Last night was my first time attending the famous National Poetry Slam. It was rough. It was intimate. It was real. There were young people on the stage having the courage to speak their hearts out, to bleed, to shine, to be in the spotlight with all their awesomeness and their flaws.
Go only if you also have the courage to fully look yourself in the mirror and confront your desires, your fears, your wants, your needs. Go only if you have the stomach to be in a thunderstorm of emotions!
The finale will take place on the 6th of June at the Roundhouse in Camden, so don’t miss it. You can book the tickets here.
Poetry is the soul’s medicine, I recognised a lot of my struggles in the lyrics, the speakers in front of me. The struggle of the half-caste, the struggle of the half-poet/half-corporate, half-dreamer/half-realist, half-wanderer/half-netflix&chill, half-extrovert/half-introvert, a mix and match of walking contradictions. The half-casts and misfits, the beauty of the survivor who doesn’t give up the fight. There is light and so much richness in getting up over and over again no matter how many arrows come at you, you open your palms wide, grab them and make a rose garden out of them.
I moved to the UK two years ago in the spur of the moment following blindly some true love that I thought and wished it would last forever. Now, I didn’t necessarily own the decision to relocate in this country, I was split between what is the right thing to do for my partner, for myself and for us. I was hoping someone else will give me the answer to my question: where do I belong? But contradictions and cracks allow growth. We go from job to job, from city to city, from partner to partner in this crazy blind search for a home. But how would you define “home”? “Home” is a definition I can’t yet grasp, it spreads its wings and flies away every time I want to reach for it.
Where do I belong? I’ve come to accept that I have no fixed roots, that belonging is a half-cast as well: one of its legs is inside of me, the other -outside. Belonging is the arrows I tamed, the roses I grew and the birds that have built their nest on my tree branches and also the courage to say: this is my story.
Where do you belong?
PS: Some inspiration from one of my half-caste favourite poet, Phil Kaye – Beginning, Middle & End.