Vane Women: Changing Voices

Changing voices is the working title for a commissioned piece of writing Vane Women are preparing for Cleveland Theatre Company. This well known youth theatre, based at Darlington Arts Centre, is developing our work, with actors, into a piece of theatre for children 13-16 years to be toured in schools in the Autumn of 2001.
The submissions below will not necessarily be included in the performance.

BLACK SHOES

Black shoes, they choose black shoes,
black shoes with thick thick soles
clumpy heels and laces - black laces.
Black shoes, not only for school,

uniform school but in town
Saturday Afternoon

How strange not wanting to change
into three inch stilettos and browse

down town
and be seen.

Stand gazing into shoe shop windows
at pretty pinks and Summer greens
with narrow straps, peep toes and sling backs.
Sashay along arms linked
waists nipped by wide elastic belts,
starched petticoats swaying,
in our high heels with pointy toes.
Twisting to look at stocking seams
on thin calves, smudging them straight
with quick flicks.
When Bill Haley rocked us round the clock,
and Marilyn Monroe was our queen,
pouting, eternally smiling,
all curves and no reserves,
and no black clumpy shoes.

Margaret Rule

CK
CK
CK
Swoosh

Nice Nike

I'm the Boss
Ellesse
Or else
What else
CK
CK
CK
Never mind Lacoste
I'm the Boss
I'm Tommy
Swoosh
Who would decline
My Calvin Klein
CK
CK
CK

Wendy Iliff

FEARS AT FOURTEEN

Mirror, tell me the story

I can't change, future grieving

like a widow. It's a burden

the future, I want to be old

and finished. Not this story,

this blank page aching

for my words. What happens

if I falter? I want the mirror

to be a friend who'll lie

convincingly, tell me

I'm a genius, not a failure.

Burn my lamp, keep the genie

talking. I'm really underage

and the plains are endless

but every step is rutted.

My eyebrows are too thick &

close together, my legs too thin.

I'm daughter, always daughter

but the voice within is learning

mother. I'm like her at my age.

Mirror, mirror, she's changing

already to grandmother.

I'm more afraid of scars

than pain. Pain is my experience,

scars you'll see in the mirror.

I'm outside more than inside,

carefully combing the way I want to be,

but life won't let me stay,

keeps rubbing me out,

I'm trying to write on a greasy page.

but there's no end to my story.

I'm so ready for it,

eternal & one of the Gods,

it's my mother and father who are mortals.

I'm capricious like the weather

and they try and stop me

and direct me, and even appease

with gifts or curses, but they're powerless.

We're treading on their lives,

and it can't be any other way.

Everything they've done, we'll tread

and tread upon, they'll leave

their best hopes embroidered with

gems of tears. But what can we do?

We're the future

and they have to make way.

Mirror, mirror, don't tell me

what I can't see. The horizon beyond

my vision. One step at a time, so

they say, one minute at a time

and I won't pause for fear

of looking back, or looking down,

or looking too far in front,

or into you, mirror.

S.J. Litherland

FEMALE AM I

Daughter am I
Sister am I
I am the niece and
I am the grandchild

Woman am I
Witch am I
I am the saint and
I am the sinner.

Active am I
Passive am I
I am the silent one and
I am the vocal one

Fearful am I
Courageous am I
I am the crying one and
I am the laughing one.

The raging one am I
The peaceful one am I
I am the clever one
I am the subtle one

Deceiver am I
Truthful am I and
I am the wily one
I am the honest one.

Alluring am I
Dishonest am I
I am the loving one
I am the venal one

Charming am I
Bad mannered am I
I am the guest and
I am the hostess.

Learner am I
Critic am I
I am the teacher and
I am the preacher

Beauty am I
Ugly am I
I am this female and
I am this woman.

Anne Hine

FOURTH LAST

Nobody wants me on their team. My ears
freeze. I'm thin and pale, a tiny waif
on the high field, shivering in my school
shorts. Not big enough, not good enough.
Nobody needs me on their team -
a light-weight wisp of a thing,
a puny skimp, a wimp, in the shadow
of bigger girls. In a stampede
they trample me, push me aside.
I'm always last to be picked, or second
or third last, or maybe fourth last. Fourth
last is best, but when there are four
teams, fourth last is still last. You're
the first of the last, but the last of the rest.
Nobody sees me on their team.
I'm a fill-in, a make-weight. I have nothing
they need. They need to hide me
on their team. I'm last, or fourth
last, because I'm too weak.
I don't know if they know me, but I know
they don't want me, because
nobody wants me on their team.
Vicki Thomas

GREEN GINGER LAND

Green were the valleys we played in
Unworldly children, unknowing and green
As the green grasses springing beneath our light feet.
Green was the livery of the swaying trains
Steaming daily to Green Ginger Land.
We gave no thought to our wondrous green world -
Soon to be turned over to man's envious green-greed.
To housing estates, expressways, green fields into concrete.
Only memories, green memory, storing the images,
Of territories, dens, safe green havens for play,
Morning skies greening, preparing for day.
And we, without inhibitions, each grass-greened child,
Losing forever our birthright, our untamed wild green terrain.

