Like The Water

Like The Water

I am currently developing my new show ‘Like The Water’ with music and composer Nuala Honan. You can read about it here as it develops. I have included photos and a blurb below. April 2018 saw our first public scratch at The Wardrobe Theatre in Bristol where we received valuable audience feedback to bring back to our development process. We are actively looking for a producer. If you would love to discuss the development of the show with us, please drop me a line on sallyjenkinsonpoetry@gmail.com. Thanks!

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LIKE THE WATER (show) – Homesick Productions Press Pack

Later I Am Talking To A Boy And

I do not say
that I am hot and swollen all time
with anger and love,
that I cannot forgive you

for leaving me here
to go to parties on my own
and hide in the room with the coats
because it was always you
that did the talking.

Bee’s sister is dead. But she’s still got a lot of things she wants to say to her. Plus, there isn’t really anyone else to talk to when you’re a teenage girl and you live a seaside town in the north of England which is twinned with The End of The World.

Sally Jenkinson and Nuala Honan (Homesick productions) are currently developing their new show, Like The Water. It is a poetic, musical journey through grief, adolescence. sexuality, and the enduring, transformative love which can exist in all kinds female relationships.

The show is built from Sally Jenkinson’s poetic novella Like The Water, forthcoming from Burning Eye books, and written whilst she was Artist in Residence at The Gunnar Gunnarson Institute in Iceland. Alongside Nuala Honan’s improvised sonic landscape, using an electric guitar and a whole mess of pedals and wires and weird and gorgeous sounds.

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Homesick Production’s previous show, Folly, toured the UK in 2013 and then won an Artists International Development Grant from Arts Council England and The British Council to tour Australia, and run for two weeks at the Adelaide Fringe, in 2014.

BOV Ferment Front Postcard

Trailer for Folly: https://vimeo.com/66896904
Praise for Folly:

‘There is a visceral sense of authenticity which draws the listeners further into the world.’ – 4 **** Krystoff Magazine (AUS)

‘Jenkinson’s words offer many lyrical highlights, painting some appealing and vivid images along the way… Honan’s inspired playing ranges from the lightest of touches to driving rhythms that match the vocals for power. It’s also quite lovely to look at; inexplicably visually lush.’ – Rip It Up Magazine (AUS)

‘The poetry, from Sally Jenkinson, a Yorkshire wordsmith with an endearingly idiosyncratic style, riffs on the impulse to flee… Behind and around it is an impressive and powerful soundscape from Nuala Honan, a dynamo solo artist in her own right. With all the taught energy of a caged musical lioness her harmonies, rhythms and percussions provide an atmospheric backing that conveys all the barely contained emotions of the jilted lover, the lost soul, the wondrous traveller, the jaded backpacker’s despair and the explosive joy of a new resolution.’ – Talk Fringe Reviews, Adelaide Fringe (AUS)

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The Poetics of Support Work

As I work slowly on my new poetry collection ‘Sensory’, which aims to explore my experience as a care and support worker over the last decade, I have been trying to write more openly about that other side to my working life. In December last year I wrote this piece for the Morning Star exploring the poetics of support work. There’s a link to the actual article here, but I’ve also included the text below along with some of my favourite photos of support work-in-action (used with parental permission). Big love to everyone at the coal face of social care, staff, service users and families. Things are so hard right now as we face cut after cut to the vital funds we need to do the work we do together, but I SEE YOU. We are all working so hard to keep our heads above water, and I hope and pray everyday that things will change soon. xxx

 

The Poetics of Support Work

Care work is rarely poeticized. It is often perceived as drab, underqualified and underfunded. Of course, it can be all of those things. But it can also be a secret universe of otherworldly interactions – of wonder, achievement and triumph. It is a journey in which learning and discovery are a constant, for both worker and client.

I am a support worker, working mainly for children with learning disabilities. I have been doing this work for over a decade. I am also a poet, working on a collection of poems exploring the support worker experience, sensory interaction, and the incredibly complex relationship between support worker and client. In the process of working on these poems, I discovered such a deficit in the celebration of the intricacy, tenderness and creativity of our sector. There is not much precedence for writing about the support experience in a poetic way, which is surprising because it can be cosmic, surreal, visceral and tender – all ingredients that I look for in my favourite poetry!

Writing about social care experiences is a delicate process, because confidentiality is paramount. As support workers, we are supporting another human with their private life, so many of the particulars are inappropriate to share publicly. I am finding creative ways to explore the poetry, magic, and sensory wonder of my experience as a support worker, without revealing any exposing information about the people whom I have supported over the years.

