Poem of the Week by Morley student

Friday 4 November 2011

The poem ‘Stone’ by Janet Simon has been published as ‘Poem of the Week’ by Carole Rumens in the Guardian (Monday 24 October).

Janet has been studying at Morley since the 1980s, firstly in solo singing classes and then on music reading and theory classes to improve her technical skills.

Janet’s love for poetry started from a very young age and she wrote ‘Stone’ while working in a centre for homeless people, run in the crypt of a church about 15 years ago. The poem is found in her latest pamphlet; Asylum; published in 2006, where she has a number of poems that reflect her experiences working with asylum seekers and the homeless.

“The idea of the poem came to me when I participated in an exercise which used to be popular in training days. People sat in a circle and a stone was passed round and when someone felt like it, or the facilitator said stop, the person with the stone gave their reflections”

The ‘Stone’ was described by Rumes as “a political parable about being caught up in cycles of attack and revenge”. To read her full review on Janet’s poem please visit the Guardian Books website here.

Stone

You would reduce this stone to something homely.
Set in the palm of your soft hand,
it rests as if it wouldn't harm a fly.
In your pink fingers, it is a generous stone.
You offer its smooth surface as the best
of possibilities in the best possible of worlds.

      You pass this stone to me
      with pleasing manners.
      You sanction me to hold it
      for a few minutes
      and to speak uninterrupted
      in my own defence.
      Your gracious patronage
      reduces me to gibberish.
      To avoid stuttering
      I place this outsized pebble
      in my quivering mouth.
      Its frigid texture
      is cold, impenetrable.
      I cannot chew on it.
      I spit it out.

      An angry passerby
      picks up this stone
      and hurls it
      through your window.
      Your creamy skin
      turns puce-vermillion,
      and as he runs away
      you bolt your doors
      and ring for the police.

      I bend down and pick up
      this stone.
      It hasn't changed
      its shape or colour.
      Its unrelenting stoneness
      pleads with me.

I do not understand what force of hatred
makes a man destroy your house,
what speed of terror grabs you to defend it,
but I accept this stone, I hear its silent plea
of guiltless being. It sings to me
in my own ignorance, I am a stone.
And a stone is a stone is a stone is a stone.