pbearder

Nov 222016
 

Thursday, December 8 at 8 PM – 11 PM

Hive Dalston, 260-268 Kingsland Road, E8 4DG

——–Suggested donation £5———-

Really exited to be launching this book, supported by these two firestorm poets. The night will end with music and dancing, courtesy of yours truely…

JOELLE TAYLOR
Joelle Taylor is an award winning spoken word artist, poet, playwright and author. She has performed across the UK as well as internationally for the British Council (Zimbabwe, Brazil, Botswana) . She was awarded a Fellowship of the Royal Society Arts in 2015 as well as being named as one of Southbank Centre’s Nelson Mandela Change Makers for positively affecting cultural Britain.
www.joelletaylor.co.uk

DAVID LEE MORGAN
has written novels, plays and musical theatre. He’s won a fair few performance poetry competitions, including, the London Slam Championship and the UK Slam Championship. He completed a PhD in creative writing and philosophy at Newcastle University. He’s a longstanding member of the Writers Guild of Great Britain.
www.davidword.com

Oct 042016
 
Numbered Boxes

Artwork by Michelle Tylicki 

 

 “This poetry is activism with heart and the heart is the centre of this beautiful book” (Salena Godden)

  “From lost loves buried in urban marshlands to the revolutionary force of Spring, Peter Bearder delivers   some sharp, witty and honest observations. Plus a comprehensive list of absolutely everything that    happened at Glastonbury 2015.” (Mark Gwynn Jones)

“There is such a hard-won elegance to Bearder’s poetry. In the depths of unrequited affection, of the      ennui of a nondescript day, he finds a way of bringing experience to new life through linguistic    innovation, finding the joy in the everyday, the lyrical beauty in a shared joint, a turning away from      status updates and a folded, private life of the mind. He looks outwards, defiantly and assuredly. Line by   line, poem by poem, it delivers.” (Luke Kennard)

AVAILABLE TO BUY on Burning Eye Website

Numbered Boxes is a journey through the stanzas of school days, family, work addiction, heartbreak and back into school as a teacher. Much of the book was written while Pete was a full time spoken word educator, in a world first pilot project in a secondary school in East London. The book opens the lid on containers built by institutions and those harder to unpack, the ones built by ourselves. The final section of the book breaks free from the shadows of these confines and escapes into the debauchery of mid-summer, drawing on a body of work written while Pete was Glastonbury poet in residence, 2015. Numbered Boxes channels with energy and wit of his stage performance, into a body of lyric, narrative and comically surreal poetry, crafted to deliver on the page.

Sep 142016
 

Dear Mr / Mrs Englishy Peoples,
Im moving from Berlin to Bristol this for the Autumn / Winter. Things have gone seriously wrong in England since I left. There is much to do. I am putting together a national tour of Poetry / Street-Music / Activism with my new book and this – party on a trolley. This is clearly going to sort everything out. The current title is as succinct as Im willing to be. Id like to hear from YOU if you…

a/ Want a hug.
b/ Want to be part of this tour in some way, or have ideas for it.
c/ Can help couch / shower me as I travel around.
d/ Know somewhere to live in Bristol.

e/ Are happy and you know it, and you want to clap your hands.

UK Tour

UK Tour

May 162016
 
Digger inside the mine, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

Digger inside the mine, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. It is the beginning of Ende Gelende. Three thousand activists from across Europe have converged on Lausitz coal mine, East Germany, for a four day encampment of climate mass action. They are armed with bags and tents stuffed with tightly wrapped plans and various shapes of misbehavior. The goal to close down a coal mine and a power plant.

I know, they don’t make life easy.

Numbers have doubled since the last Klima Lamp in August 2015 in West Germany. That’s the problem with social movements. They involve lots of young people expressing themselves in an effort to change the world. They all camp out, dance, join Samba bands and occupy places belonging to The Dark Side. Then they go home they tell their friends. Before you know it, everyone wants more excitement, meaning and purpose than you could stuff inside a shopping centre.

Leaving Camp, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

Leaving Camp, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

This has to stop. Left unchecked, this exponential rise in ‘non-violent confrontational disobedience’ could seriously undermine the bedrock of environmentalism: tutting at the television, carrying out the recycling, and sighing with a listless resignation.

If these lines are passed, the machine of industrial capitalism is in grave danger.

On the Friday we set off to block the railway at a filling station. We succeed.

The loading bays are fed by giant conveyor belts of death. They are like supermarket check outs for a species addicted to the intestines of its own planet. But the growl of Mordor has been silenced. Reverberating with songs and chants, the stations are all at once, climbing frames for a movement, museums of a dying world, and galleries of a new kind of political creativity. Each banner, sticker, chalked slogans and fist shaking activists draped across it, is an exhibit of disobedience. This is high art. The product of hundreds of hands, months of planning, and decades of accumulated experience. As we arrive at the top, a rainbow appears, and at its end – a coal mine.

Later I lie on the train tracks below, covered in coal dust, assimilating the masterpiece singing down at me. Below me death – deep permeating death. Above me life – praying, partying and fighting for a future.

On top of filling station, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

On top of filling station, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/ 

If this is anything it is a war of images: images that celebrate, images that redefine, images that question, warn, provoke and inspire. Inside the mine, hundreds more activists scale diggers the size of 12 story buildings. A new story has been added. The infamous, planet chewing megaliths stand purposeless and motionless, like giant question marks. Who has the power? What does democracy look like? What do we want? When do we want it?

