Goodbye

The time has come to say goodbye to blogspot. I am moving house; all future entries will be posted here...

lastmangoinparis.wordpress.com

seeya there!

love

Shane

Augustine

A busy month…

I’ve seeded the idea for Moving Space, a project which sees schools around the world having creative conversations via the web;

Tongue Fu in August featured sweet performances by Charlie Dark, Michael Horovitz, and students from Tower Hamlets Summer University, who produced some inspired work in a workshop I taught earlier that day. Dis is dem…




Read a review of the gig here, in the excellent Ctrl Alt Shift online mag.

We did this back on returning from an excellent Big Chill. Tongue Fu rocked on Friday night; Salena Godden, Josh Idehen, Kate Tempest and Ben Mellor all on top form, with impromptu appearances from Polar Bear and Frisko, who both jumped onstage for a freestyle with Kate at the end of the night, rocking the full house crowd before we had our sound cut off.

We performed our new musical, ‘the girl who learned to beatbox out of her ass’. It’s genius! More soon, we want to take it to Edinburgh this year… here’s the band in performance mode!





We’re performing it next month at Stoke Newington International, joined by loads of friends…




It’s part of Hackney Word Fest, which I’m performing for a few times in the next month.

The next Tongue Fu will also kick off; Disraeli is my favourite poet in the country; Caroline and Inua are also hot writers, and Malik is a prodigous talent, even though he’s not even eighteen yet!



I’ll be in America for seven weeks later this year, hitting Chicago, NYC, Vancouver, Seattle, LA, San Francisco and Puerto Rico.

I’m featured on the last track of the long awaited, freshly mastered Bandish Projekt album.

Bandish’s Mayur and I laid down a fresh tune yesterday, and recorded a video for it today, featuring bharat natyam by Jyoti Argade.

I’ve written a fresh killer piece for performance, which I’ll be dropping at various locations over the next month; the first is on September 11th, opening the Poetry Olympics Enlightenment festival alongside John Agard, Michael Horovitz, Mahmood Jamal, Stacy Makishi and many others.

I have also spent a considerable amount of time in the countryside, writing, reading, listening to music, and tuning in to the language of the birds and the trees!



the image above, and the ones from the Big Chill, are taken by the ever-loving Briony Campbell, and the flyers have been designed by the ever-prolific David Cuesta.

Till soon…

Sod hyperlinking this, I'm going for a swim

I have to admit I’m feeling a little frazzled at the moment. I’ve got a backlog of work, and admin seems to be taking over my life. One of my websites is hopelessly out of date (as is my Myspace), the other is waiting to be developed; I hardly touch Facebook any more. I’m faced with a dilemma. I either pay attention to my marketing (no-one really knows who I am) or I just focus on making my work better, which means all this extraneous stuff just withers away, unloved. At least I’ll have a life. I’m working day and night at the moment, and I never make time in my week to relax, or even to do any exercise - let alone spend time writing, which is what I love doing most of all! And if I think it’s bad now, imagine what it’s like when I have kids…

Enough moaning; I’ve been busy doing good things.

My favourite event of the last couple of weeks has been the Big Lunch. My neighbour Lisa and I had a party for our neighbours. We set up a barbeque on some communal land, cooked food and supplied drinks. One by one, my neighbours came to hang out, to eat, and to talk. We cooked the usual bbq stuff, but included a salad made from leaves from our garden, and Neil’s tofu. The estate is just less than forty years old; some residents have been living here all this time. Many of them complain that community relations are not what they used to be; I’ve heard so many people say things like “no-one knows each other any more”… hence the Big Lunch; to get us all talking to each other, to introduce old, new, rich, poor, English, non-English… we’re so penned in by our walls in this country; in hotter climates, people mingle and chat so much more; which is what we did today. Out of all the things I’ve done this year, this was possibly my favourite; getting neighbours to break bread with each other… everyone chipped in, bringing food and drink; supplying barbeques, tables, gazebos; painting faces; cooking; helping to clear up. Introductions were made which hopefully will be the start of conversations which will last for many years. Or am I being an idealist again? We floated the idea of a communal allotment. This has been a dream of mine for many years; I imagine allotments in every school, hospital, prison… but perhaps I should start with my own back yard!!

