Care Home
By our third visit, it’s as if she remembers me.
We do our usual exchanges. She asks after mum,
Angeline, my studies. I ask which colour
She wants to paint with. She nods to the red
her finger tapping her thigh. The colour suits her
scarf, silk glinting in the dark room.
The curtains shiver, a little air
catching their hems. We start our warmup
and she flashes her teeth at Curtis Mayfield;
Move On Up! The room croons. Once
the paper is laid out at their feet
we do the rounds, popping the pallets
On the floor, offering paintbrushes made from sticks
sellotaped to feathers. Miss Una Lee,
You okay? She eyes the red paint, murmurs
Into her lap about the Jan-crows, the garden in Saint Anne's,
The way her mother's mango tree towered
over the wall. And the thieving neighbour
With his stick and Sellotape and bucket.
She holds out her hand. I slip mine in hers.
How's your mum? She's well Miss Una. Misses you.
Image credit: Jon Cardwell, It All Makes Sensory (Autumn 2025), Spare Tyre Theatre Company
Small Luxuries
The toilet cubicle in the library. The soft
cushioned chairs. The gifted notepads
and pencils. A little eye contact. Miss asking
what I want. Writing a list of what I want.
Running a likkle joke. Running
two two joke. Miss’s stern telling off. Guys
guys. I was read to. I was
not my number. I could be dad. Could talk up
my kids. Go by a new name.
There were others who agreed. New faces
not on my wing. The books – so many
books! The scribe
who helped me read. The scribe who
wrote out my whispered thoughts
made them look so
neat between lines on the page.
The guys. Their stories. The biscuits – M&S Miss!
No guard in here. Just quiet
for a bit. The clink of keys
and clanging gates were almost still
for a bit. The guitar stashed
in the store cupboard. That Johnny
could strum a tune. The bars I wrote last week
looping through the music. How Miss said
That's poetry! That’s poetry. The second thought
of my kids stinging a little. But others heard
and felt the same. Someone who shared my name. Miss
who remembered my name. Like I said,
little quiet for a bit. Lunch
wafting between the bars. Cell
a long way from here. Change over
almost forgotten about.
Image credit: Izzy Brooks, The National Literacy Trust
Ars Poetica with Schoolkids
I suppose the poem starts as they file in
some hesitant, some keen, mostly
curious, upturning the worksheets piled neat
in the middle of their desks and the catering team
who use the room as a cut-through
while I chatter through my intro
without mentioning my name. I suppose
the poem starts when they step
into the Conservatory and I ask if anyone’s
been here before to which they shake their heads
and ask their questions – so many questions
about the plants and Miss what does this mean? Can you
translate Latin? And I send them to Maeve
because she's full of knowledge and sensitivity
concerning the colour green. Yes, I suppose
the poem starts in their O mouths
assigning roles to the terrapins in their den – mum
and dad and siblings and them. So much awe
when they craft their own
poems made from black and green
as complementary as light is to glass and the kids
whose eyes go bright when I invite
their mother tongues into the room and the gentle scrawl
of pens on paper. The first crossings out
of a this-not-that word. I suppose that’s where
the poem starts, in the cotton ball in the back
of the throat before they stand to speak
and share their glinting portals with the room.
Image Credit: Williamz Omope, Barbican Conservatory Workshops, Creative Learning at Barbican Centre
With thanks to Spare Tyre Theatre Company and It All Makes Sensory Croydon Care Homes project, you kindly invited me on in Autumn 2025. The National Literacy Trust, particularly Rachel C, Rachel F and Izzy, for the Readconnect project they so wonderfully deliver in prisons and for inviting me to be part of it. And to the Barbican Centre for inviting me to design and deliver Eco-poetry workshops for school pupils in the Conservatory. Their awe and curiosity offer fresh eyes to see other green spaces in urban landscapes.
To learn more about Esme Allman's work you can visit her website here