Every day, we are asking our clients to trust us implicitly – to support them properly, to keep them safe, to respect their privacy, their homes, their bodies. And when we are trusted, when we are truly supporting someone to access the life they want to live, it is alchemic.

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Mega professional home support action shot with beautiful R, who I had the privilege to support a few years ago.

And there is love, make no mistake. We don’t call it love because we are performing a supportive service, a job, and to say love is inappropriate. And because it is not the kind of love we are taught about in books and films and pop songs. It is not Agape or Eros or Storge. Philia is closest, but still not exactly right.

But just because there is no appropriate word for it, does not mean that it doesn’t exist. Love keeps us striving to provide a good service – despite bad backs, no sick pay, zero hours contracts, minimum wage, and being able to earn a better salary in any supermarket than by delivering this complex and skilled care. Love keeps us learning and arming ourselves to be almost-nurses, almost-teachers, almost-social workers, and almost-PTs, when our job demands it. Because of course, all these ‘higher level’ service providers are also desperately underfunded and in short supply, so the overspill of responsibility inevitably trickles down to the people who are there every day, providing the day-to-day care. The support workers.

Are we underpaid and undertrained? Undoubtedly. Is there nowhere near enough funding and resources to provide our clients with the quality of service and life that they deserve? Yes. Yet it is anything but miserable work. It is humans, in difficult circumstances, striving to communicate, to understand each other, and bring each other peace and light. We are out here – client and carer – working hard to make it work, every day.

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There is a problem with media representation in our sector. People with disabilities are often portrayed in films as being defined by the misery of their disability. Disabled characters are often played by able-bodied or neurotypical actors. Support workers are either not portrayed at all, or we only reach the media in a news scandals about poor care or mistakes being made.

I would never presume to write about the experience of a person with learning disabilities from their perspective. But the relationships between the people being supported and the support workers, the ground we cover together, the sensory explorations and communication successes (and failures) that we encounter as a team, I know something of those.

The narrative of people with learning (or indeed physical) disabilities must be shifted. I see this happening, slowly. I see artists with LD telling their own unique and complex stories in creative and original ways, in organisations as diverse as Misfits Theatre Company in Bristol and the incredible Stopgap Dance Company, who I was lucky enough to see perform recently.

The narrative of support work as unskilled and unimportant must change too. I long to our sector championed as complex and proficient, and our work funded to pioneer new and creative ways of supporting our clients’ needs and desires and passions.

The poetry in my line of work is in the collaboration between carer and client – the trust, the communication, and the hard-fought, unsung relationships that we work so hard to build together. Those relationships deserve to be celebrated.

The Poets Our Kin / These Poems Our Stories

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Poem by Alfred Thananchayan. Originally from Sri Lanka, and calling Doncaster home for the last 4 years.

Doncaster is currently hosting the first ever poetry exhibition in a commercial shopping space in the UK, possibly even the world. It has been lovingly curated by Doncaster poet Dan Ryder. I am so very proud to be part of it. Doncaster is my home town and it fills my heart with joy to see great big community art projects happening for everyone to enjoy. See the photo below of my poem ‘Not So Bad’ up 10 feet high on the wall of the bus station in my home town. That’s my step dad there having a look at it. Good light, hey?

Poets our Kin

On zines, poetry, and making things – Happy National Poetry Day!

Hello! Its National Poetry Day tomorrow, and to mark the day I’ve made a new zine of poems.

If the divide is in you, then the divine is in all of us

As you can see, its called ‘If the divine is in you, then the divine is in all of us’ (a title I borrowed from something I heard a brilliant woman say in a yoga class), and although it is scrappy and scruffy and wonky, I’m really really pleased with how it came out.

 

In June 2017 I was lucky enough to go on a trip to New York (upstate and city) for a month. I looked after their super cool kid while they made a record. It was a great adventure. A lot of the poems are not actually about that trip, but what links them all together is that I wrote them or started writing them while we were away. Travelling is a good time to write, I think, because you’re existing in a kind of alternate reality from your usual life.

