To me it's strange, the way they speak.
The poets of the ivory peaks.
The ivory's gone, but it's some other thing
I can't afford. That luck won't bring.
Their words are nonsense, their tales obscure,
and I endure
strange sentences and structures
to be a part, and perhaps procure
an understanding of the
heavy handed
application of articulation.
The inebriation of contemplation
of words and rhymes.
Perhaps it will come to me in time.
It is the story of my life.
An unavoidable,
like pain, like light.
The door is open, the hands invite
but the hearts are frozen, with hands that write
about love and romance, pain and longing
where is the tale of the brothers belonging
and sisters working the marathon strings
of shifts to pay to raise a child.
The horrors of a society gone wild.
Where is the working class writer of poems
the wordsmith trained on the limited knowing
where is the voice of those rarely heard?
Where are their stories? Where are their words?
About: So much art is dominanted by the middle/upper class. What barriers do poorer people face in getting their art into the world? Why might exposure be significantly easier for middle class people?
I grew in a poor-ish area of Birmingham and there was essentially no support for art. I drew and wrote a lot, but I never received any support from teachers, I was encouraged not to pick these subjects, and there weren't any resources available. By the time I was a teenager, I'd completely dropped the idea of writing. It took until the age of around 27 before covid lockdown accidentally facilitated my artistic growth and I was able to pursue a creative career. Prior to that, there was nothing.