- Jimmy Broccoli
Spotlight: Genevieve Ray
It's a fantastic day to shine the spotlight on someone I find highly talented. Today, on the Jimmy Broccoli page and website, it is an honor to share with you the poetry of Genevieve Ray.
I first ran across Genevieve's writing several months ago and, since my first reading, have followed her work. Genevieve isn't only a terrific poet and one of the best writers writing today, she is an amazing friend and a truly beautiful (inside and out) person.
When it comes to quality and top-notch poetry, Genevieve is the real deal.
Here is Genevieve in her own words:
Genevieve Ray is a Poet and Spoken Word artist from Cambridgeshire, UK. She has been writing for the last 4 years and began to perform her poetry throughout the pandemic. Genevieve uses classical mythology, literature, history and science to discuss themes of race, mental health, exploitation and self-acceptance.
Here are two poems, written by Genevieve Ray - and I know you'll love them as much as I do! ______________
Louder, My Pen
Taking on a pseudonym, Removing photographs, From egg white walls.
The way we are shut down, For existing out loud. In society or online.
Told a thousand ways, Never be present, Don't exist in four dimensions.
If the spittle of hate, Mixed with the dripping of desire. The poison that decimates like acid.
I have been the harbinger, In many silver moons. Seven dust trails of my own.
Yet, it is the seizing, It has become more violent. More intensive than previously.
My pen has only gotten darker. I barely write to celebrate roses. If I harken on blossoms, it's to kill them.
A cycle has returned to being. One where fully loud existing, Was followed by stalkers and violence.
The circular story; Is no longer ending the same way. I won't go into hiding anymore.
Bleach my halo golden. Drive a wedge in my sanity. Madness seems to be my companion.
There is no politeness in my responses. No caring about feeling anymore. My eyes are only focused on those I admire, now.
I am not a habit for the lonesome. Nor bibliotheca for the lazy. I submit forth to focus on my own dreams.
If it railroads hands that would grasp me. Then so be it. In my mid 30's my pen screams so loudly.
2022 Genevieve Ray _____
"Say hello to your children, Ma!" Says the sweet son of a continent, Trying to offer happiness and blessings. Not realising he has accused and branded me, By the auspices of age and self-confidence.
What do I mean to a child, Of a world where women have a narrow purpose? Flaunting my bearing, my lifestyle. Lest he understood my sexuality. Thirty-five, so close I could kiss her.
Call me, Mama Havisham! Let me burn in ecstatic arm flailing. I never undermine, The choices of any single person. Constantly chased by the demons of social structure. No amount of education, creation or self-sufficiency, Ever fills other people's chasms.
Call me, Ma Havisham! My student Estellas is kind, Never spiteful, callous or cruel. My star children of poignancy and pen. Mis Estrellas, my galaxy of talented ones. Building homes into community centres.
Come now, Pip, scold me for my recklessness. Spending Sunday nights dancing in the street, Thursday afternoons with new businesses. I desire deeply to re-align myself, Before devoting full-hearted; To motherhood, mentorhood, and leadership.
Life can spin a thousand silks, A million gauze hazy spider webs. I'll wear a multitude of ink words, As tattoos under my waiting wedding dress. I shall go softly mad as an authoress. Shock curled directoress or editor.
Let them talk about me on Haunted Hill. Buried in the tomes, dried flowers and letters, Of my dearest loved ones and friends. Mama Havisham is a ghost in literature. And the spirit of a glad-handed existence.
2022 Genevieve Ray
Photo: Genevieve Ray.