Irene Stacey

HALLOWEEN

Turnips and pumpkins, amber and golden
blades a cutting edge, slicing the flesh to
grimace in darkness, glowing and floating
bright on night air, flickering
candles. Is anyone there?
A spectre appears out from the mist as
a slime green mask slithers in.
The joker, hideous with ash face and
big feet, laughs from his belly.
A sinister treat.
Pace is quickening,
howls from within
shivering cold sweat
in the damp of the night.
Street lights dim as mist blankets over.
Is this a door where a treat is not bought?
Dare to knock
with a loud thud
in muffled orange
fingerless gloves.
The door creaks open and in the dim light
a black witch cackles in her delight.
The children have come, all dressed for the night
of witches and spells.
Come in, come in, come in, alright?

Pat Maycroft

LOVEBITES

Back from the post-SATs French trip
sporting it. The first, his name's Matthew.
Blooming blue and yellow on her tanned
neck, she's sticking every stretch limb out,
designed to trip us up, especially her mum.
After mock 'A's toothpaste worked quite well,
finger-blended with neutral spot stick.
For three days I let my hair down, conspired
to conceal the blemish, the first boyfriend,
almost made it past my hawk-eyed mum.
I envy my niece her nonchalance,
her feisty friends who pull boys with openers
like Hi, wanna give me a lovebite?
though what I guess we share is bearing bruises
long weeks after the fumbling boys have faded.

Annie Wright

ONE LAMP LOUIE

When I was ten,
my broken, buck-toothed grin
was capped in white plastic,
two together top front teeth
with a little groove
modelled to look like a gap.
When I was ten
I wore round pink-framed glasses.
Clagged across one lens
a piece of pink elastoplast
gently greyed
between visits to the eye hospital.
When I was twelve
I knew a girl with cream skin
and white blonde hair
springing from a smooth forehead.
When we went to Guide camp
she had glossy black wellies.
Mine were dull and grey
even when they were wet.
She was really nice.
So was my Dad
even when he called me 'One Lamp Louie'
because of my 'lazy eye'.
But it still made me cry.

Dorothy Long

HAIR TODAY

(This is a number poem.
One word on the first line,
two on the second etc.
up to fourteen lines.)

Hey!
We're hairy!
Our fabulous follicles
erupt in sebaceous extravaganzas,
expressing a joyous furry statement.
Every pore bursting in ecstatic release.
Underarms are picnic parks for canopy dwellers.
Look at that back! It's a Persian rug!
My thighs are prairies ready for buffalo grazing season.
My cheeky bits are as muffled as Victorian piano legs.
Hennaed hairballs have wild orifice parties in every nook and cranny,
combs are brushed aside as tangles take control of each hairy situation.
Mange and alopecia are dirty words, consigned to the realm of nylon toupees.
Soft snuggling is in, nesting is encouraged, wrapping is a must. Long live Rapunzel!

Diane Cockburn

THE MIGHT OF A PIG

What thoughts puffed her up
so high above herself?
Some dream of power -
a Sow for NOW
in clover not a poke
they can't keep her down
she's one on her own
and no-one's piggybacking her.
Swollen so plump and smooth
she's a pink harvest festival marrow
a barrage balloon
a pillow in a tight pink slip
pregnant with possibility
and suddenly she's lifting
rising
nothing tethers her to ground
it's as if a sudden snap
has cut her loose
and curled her tail around
to spring up tight behind.
Pillowing, billowing
rolling and wallowing
she drifts on air
oh what pleasure
so high up there
her trotters dabbling
in cool, cool air.
Round as a rosy cumulus cloud
she heralds sunset
and the evening's chill.
Where can she roost?
Phone wires are too fragile
won't bear her weight
she blunders into trees
cracks off their twigs
she scrabbles on roofs
nudges aerials
chimneys
gutters.
She's getting tired.
The church steeple glints
in the last gleams of sunset.
Golden cock's the farmyard king,
now she knows where she is
now she's come home.
Brass beak and spurs
slice -
a flash
a crash like thunder -
and suddenly her pride is trimmed
she's slimmed and skimmed.
Ribbons of raggy pink balloon
float back to earth -
not enough for a silk purse
just a sow's ear.