This was not the work of crusties, hippies and bearded poets (though there were a few). Within the camp were professionals, climate scientists and men and women in their sixties, oh, and an ensemble of classical musicians. Any man who carries a cello four hours by foot, to perform to people chained to a train track, is redefining what democracy sounds like. The sight of a classical quintet playing on the fringes of an apocalyptic tar pit was reminiscent of the film Titanic. The sinking ship – hydrocarbon capitalism. Climate change campaigner Leonardo di Caprio could have conceivably been there. Kate Winslet was nowhere to be seen. Celine Dion can fuck right off.

Concert on a railway line, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

Concert on a railway line, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

It is now Sunday and I am part of a body of activists moving towards the power station with the intention of closing it down. Everyone is dressed in white overalls to protect their anonymity, and masks and goggles to protect themselves from pepper spray. The energy is high voltage. Within minutes of arriving at the fences, they are pulled down. Hundreds of us were now inside the compound of the power station. Perhaps the best thing we could have done would have been to occupy one place, sit down and hold an assembly on climate change. The image would have been gold dust. Any ensuing police violence would have been an own-goal of Gandhian proportions. But nobody had planned to get this far. Within minutes, a small brigade of baton swinging riot police caused havoc and confusion. There was division among the activists. Some were pulling open doors and running into the station, then coming out, deciding they were biting off more than they could chew. Most were dead against this, as it went against the action consensus of the camp [CONSENSUS] The next twenty minutes were a running battle with the police, often attacking demonstrators who were leaving the power station, from behind.

On the final day, stories trickle back the camp of counter demonstrations and even attacks from local right wing groups. This is an area of Germany where fascism is on the rise. One demo consisted of hundreds, shouting threats of violence. These threats were carried out on some demonstrators who were locked on to a bridge and could not defend themselves. State violence and fascism in divided communities, crumbling

Breaking into power plant, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

Breaking into power plant, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

into mines. This is a scenario I became used to when I worked as a human rights observer in Colombia. It is chilling to see it in my own continent.

My last hours in the camp saw hundreds of occupiers arriving back by foot or by bus to cheering crowds. There was a sound system, lots of dancing, a klezma band and a well- deserved party. Many activists had gone days on a few hours sleep a night, battling bitterly cold night-time temperatures while sleeping on soot covered rail tracks and giant metal machines.

Inflatable barricades block the way of the police, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

Inflatable barricades block the way of the police, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

Whatever is reported in the media, this was a big step for the movement. As the images of falling fences and occupied coal plants spread around the world, the landscape of political intercourse has again been repainted. This is a movement propelled not by money, media exposure or even peer reviewed science. It is glued together by visions, friendships, and beautifully executed plans. In the words of John Jordan of the Laboratory of Insurrectionary Imagination, ‘Our work is organisation, not representation. It’s transforming the world, and that is the role of art.’

 

 

Occupier, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

Occupier, courtesy of Ende Gelande Flickr https://www.flickr.com/photos/133937251@N05/

Dec 222015
 

Sorry. On meeting an artist who works with a gallery that have exhibited Banksy’s work, I learned that he is in fact a plural noun – different

Banksy?

Banksy? ‘IEKA, Large Grafitti Slogans’

artists submitting under the same name. I was sceptical, but the truth was staring at me from inside the profession.

“How can you be famous and at the same time nobody knows you?” she asked. It makes sense. How can you effectively, authentically and believably interface with the world as an artist if you can’t reveal your own existence?
 .
Something inside of me died. Nobody wants to learn that Father Christmas doesn’t exist. For years Banksy’s incisive guerrilla satire have not only redefined urban space, but the potential for art as political expression. I want to believe, but deep down I know its true, Banksey – if he ever was someone – is now no more than an idea, a meme, a con. Banksey – a collection of nobodies laughing because they are somebody who is nobody. Bastard!, I mean Bastards!
 .
But hang on. If Banksy doesn’t exist then he cannot be discovered, he cannot be arrested, jailed or stopped. He can live in several continents simultaneously. But this is the best bit, Banksy – like some kind of omnipotent deity – will never die! If she (or he) is nobody, the she (or he) is everybody. Banksy is within us all, a recurring pattern sprouting from the mighty and eternal We. He shoots from the undergrowth like a mushroom from an clandestine mycelium network.
 .
Each year Father Christmas heaves the slay breaking weight of grotto bookings, TV appearances and billions of childhood expectations into her (or his) December. This miracle is made possible because she (or he) isn’t. The global phenomenon of Santa Claus is enacted by a seasonal epidemic of mini clauses (or sub clauses), not so much Santa’s little helpers but spell casting dream fulfilling mini mes’, pouring yuletide wonder (and a tidal vomit of plastic) into the gaping mouth of childhood.
Banksy?

Banksy?

That’s right, this December, the giant consumer conspiracy sold to us as Christmas is finding new surfaces to graffiti its brain bleaching cliches of buy. New ways to cultivate thing addictions, eating disorders and feelings of inadequacy. Ho, ho, fucking ho!  Thank you Father Christmas, all of us, we merry makers of debt obesity.
 .
We are all Banksy now. So pick up a stencil, a spray can and sack stuffed with indignation. Take back your streets before the Bastard capitalist Santa Claus gets there first, or worse, creeps into your home and into your stockings.