I made the poems into a zine because:

  • They are collected thoughts and fragments for the most part, rather than fully realised poems, so I wanted them to live all together in one time capsule (and that’s ok).
  • I applied for A LOT of courses and grants and fellowships and publications this year, and didn’t get any of them! Which did start to make me feel a bit negative about writing, but then I remembered ‘Hey! Writing isn’t about getting prizes! It’s about trying to work things out, hooray!’ So, I made this zine so I could enjoy every aspect of the making process again, pressure free. I enjoyed to scribbling and writing and editing the poems, but I also enjoyed the cutting and sticking and photocopying and stapling. Touching the paper. My hands touched every one of the pages. It was fun! The library in my little town lent me a long-armed stapler when I went in to use the photocopier. Making a zine is a good conversation starter.
  • Before the world of everythingisontheinternet, I got a lot of my music and arts news, and insights into the thoughts and opinions of my artistic peers, from zines. They were bought, sold, swapped and handed around, and I loved the practice and reading something made directly by someone else, of feeling part of a community of makers, and more broadly – the warmth and relief of hearing someone else’s thoughts, worries, ideas communicated so openly and honestly, and not feeling alone.

A Different ForestIt was a great way to bond with my own writing process again. I was blissfully removed from any worries about where I would submit the poems, who might read them, where and why they might be judged. It felt really magical to sit at my kitchen table with the radio on and write and cut and stick my observations and passions and worries about the world into a little homemade booklet. It made the disappointments of being turned down for courses and grants and residencies etc feel small by comparison, because it was a tangible reminder that what I really want to do is write and create art, and say things that I think are important. Whilst I will always strive to improve myself and my career as a writer and artist by applying to be part of things, to be funded and expand my possibilities, it isn’t everything. Writing is everything, making is everything. Translating the love and turmoil and panic and hope of your insides into something tangible and readable for anyone who wants and needs to share in it with you – that’s the alchemy.

Extracts

Hey, you should make a zine too! And if you do, send a copy to me please.

If you want a copy of my zine ‘If the divine is in you, then the divine is in all of us’, then please send me an email with your name and address, and perhaps be so kind as to paypal me £3 to cover the photocopying and paper costs, and I’ll post one right to your door! I’m on sallyjenkinsonpoetry@gmail.com

Loads of love, and happy National Poetry Day to everyone for tomorrow! xx

Brighton POEM-A-THON, raising funds for The Refugee Council

Next month I am taking part in the BRIGHTON POEM-A-THON (more info below). If you have been looking for an opportunity to donate a little of your cash to support refugees, pledging some money via this page to the Refugee Council is a great way to do it! In return for your donation, I will be sharing my poems in public as part of this sponsored mega poetry marathon on 11th December!

http://www.justgiving.com/Sally-Jenkinson3

I need to raise £250 minimum by then, so any help you can offer will be gratefully received! THANK YOU for your support, I hope we can pull together and in a small way offer some help and friendship to our fellow humans in need.

YOU CAN DONATE HERE!

Brighton POEM-A-THON information:

Between 12 noon to 10 pm on Sunday 11th December, a  relay of 60 poets and readers will each read for 8 minutes throughout the day, at the Komedia, Brighton.

Start: 12 noon  Finish: 10 p.m

FREE ENTRY Komedia 44-47 Gardner Street, Brighton. BN1 1UN

Audience members can join us at any time throughout the day, staying for as long or as short a time as they wish.  There will be refreshments, a bookstall and tombola as well as information about our charity.

No thank you, I don’t want to write a poem for your Christmas advert.

I am a poet, writer and performer, and I was recently approached to write a poem. And perform it. For a TV Christmas advert. For a nationally recognised company.

I said no (thank you). In the conversations I’ve had since turning it down, it is a decision which lots of my artistic peers, friends, and husband have immediately understood and agreed with, but to which lots of other people (mainly members of my family, but some friends too) have reacted in more of a ‘why have you passed up on such a massive opportunity, you lovely idiot’ kind of way.

I can see both sides, I really can. I was conflicted about it myself in lots of ways, and in the end I just went with my gut. So I wanted to write a little bit about the decision, in a way that addresses both sides, and takes a look at it all holistically.

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First of all, I want to be absolutely clear that these are just my thoughts on what I want to do with my art, and I’m not interested in passing comment or judgement on any fellow artists who have produced work for adverts. Indeed, I have close and dear friends who have. All I can say is how I feel about my own situation, right now. For instance, I honestly might have jumped at it, if I had children or dependents to support, or if I didn’t have other freelance jobs that I love (I also run sensory workshops for people with profound and multiple learning disabilities).