I’ve seen a few amazing shows at the South Bank in the last week;

Lemn Sissay’s “Why I Don’t Hate White People”, a piece of spoken word theatre, a tragic-comic reflection on race and identity featuring mixed media (more than a few similarities to my work!);

London Liming was genius. Melanie Abrahams is a promoter I’ve got so much respect for. Every event she does is top notch. This one was hosted and co-curated by Charlie Dark. Every artist on the bill rocked it; Caroline Bird, Rinse, John Agard, Ayanna Witter-Jonson, Daljit Nagra, Nii Parkes, Micheal Horovitz, Spaceape and Deborah Stevenson. Beforehand, Daljit Nagra gave a short talk which summed up why he is excited by the evolution of British poetry at the moment, discussing older movements like futurism, Dadaism and surrealism, and also contemporary movements and modes, which are perhaps reflective of the changing way we think, and see, the world around us.

Beardyman’s Complete and Utter Shambles at Udderbelly, the big upside-down purple cow on the South Bank, wins the prize for 'most entertaining show' hands down though. The sheer chutzpah of the man, married to his improvisational genius, is a joy to watch. Watch him reach continual new heights over the next ten years.

I gigged at Salena Godden’s Book Club Boutique, where my good mate Patrick Neate was doing a launch for his new book, ‘Jerusalem’. He got Sway to write a track called ‘Jerusalem’ for the book; mine’s better, though!

We’ve also been working hard on our new mini comic opera, ‘The Girl Who Learnt To Beatbox From Her Ass’, which we’re premiering at the Big Chill in a couple of weeks. I’m really proud of how quickly this one’s come together. It’s everything ‘Broken English’ is not; it’s totally silly and rude, and gives us all a chance to have great fun. I’ve got a huge amount of lines to learn in the next fortnight!

I’ve also scheduled big events I’m involved with all the way to the end of the year, which currently feels exhausting, so I’ll tell you about them later, mum

I’m off to see Baba Brinkman tonight at the Airport; a legend whose name is whispered in hallowed appreciation throughout the spoken word scene.

boooyaaaa

Reflections on Vipassana

Check this article.

I also implore you to tune into Ansuman's project!

Out of Place

Recommended listening whilst reading this post:

‘Galaxy’, by War!

the track features the lyrics “I'll take you out to see the place”… I’ve been fascinated by this idea of being out of place of late.

Last week, a Bengali man knocked on my mate Neil’s door (Neil makes tofu on ‘Brick Lane’). As Neil opened the door, he was surprised to hear the grinning man greet him with the Hebrew ‘Shalom’. Apparently, he wanted a job; convinced that all business owners on Brick Lane were Jewish, he thought that this was a good way to introduce himself as a man of the world.

Have you ever felt out of place? I remember when I went to the RSC in Stratford; I felt a bit weird in my hoodie and trainers, amongst the bow ties and posh accents:

The eyes of Mrs Mansukhani widened, burnt and lingered
When her husband scooped up mouthfuls of risotto using fingers

And the rosy blush upon the cheeks of Mr Johnson’s wife
When her spouse devoured his naan bread, with the aid of fork and knife

Ricky went to Radiohead in work attire. His suit
And tie made him an outcast amongst the trendy yoot

And the way that I got checked at the theatre was just heinous
It seems that Shakespeare disapproves of hooded tops and trainers

Yesterday I bumped into the hoary old crone and charmer Michael Horovitz on a train to Ledbury. He told me about worlds my knowledge of is limited (Alexander Pope, Jaques Tatti, Barenboim’s wife Jackie Dupre) whilst I explained to him what beatboxing was, only for him to say to me “Mango, I’ve been beatboxing with my kazoo for fifty years”. I love Michael. He spent most of the journey inviting the two young ladies in front of us to ‘get off’ with us. Was he talking about the train?



We were on our way to the Ledbury Poetry Festival, where children from John Masefield School, that I've been coaching over the last month, gave a performance. Here's a picture of the kids.



Highlights of the last week or so include:

A performance by my no. 1 flygirl Stacey Makishi in the basement of a deli in Deptford; Stacey performed a short story about the hole in her heart (and her knickers) that leads all the way to China. It was part of a festival called Tasty Diners Club. For £6 we got the most amazing three course meal, and a performance by a living legend. Tasty!!