Joanna Boulter

HOMEWORK

I've lost it. I've left my book at home
Cat chewed it. Baby spewed on it
Forgot it. Left it in my locker
My little brother drew on it
Ripped the page out, screwed it up into a ball

You didn't give it back to me last time
I gave it in. I put it on the pile
Sheet must have fallen out of my file
There wasn't any information in that useless book you lent us.
My pen ran out. You didn't give me any paper

My granny died. The budgie snuffed it
I had to mind the twins. My parents had a row
I had to go out shopping. I had to make the tea
I had to clean the house. Do a double paper round
The tatties needed lifting. Beasts needed shifting

I thought we had biology tomorrow
You said we had two weeks. I didn't hear.
You never said. Dad threw it in the fire
I finished it in class. It's all crap anyway
My Dad says we should do it all in school

Dad lit his fag with it, put it in his pipe and smoked it
Our Dean wiped his arse with it
I've got a job. Don't need this shit

So what do you think you're going to do about it . . .
Eh?

Marilyn Longstaff

HOME PAGE

Web site design by Roger Cornwell.
Last updated on 9 March 2002.


	FEMALE AM I Daughter am I Sister am I I am the niece and I am the grandchild
		Woman am I Witch am I I am the saint and I am the sinner.
	Active am I Passive am I I am the silent one and I am the vocal one
		Fearful am I Courageous am I I am the crying one and I am the laughing one.
	The raging one am I The peaceful one am I I am the clever one I am the subtle one
		Deceiver am I Truthful am I and I am the wily one I am the honest one.
	Alluring am I Dishonest am I I am the loving one I am the venal one
		Charming am I Bad mannered am I I am the guest and I am the hostess.
	Learner am I Critic am I I am the teacher and I am the preacher
		Beauty am I Ugly am I I am this female and I am this woman.
	Anne Hine


	CK CK CK Swoosh Nice Nike I'm the Boss Ellesse Or else What else CK CK CK Never mind Lacoste I'm the Boss I'm Tommy Swoosh Who would decline My Calvin Klein CK CK CK Wendy Iliff


	FEARS AT FOURTEEN Mirror, tell me the story I can't change, future grieving like a widow. It's a burden the future, I want to be old and finished. Not this story, this blank page aching for my words. What happens if I falter? I want the mirror to be a friend who'll lie convincingly, tell me I'm a genius, not a failure. Burn my lamp, keep the genie talking. I'm really underage and the plains are endless but every step is rutted. My eyebrows are too thick & close together, my legs too thin. I'm daughter, always daughter but the voice within is learning mother. I'm like her at my age. Mirror, mirror, she's changing already to grandmother. I'm more afraid of scars than pain. Pain is my experience, scars you'll see in the mirror. I'm outside more than inside, carefully combing the way I want to be, but life won't let me stay, keeps rubbing me out, I'm trying to write on a greasy page. but there's no end to my story. I'm so ready for it, eternal & one of the Gods, it's my mother and father who are mortals. I'm capricious like the weather and they try and stop me and direct me, and even appease with gifts or curses, but they're powerless. We're treading on their lives, and it can't be any other way. Everything they've done, we'll tread and tread upon, they'll leave their best hopes embroidered with gems of tears. But what can we do? We're the future and they have to make way. Mirror, mirror, don't tell me what I can't see. The horizon beyond my vision. One step at a time, so they say, one minute at a time and I won't pause for fear of looking back, or looking down, or looking too far in front, or into you, mirror. S.J. Litherland


	FOURTH LAST Nobody wants me on their team. My ears freeze. I'm thin and pale, a tiny waif on the high field, shivering in my school shorts. Not big enough, not good enough. Nobody needs me on their team - a light-weight wisp of a thing, a puny skimp, a wimp, in the shadow of bigger girls. In a stampede they trample me, push me aside. I'm always last to be picked, or second or third last, or maybe fourth last. Fourth last is best, but when there are four teams, fourth last is still last. You're the first of the last, but the last of the rest. Nobody sees me on their team. I'm a fill-in, a make-weight. I have nothing they need. They need to hide me on their team. I'm last, or fourth last, because I'm too weak. I don't know if they know me, but I know they don't want me, because nobody wants me on their team. Vicki Thomas


