ANDY CONNER - POEMS

Andy Conner is a Birmingham, UK-based poet and educator, with a long track record of performing his work nationally and internationally.
 
His credits include BBC Radio 4, Jaipur Literature Festival and India International Centre.
 
A highly dramatic and visual performer, Andy’s work ranges from the humorous to the very dark. Many of his poems are for young people.
 
Some of Andy’s poems have been written to help children of all ages deal with issues such as bullying and domestic violence. Recently, Andy has also worked in British schools, conducting workshops for National Refugee Week.
 
A compelling live performer, Andy is known for his close rapport with his audiences and can be relied upon to deliver a memorable show with humour and intensity. 

First Letter Home From A Migrant Worker In Mumbai
​

​Dear Mama and Papa,
 
Despite our differences
It has broken my heart to leave our village
To leave you so very, very far behind
 
This astonishing city holds many challenges
Yet, you may rest peacefully
I am happy, safe and well
 
I am writing to tell you of my first great accomplishment
Please excuse my lack of modesty
But I am absolutely sure
Almost sure
You will be beacons of pride
 
I have visited Chowpatty Beach
And stood shoulder to shoulder
Amongst the elite of Mumbai
On the most celebrated and prestigious
Rubbish dump in all of India
 
For a poor village boy
It is truly a sea of inspiration
No well, no river
But an ocean of plastic bottles
Stretching further than the eye can see
Farther than the mind can dream
 
I am so grateful for your sacrifices
Your lifetime of simple meals
Fruit, veggies, dhal, chapatis
To give me this opportunity
This golden wandering
Through potato chip packets
Ice cream wrappers
Even paper plates
 
This isn’t just trash
This is cash
And you know what?
I couldn’t resist removing my sandals
To feel Lakshmi’s love
Dusting my feet
 
 
 
And the sea
The sea harbours such indescribable smells
No outdated salt
Or bygone fish
But bouquets of industry, progress, exports
I’ve heard it said they’re channelled
In a pipeline from Malabar Hill
To serve as a reminder
Such beautiful pollution
Is attainable for us all
 
Mumbai couldn’t be what it is
Without Bollywood fantasy fiction
I have heard a most entertaining fable
About a mythical palace called Antilia
A palace of such treasures
It could not exist on this earth
I believe it serves as an inspiration
That no matter how great one wealth
There’s no harm in coveting more
 
Back in the real world
I am enclosing three hundred and twenty rupees
A small contribution
But Chowpatty has strengthened my resolve
To become more than you or I
Ever dreamed I could be
I am also enclosing half of a paper plate
I took as a souvenir
I was tempted to take two
But wish my successes
To be tempered with the humility
You have instilled in me
Please show it to my siblings and cousins
As the oldest, I need to be the strongest of role models
 
You have brought me up not to take without giving
So I dropped my bus ticket on the sand
May it serve as a symbol
I am a man of the modern worls
A capitalist, a Mumbaikar
 
Your loving son
 

Of All Things
​

​ 
Even when
It’s not really the weather
 
You parade
Your tie-dye
And printed cotton
All elephants
And lotus flowers
Fairtrade, of course
 
And you waft
Through the market
Organic this
Free-range that
In your achingly funky
Oxfam bag
A few coins dispensed
To tick another box
 
Then
The dusk of dinner
I look at you
In a certain way
As you
Scrape your plate
Into our black hole bin
 
You return the dagger
Scoff
And retort
‘It’s only a few spoonfuls
of vegetables and rice’
 
Of all things
 
 
 

​I Raise My Glass…
 

​to Rosa Parks, who knew it wasn’t just a bus seat
 
to jet age travel, which cleared the haze from my mind and eyes
 
to my mother, who carried on regardless
 
to the unpublished, who carry on regardless
 
to Leonard Cohen, for marrying community and communion
 
to William Shakespeare, for revealing my limitations with such fun
 
to my colour blindness, which gives me my own palette
 
to my colour blindness, which strengthens my sense of obligation
 
to the honest, why should they wait for the next life
 
to Brecht for demolishing the fourth wall, no-one is absolved from acting on their conscience
 
to Patti Smith, for holding a mirror to my feminine side
 
to Patti Smith, for poetry that rocks
 
to the single parent, working two Dickensian jobs
 
to men who cry, I’ve always needed strong role models
 
to Charles Bukowski, for showing it as it is
 
to Paralympians and street children, I used to think that I have problems
 
to Einstein’s theory of inspiration and perspiration
 
 
 
 
 

Boxes
​

​Stepping outside a four-sided box
I spin the globe and start dreaming
 
Stepping outside my lunch box
I feel the joy of a school choir singing
 
Stepping outside my nesting box
I see different shades of morning
 
Stepping outside my texting box
I share the sound of my best friends’ laughter
 
Stepping outside my colour box
I find we have fun together
 
Stepping outside my money box
I bathe in the glow of giving
 
Stepping outside my X Box
I get the rush of scoring goals in real time
 
Stepping outside my square-brain box
I learn angles aren’t just in Maths
 
Stepping outside my cardboard box
I’m wood and wool and gold
 
Stepping outside the box you made
I’m a bundle of surprises

Rhetorical Convection
​

On the outside
Their mock Tudor mansion
Has real fake beams
 
On the inside
We find
Underfloor heating
Persian rugs
Shag pile carpets
(complete with snoozing golden retrievers)
A megabucks cooking range
The embers of an open fire
And so on
 
Despite all of this
Any star-crossed visitor
Who carries themselves
Across the threshold
Is gripped instantly
By permafrost
 
And you ask about
The climate of their marriage
 
 
​