Next Sunday, my neighbour Lisa and I are setting up the following event, as part of The Big Lunch:



Click on the image to enlarge it!

other highlights include:

Delivering a workshop with Apples and Snakes, which also featured Charlie Dark, Lyric L, Kat Francois and JC001; JC wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the message ‘Le Peuple De l’Herbe’, and sported a Fat Freddie’s Cat bag. I didn’t know that Apples and Snakes would support this kind of subversion!

Performing and compering a Green Sunday event at the Arcola, where I facilitated a discussion about faith and ecology between two Quakers and a Muslim, and gave a presentation on why I think Hackney represents the future, in terms of the common narratives we employ to replace redundant systems like religion and politics:







the 'Paint stuff' picture is a piece of art by Tinsel Edwards; the couple are my neighbours Danny and Lisa, who have planted sunflowers all along our road; the Tarot cards are from a specially commissioned pack put together by the Spill festival.

This picture was given to me by one of my favourite artists and friends, Maria Slovakova. Thanks, Maria!

Persepolis

Marjane Sartrapi's "Persepolis" is a graphic novel, unique in the perspective it casts on Iranian history and politics. Its simply drawn stories, evocative and detailed, paint a picture of the Iranian revolution when Sartrapi grew up as a child.

Now, two Iranian exiles called Sina and Payman have put together a website called Spread Persepolis.

I find this remix, which has directly copied Sartrapi's images and replaced her words with words which tell the story of Iranians today, fascinating as a piece of social commentary. It is far reaching and immediate. When done well, great art has always had a direct impact on political discourse.

My mum thinks that my fascination with comics and cartoons is puerile, I think. But I think that cartoons and comics are an incisive medium for expression of political commentary. Even Bart Simpson, and more poignantly South Park, are brilliant caricatures of modern day society that make us reflect upon, and laugh, at aspects of our lives. Team America, whilst being deliberately crude and offensive, is scintillating satire. Sacha Baron Cohen's creations are the same.

But novels such as Joe Sacco's "Palestine" and Persepolis tell a different tale; it's a new form of journalism, which paints a very different picture of the world. I find a similar kind of poetry in great street art. The fascinating thing about this current version, which borrow Sartrapi's images, is how much people - both Iranian, and from wider afield - are learning to tell their own stories by borrowing from, and giving honour to, stories which came before. Public Enemy would be proud of Persepolis 2.0. It's sampling in its purest form. It's modern day hip-hop, broadcasting its tunes on its very own pirate channel.

Hermit

My friend Ansuman Biswas is in the third day of enforced solitude at Manchester Museum, where he will be destroying an item a day form the collection. It's a fascinating process. Read all about it here, on the blog he's writing during his hermitage.

The Factory

I saw a great piece of theatre last night; a rendition of Chekhov's 'The Seagull', as performed by The Factory.

There was no script, and parts were divvied up amongst the cast by the audience before the play began. Each actor knew what would roughly happen; the rest was improvised. It was performed at the Old Boys Club in Dalston, which isn't known for being a theatrical space.



After the parts were decided, the actors had a minute to gather props, and decide which part of the space each act would be performed in.

The production really excited me. The performance was spontaneous, unpretentious, and dynamic. By putting themselves into this position, the actors were challenged far beyond the usual remit of a performer who has spent weeks learning lines and embodying characters. They'll be doing it again over this summer, as well as attacking other classics; click here to find out about what they're up to. Highly recommended!

Oh, we're going to Chicago..

Yesterday was the final of the London Teenage Poetry Slam, the end result of a process that has lasted over three months. I'm please to say that the team that I have been coaching, eight students from Kingsford School in Beckton, won. This means that the students, their teacher Marty Cook, and I all travel to Chicago in Autumn for an all expenses paid trip, where we will be working with Oak Park River Forest High School, school of Ernest Hemingway, Ludacris, and Ray Croc, founder of McDonalds (he didn't graduate). Nice one!

Here's a couple of snaps of the students, and the two poems which won them the title.



