Published:
For the final part of her time as Young Writer in Residence at Whitechapel Gallery, Gabrielle Fullam shares two new pieces of work.
We, being so young, and lost, (part one)
We, being so young, and lost,
Do not need to find bright signs
And wonder, it comes easily in rhymes
Head back, smile wide, arms uncrossed
The sun can drive and our room can be littered in fruit fly
Small fry, blink of an eye, no need to write about you and I.
Keep your stones in your pocket
And your heart in your chest.
It used to be so full, but now
These streets are just so wide.
Furious feather bed light
It changed.
Back sad attractive, curling.
People in concussion.
Pull something poetic (clear, beautiful, meaningful) together from your thoughts (incoherent, unsure, uncertain, unaware)
I know we were meant to come together
I think we may be meant to come apart
At the seams; and they’ll call us fairweather
Friends. But if we can just take our hearts
To the drycleaners, to the resort, to the post office,
To the schoolyard, the the funfair, to the airport
There is no need to be cautious
Of what has happened here.
O – remember, our common foe
Not that apathy, not that fear, but that all consuming anger
That I can sing high and sing low
And take back to whitechapel and you bury in your planter
With strength I can face my mistakes
And with fear, you can make yours.
We, being so lost, and just still young (part two)
I am not a sonnet writer
I don’t bluster, don’t move, don’t wax, don’t wane, don’t pull
I am no harmoniser.
We look at this world of coloniser and liquidiser
And I can’t find anything in it that’s still full
So I can say; I am not a sonnet writer
Though sometimes we find fertiliser
Me and you and you giving me an earful
I am no harmoniser
But you are a beautiful scrutiniser
Of worlds, of numbskulls, of seagulls, my heart full
I declare; I am not a sonnet writer
I can’t parse that kind rhyme from our world
But we can assemble
Something else.
I am not a sonnet writer [I am a sonnet writers son]