	GREEN GINGER LAND Green were the valleys we played in Unworldly children, unknowing and green As the green grasses springing beneath our light feet. Green was the livery of the swaying trains Steaming daily to Green Ginger Land. We gave no thought to our wondrous green world - Soon to be turned over to man's envious green-greed. To housing estates, expressways, green fields into concrete. Only memories, green memory, storing the images, Of territories, dens, safe green havens for play, Morning skies greening, preparing for day. And we, without inhibitions, each grass-greened child, Losing forever our birthright, our untamed wild green terrain. Irene Stacey


	HALLOWEEN Turnips and pumpkins, amber and golden blades a cutting edge, slicing the flesh to grimace in darkness, glowing and floating bright on night air, flickering candles. Is anyone there? A spectre appears out from the mist as a slime green mask slithers in. The joker, hideous with ash face and big feet, laughs from his belly. A sinister treat. Pace is quickening, howls from within shivering cold sweat in the damp of the night. Street lights dim as mist blankets over. Is this a door where a treat is not bought? Dare to knock with a loud thud in muffled orange fingerless gloves. The door creaks open and in the dim light a black witch cackles in her delight. The children have come, all dressed for the night of witches and spells. Come in, come in, come in, alright? Pat Maycroft


	LOVEBITES Back from the post-SATs French trip sporting it. The first, his name's Matthew. Blooming blue and yellow on her tanned neck, she's sticking every stretch limb out, designed to trip us up, especially her mum. After mock 'A's toothpaste worked quite well, finger-blended with neutral spot stick. For three days I let my hair down, conspired to conceal the blemish, the first boyfriend, almost made it past my hawk-eyed mum. I envy my niece her nonchalance, her feisty friends who pull boys with openers like Hi, wanna give me a lovebite? though what I guess we share is bearing bruises long weeks after the fumbling boys have faded. Annie Wright


	ONE LAMP LOUIE When I was ten, my broken, buck-toothed grin was capped in white plastic, two together top front teeth with a little groove modelled to look like a gap. When I was ten I wore round pink-framed glasses. Clagged across one lens a piece of pink elastoplast gently greyed between visits to the eye hospital. When I was twelve I knew a girl with cream skin and white blonde hair springing from a smooth forehead. When we went to Guide camp she had glossy black wellies. Mine were dull and grey even when they were wet. She was really nice. So was my Dad even when he called me 'One Lamp Louie' because of my 'lazy eye'. But it still made me cry. Dorothy Long


	HAIR TODAY (This is a number poem. One word on the first line, two on the second etc. up to fourteen lines.) Hey! We're hairy! Our fabulous follicles erupt in sebaceous extravaganzas, expressing a joyous furry statement. Every pore bursting in ecstatic release. Underarms are picnic parks for canopy dwellers. Look at that back! It's a Persian rug! My thighs are prairies ready for buffalo grazing season. My cheeky bits are as muffled as Victorian piano legs. Hennaed hairballs have wild orifice parties in every nook and cranny, combs are brushed aside as tangles take control of each hairy situation. Mange and alopecia are dirty words, consigned to the realm of nylon toupees. Soft snuggling is in, nesting is encouraged, wrapping is a must. Long live Rapunzel! Diane Cockburn


	THE MIGHT OF A PIG What thoughts puffed her up so high above herself? Some dream of power - a Sow for NOW in clover not a poke they can't keep her down she's one on her own and no-one's piggybacking her. Swollen so plump and smooth she's a pink harvest festival marrow a barrage balloon a pillow in a tight pink slip pregnant with possibility and suddenly she's lifting rising nothing tethers her to ground it's as if a sudden snap has cut her loose and curled her tail around to spring up tight behind. Pillowing, billowing rolling and wallowing she drifts on air oh what pleasure so high up there her trotters dabbling in cool, cool air. Round as a rosy cumulus cloud she heralds sunset and the evening's chill. Where can she roost? Phone wires are too fragile won't bear her weight she blunders into trees cracks off their twigs she scrabbles on roofs nudges aerials chimneys gutters. She's getting tired. The church steeple glints in the last gleams of sunset. Golden cock's the farmyard king, now she knows where she is now she's come home. Brass beak and spurs slice - a flash a crash like thunder - and suddenly her pride is trimmed she's slimmed and skimmed. Ribbons of raggy pink balloon float back to earth - not enough for a silk purse just a sow's ear. Joanna Boulter