Caught without an umbrella

The weatherman predicted sunshine
Scorched skin
Bra strap graffiti on the brown of my back
So I left my umbrella at home
Only to be soaked
Drenched by his words
As rain trickled from the holes in his forecast

When I was six
The doctor diagnosed my aunt with cancer
Giving her a month to live;
Prescribed chemotherapy and anguish.
A six year old's splayed fingers reached forward into time
Into thirty days of blue skies,
And beyond those circling ribbons
Sewing in and out of those ebony rolling hills
On that vast blank canvas of an artist’s easel-
All I could see was darkness

The blind direct us to the unknown
Weathermen get it wrong
And doctors are casino croupiers,
Shuffling fortunes and dealing duff hands
Concealing all behind that expressionless
Poker face
Poker face
Poker face
We punch the walls of this house of cards
In anger of being lied to.
All fall down;
Shattered futures
Broken dreams
Every day begins as an unwritten page.

"Good morning.
Today is going to be a good day," said the doctor.
But at exactly 4pm it rained all over my world
Acid rain on cashmere skin
Tears of sadness
Tears of love

They said she had only one month to live
One month

She died an hour later

The cancer ate its way through her lungs like a starved virus
Spreading from organ to organ like a bushfire
Her last breathe fading away to emptiness
Before reaching the splayed fingers of the six year old before her

The weatherman predicted sunshine
He didn't predict hatred
Rage
Fury
Or how quickly night would fall
A Six year old daughter
Weeps into her pillow
Drifts into the void
The pillow supports her head
Prevents her from subsiding
Into the empty abyss
Of her mother’s sobs

Weathermen all over the world
Shrug their shoulders and apologize
But it's not weathermen
That are left cold
Shivering
Soaked

Alone.



Beauty and the Beast

(i)

I draw back curtains and light floods in
My eyes are windows encrusted with gunk
Jewels brought back from the land of fairy tales
I climb out my castle
Tip toeing over a blanket of Lego pieces and broken dreams
And face a face which looks like mine

From the glazed surface
Glares back a monster
Beauty's rejected daughter
A monster yellow-faced with polka dots
They call the mirror gazer vain,
But I christen her 'fearful' -
Fearful of a recurring nightmare
Her hair a curtain across a quivering smile
Hiding her from the world
And the world from her ugliness

I charm the mirror
I charm the mirror
Or secure the insecurity
She looks at me cold,
With fear in her eyes

(ii)

Sitting opposite me on the bus,
An old lady
Face a scrunched up paper ball
Hair bleached witch-white
She looks at me cold,
With fear in her eyes

This is what I want to say to her:
"I am the snarling black dog
The coffee skin night child
Who keeps you awake
When you close your eyes"

All of us are fighting demons

(iii)
As the tray closes, it all kicks off
You look at the screen, through your reflection
Pick up the controller
You see yourself backing away
A push, a slap, a shove, a hit
Achievement -
Proceed to level two

You get the courage to peer our of your room
One step, two step, three step, four
Peeking through the living room door
Your mother cries, before silence
Bang - dad slams the front door - he's gone
Achievement -
Proceed to level three

Mum fills her lungs with despair
Smoke fills the air
Our hearts weaken simultaneously
And then, smack
I collapse
Achievement -
Game over

(iv)
His name was Luke
But I saw Goliath before me -
A small, shivering David
With no sling and no stone
But as he (more monsoon than man)
Rained beats upon my head
I felt no pain, but instead
I became the Hulk
(no transformation necessary)
Vision red -
the red raw wound of mum and dad's divorce,
Triggering Beyblade in the arena

As I screwed my face and murdered him in my mind
I was dressed with a face so ugly
I could turn Medusa into stone

Now that's true beauty.

(v)
Let me tell you about looks which can kill
Dad stared at mum,
And I knew which fairy tale was going to get repeated that night
Argument
Fight
Mum getting hurt
Ambulance outside
The police coming to pick dad up
Me feeling like it was my fault

I remember calling my teacher 'dad'
Because at least, around him, I felt safe

My friend told me that when his parents divorced,
he used to get presents
I thought that when mum and dad split
I'd get presents too
But the only gifts I unwrapped contained ugly truths

Something cracks apart;
Breakdance on a broken heart

All of my ugly thoughts are wrapped inside a cocoon
And I'm afraid that one day,
It will burst

It's not maggots that come out of coccoons but...
It's not maggots that come out of cocoons but...
It's not maggots that come out of cocoons but...