Also, I’m absolutely not against the concept writing commercially. Last year I wrote an article for Demetre Fragrances about how unusual scents can be useful in sensory interaction with people with PMLD (my beloved other work). I wrote the article for the company in exchange for them sending over a whole load of their crazy perfumes for me to use when working with my clients. I was happy to write a factual piece for a commercial company in exchange for goods that I needed. (In fact I would do pretty much anything to get better resources for the people in my sensory sessions, but that’s a different article entirely!) What would be the difference in writing a poem for a TV advert? I’m not sure exactly. I’m not sure if I can formulate an explanation that would resonate with everyone. I just know that, for me, that is not the place of poetry.  It is not the role that I want poetry to play.

Poetry, for me, exists to pioneer the intangible. The only thing I really hope to do when I write is to find a way to say something which is difficult to articulate in our day to day lives and conversations. To touch on the things which we struggle to say, either because they are too scary or delicate or complicated or raw to address in the everyday. Why? Just because. Because we need it. Because as Nina Simone said ‘it is an artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, to reflect the times’, because as Clarice Lispector said ‘at the end of the day we’re not trying to change things, we’re trying to open up somehow’.

And advertising feels like the opposite of that. It is about identifying our weaknesses, insecurities, fears and most treasured memories, and using them as ammunition to trick us into buying things. Don’t get me wrong. Writing good advertising copy is a clever and complicated craft.  I respect it, and I am fascinated by it. You won’t a find a bigger Mad Men fan than me! But as complicated a pursuit as it might be morally, the art of writing advertising copy is at least honest in its intention. It is writing to sell stuff to people. Or to convince them that they want something, that they need it, and that their lives will be better and fuller and happier and more content once they’ve parted with the cash. But writing a poem, or being ‘guided’ by the ad production company to write a poem, or straight up saying a poem a that I haven’t really fully written myself, on an advert, and then pretending that it is my real art work, something that I’ve created to search for truth, but is actually just for advertising purposes… what is the point in that? It’s not good honest copy, and it certainly wouldn’t be good honest poetry. The idea of it felt dishonest on a lot of levels, and that made me uncomfortable.

The company themselves are not evil. I’m a lifelong customer, in fact. They’ve been good to me. I recommend them to friends. But they are not whiter than white, what large corporation is? They advertise in The Daily Mail, (please see  http://stopfundinghate.org.uk/) and have made business moves recently which I question the ethics of, especially in their apparent lack of support for NGOs working in support of Palestine. And at this point, I feel that a company’s ethical outlook would need to align in a pretty ironclad way with my own, if I was going to give them my art to use as advertising.

It turned out the fee was a lot of money. I don’t want to throw figures around, partly because (I imagine) someone is going to end up taking them up on the offer, and the agreed figure will be between them and the tax man, but also because they did not disclose the fee to me, but to a fellow writer whom they also approached, so it’s not my information to share. But suffice to say, in the town where I grew up, it would have been enough to put down a deposit on a house.

It’s tricky to write about money, because on the one hand – here I am, aged 30 and (despite considering myself to be totally middle class) delaying having kids because we can’t afford it. Or discovering (after a recent short stay in hospital) that I haven’t made enough national insurance contributions in my entire working life to be entitled to any sickness benefits. And this amount of money could have changed all that. On the other hand – the money doesn’t feel that important. I am lucky enough to be fit and healthy. I could have more financial stability if I gave up writing and performing and chose to do a different job. But I don’t, I choose writing, and the fiduciary nothingness that goes along with it. That’s my bed and I’m lying in it, with or without advertising offers. What I mean is – the fee from this advert is not the only way available to me out of my relative poverty. I could work in a call centre and make more money. I choose not to because I love writing.

What felt more difficult to turn down (and I cannot believe I’m saying this, after years of explaining to promoters and programmers who send emails proposing gigs that don’t pay, but will be ‘good exposure’, that EXPOSURE WONT PAY MY GAS BILL) is the incredible amount on potential exposure that writing and performing a poem on an advert would bring. Getting work is hard. Getting to talk to the right people about your work is hard. I’m working on a new piece of theatre and a new screenplay at the moment, and I know that getting to discuss either of them with the right directors / producers / venues is going to be a bewildering and frustrating process, as always. It is an unfortunate (and sad) truth that the exposure of being featured on something which is broadcast on mainstream TV, and is linked to an established brand, would make that whole process easier. But I just didn’t feel comfortable putting my work into the hands of strangers whose priority is promoting the brand, not my writing, in exchange for that exposure.

