.

Graduating from the University of Kent in 2013 with a BA in English and Drama, she is currently pursuing an MA in Postcolonial Studies at SOAS, University of London.

Her work is an exploration of the limits of knowledge and the body; cultural origins and a search for wholeness. She is working towards her first collection.

What it means

Enlarge poem

The campus nurse offers up pills like penny sweets.
Means it when she says
it’s just one less thing to worry about.
Her pen is crossing the prescription sheet
like a finish line.

It’s okay.
There are many freedoms.

In the first world
freedom from bloodshed

is tasted
between the legs.

I don’t judge.
How would she know

I have learned to love
the cup spilling over,

the floor of the bath
a Rothko on fibreglass

circa this month

a private showing
an opening ceremony.

There is nothing like knowing

I am an orchestra
only rehearsing –

I am an orchestra
warming up

waiting to play
at a place

at a date
not yet confirmed.

Featured Poem:

Why can’t a K be beautiful and magick?

Enlarge poem

It exists in knots but nobody will say
how it appeared there, why, who snitched
and stitched it up, or when.

It makes the shark’s teeth cut as they do
when they slit enamel into bone easy
as plugs into coy sockets.

Does the K have a temper? Perhaps it should
because it sounds like a can’t. Change the a to
a u and it sounds like washing your mouth out with soap.

This is a litany against the commonwealth of
anger displaced onto the K.
The K is not okay

the K is the most misunderstood, ignored, indentured
letter of all. But K is a creature
unlike any else. Insouciance magical.

What and why and where did it never exist
until now? Until now. Till before, where when Kemetic,
Kush, Khan, Kryptos, Knight, Afrika, Amerikkka – hey bambaataa you

three Ks in a row that mean death. K where a C
used to be – watch me now – means a new life
existence evicted from exile into now

into the before-now,
don’t ask how yet, but,
home again.

Not all pretty words end in Cs and easy-Es. Not all
language is Romantic but all language is
loved and lived through so

don’t touch her hair
don’t say her name, it has a K in it
that don’t belong to you.

How does this featured poem make you feel?

  • Amazement (2)
  • Pride (4)
  • Optimism (0)
  • Anger (2)
  • Delight (2)
  • Inspiration (4)
  • Reflection (3)
  • Captivation (1)
  • Peace (0)
  • Amusement (1)
  • Sorrow (0)
  • Vigour (0)
  • Hope (1)
  • Sadness (0)
  • Fear (0)
  • Jubilation (0)

What it means

Enlarge poem

The campus nurse offers up pills like penny sweets.
Means it when she says
it’s just one less thing to worry about.
Her pen is crossing the prescription sheet
like a finish line.

It’s okay.
There are many freedoms.

In the first world
freedom from bloodshed

is tasted
between the legs.

I don’t judge.
How would she know

I have learned to love
the cup spilling over,

the floor of the bath
a Rothko on fibreglass

circa this month

a private showing
an opening ceremony.

There is nothing like knowing

I am an orchestra
only rehearsing –

I am an orchestra
warming up

waiting to play
at a place

at a date
not yet confirmed.

Comments

Your email address will not be published.