The timing of this offer feels auspicious in some ways, as far as figuring shit out goes. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why I do this. Why we do this. Why we make things. Does it change anything? In terms of weighing up your life’s net contribution? In my working life, I choose to spend less time working where I can (hopefully) enrich and improve the lives of people with complex disabilities, in order to have the time to make art which relatively very few people ever read, or experience.  The only answer I can find is somewhere amongst the reasons that I turned down the advert – a search for truth, something sacred and beautiful and raucous, and trying to open up somehow. A record of the ridiculousness, of what we are doing here, in big ways and small. Something unpressured and untainted by the shape of the system.

Am I being overly precious and pretentious, in even thinking about my own largely unrecognised work with such importance? Most definitely. But what is the point otherwise? There’s a joke that I hear or say often, in conversations amongst fellow poets working at a similar level to myself – something along the lines of ‘we don’t do it for the money. And it’s a good job too because there isn’t any.’ When we say it, we laugh because of the glee of knowing you choose to do something just because you love it, because it is important to you. But always there is a hint of regret too, because wouldn’t it be wonderful if there was some money involved? If there was a short cut to getting a lump of cash together, so we could buy ourselves the time to really properly produce the work that we dream of? Well it turns out sometimes there is, but it made me feel weird, and I didn’t want it.

Notes from Skriduklaustur #5 – on being alone

I have got 4 days left of my writing residency at Skriduklaustur, in East Iceland.

I feel bowled over with gratitude for such an amazing and rare opportunity to take so much time to work on my writing, and in such a uniquely beautiful place.

The Fljotsdalur valley is one of the most beautiful places that I have seen in real life. Despite getting to travel more through writing and performance work in recent years, I still would not call myself a confident traveller, and I must admit I was daunted by the idea of coming all this way on my own, and staying in a place with no transport links or nearby amenities (I’m 39k from the nearest town).

People have been super kind and friendly, and in truth it has not been as scary or isolating as I was worried about, but still a challenge for a woman who grew up in a big,  noisy household and has always lived in cities!

I’m still ruminating on the effects of being alone on my creative process.

On the one hand, I have undeniably got lots of work done. I have managed to not only fully draft, but also start to edit and appraise and re-edit, this piece ‘Like The Water’ (mentioned in my previous post) which I have been trying to carve out the time to work on for years. I feel excited and intrigued by the results, and confident that I’ve got an interesting body of work which I can continue to work on back in the real world (it so much easier to work on and develop something which already exists than it is to create fresh work, in our busy lives). I have also finished a few articles (more on that later) that I had been commissioned to write, and had the creative time and space at explore other new writing – not attached to any particular project, just for the joy of making new poems, notes and ideas and squirreling them away until they’re ready to see daylight or be worked on later.

On the other hand, I have been second-guessing myself at every turn of the creative journey. Is this any good? Is it actually completely awful? Am I wasting this precious time by working on the wrong thing, weighting my time wrongly, pursuing work which is not high enough quality? In some ways, I still have no idea of the answer to these questions, and I don’t feel like I will know until I am back in my real life. It is as though being away from my reality – my friends, family, artistic community, and indeed any people at all, for the most part, has switched off my calibrator of what is and isn’t good writing, in my own work. It is interesting to realise, as a poet (ostensibly a very lonely pursuit) how actually collaborative my writing-mind is. I listen to and discuss and engage with other people at every step of the process of gathering ideas and creating work, often implicitly, and much more than I had realised.

There have been three undeniable advantages to working here, and working in solitude, though, and for those I am most definitely a better writer after this experience; this incredible setting (this house, the people who curate it, its resourses and this landscape around me) and the chance to explore it, the time and space to read everyday (and so much)*and of course, the lack of real-life distractions, meaning that I have now got those precious actual words on actual paper (and MS Word files) to work with, going forward!

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Ramya Chamalie Jirasinghe’s 2010 collection ‘There’s an Island in the Bone’. I bought this copy in Columbo in 2011 and it has been everywhere with me on my travels ever since; south-east Asia, Australia, Iceland.

*I have re-read Jackie Kay’s collection ‘The Adoption Papers’ and Ramya Chamalie Jirasinge’s ‘There’s An Island In The Bone’, two of my favourite books of poetry, both of which remind me what kind of writing I might one day create if I keep trying and learning. I have also read ‘The Good Shepherd’ and ‘Black Cliffs’ by Gunnar Gunnarson, two very different styles of novel, but both full of rich, loving, scary, and awesome descriptions of the Icelandic landscape, making them so brilliant to read whilst staying here, in the Fljotsdalur valley and in Gunnarson’s house! I  borrowed the english translations from the library here at the culture centre, and should you ever come across a translation in your own language then I really recommend both novels.