Role models for men are underrated.

Right, since it’s International Men’s Day, I thought I would write something quick. I would simply like to say that I think that role models for men are underrated. I remember watching a popular Charles Barkley advert for Nike, in which he said that he was not a role model, and that parents should be role models. I understood the sentiment – that it should not be the job of a total stranger to raise or inspire your child – but I disagreed with it then, and I disagree with it even more now. If you grow up without parents, or without attentive ones, then you often look for those figures elsewhere – and, at the risk of sounding wishy-washy, I do think that we have a responsibility for how we conduct ourselves, particularly when it comes to the next generation and the examples they take from us. It is remarkable how many men will adopt without question the behaviour of men they admire. This is why men like Sonny Bill Williams, Hakeem Olajuwon and Andres Iniesta are important – because even at the peak of their fame, they show compassion, humility and warmth, qualities not readily enough associated with being a man. This is why men like Adel Termos, Captain Mbaye Diagne, Dr. Denis Mukwege and Janusz Bardach should have statues in their honour. 

And manhood, being a man, are things we frequently take for granted, but I don’t think being a man is particularly easy. I don’t mean that in some sob-story kind of way, but more strategically: as in how, in a world which is weighted so much in favour of men, I can usefully act to make a positive difference. And I don’t claim to have any particularly enlightened status here – at the age of thirty-six, I am still watching, and learning, and listening. Because I definitely won’t always get it right, but that is never an excuse for not trying.


On the Paris Attacks.

In a few hours I’ll meet up with my local football team, SFC Friedrichshain Internazionale, to play football. I’m not sure if I’ll get a game, as my first touch seems to have regressed as quickly as my hairline in recent years, but I am so proud just to be part of the squad. I think that there is something very special about my club’s ethos: to quote, “SFC Friedrichshain Internazionale is an international ‘freizeit’ football team based in Berlin which stands against sexism, racism, fascism and homophobia.

What a beautiful, noble aim. Just last night, when news of the Paris attacks first broke, I and some fellow team-mates had been watching a friend – one of our first-choice centre-backs – launching his new single. (He’s a singer-songwriter in that late-Sixties style, really good actually. He is definitely a case of “you should probably give up the day job”.

This weekend I am indulging in two of my favourite things: watching football, and playing live music. Of course, these are two of the things that Parisians were so enjoying just before the horror. And there was something so overwhelming, so jarring, so futile about watching the news develop on our smartphones, knowing that the innocence of a night out just like ours was being torn away forever.

So, at a time like this, how can we respond? Well, I can only speak for myself, but I will try to respond in two ways. First of all, with bravery. And by bravery I don’t mean lust for retribution – for any response obviously needs to be considered calmly and carefully. By bravery I mean trying to be more kind and compassionate than ever; by critiquing and rejecting extremism wherever I can. And secondly, wherever possible, I will try to respond with gratefulness. My world was not broken apart last night, nor has it been touched by the desperation faced by so many refugees. And so, in that spirit of gratefulness, I will try to be that little bit better a son, brother, and human being; and, maybe, even that little bit better a footballer. Because this brief, gentle, fragile life is all that we have, and I will set forward to live it with as open a heart and with as much optimism as I can. And so, now all that’s said: Go Inter.

Jeremy Corbyn and The Times: Saudi Arabia and agenda-setting.

An intriguing thing happened this morning. The Times, in its editorial section, published a scathing critique of Saudi Arabia. In an extract tweeted by one of its most influential writers, Tim Montgomerie, it commented that:

“Britain must use every opportunity to press for reform in the kingdom. It must speak out on behalf of political prisoners, and openly rather than behind closed doors. For too long the fear of losing arms deals or other business has constrained criticism. Saudi Arabia considers itself an ally of the West. Yet there can be no ambiguity in this relationship. Not when it comes to the funding of jihadists by Saudi businessmen. Nor when its courts flog, behead and crucify those who question the wisdom of the princes in power.” (My italics.)

This is, I think, a hugely significant development. The Times boasts some of the commentators most respected by the Conservative Party; not only Mr. Montgomerie, but, to name a couple, Daniel Finkelstein and Matthew Parris. This is an editorial of which its most senior members will probably take careful note, and we do not have to look too far to see what might have prompted its publication. Just a day before, Mr. Montgomerie had tweeted that “Corbyn 100% right to criticise Cameron and UK’s suck up relationship with odious Saudi regime”.

He was referring to Jeremy Corbyn’s speech at the Labour Party’s annual conference, in which Corbyn stated that “nor does it help our national security to give such fawning and uncritical support to regimes like Saudi Arabia and Bahrain who abuse their own citizens and repress democratic movements.”

It is remarkable to see The Times so strongly criticise a key British ally. Perhaps there are several of those in the British Government itself who have long since secretly tired of their relationship with Saudi Arabia. But it looks like it is Corbyn who has been the catalyst for the expression of louder discontent.

Just a few hours before he shared that extract to the Times editorial, Mr. Montgomerie had tweeted another extract, this time from an article of his own, in which he wrote that:

“In its last period of office Labour did things – like introduce the minimum wage, advance gay equality and devolve power – that a Tory government probably wouldn’t have done but now accepts. Politics needs the main party of opposition to be healthy generator of ideas and to possess the capacity to hold power to account. That cannot be said of Labour at the moment. The Corbyn experiment needs to be terminated quickly but we’ve learned quickly that it might be half-competent enough to survive for a couple of years or more.” (Again, my italics.)

With respect to Mr. Montgomerie, it does seem like Corbyn and Labour are in fact generating ideas, and do indeed possess some capacity to hold power to account – because, if it were not for the Labour leader’s speech, it is unlikely that this Times editorial would have been so forceful, or even appeared at all. There are many critiques of Corbyn’s alliances and views, one of the most forceful of which came from Steve Moore just a few days ago, and they will continue to come. The concerns about his foreign policy outlook will continue to be raised, and rightly so – especially for someone in his position. We should note another trend, though – which is that issues that we rarely see discussed, such as that of Bahrain, are now on the table. Corbyn and his party have been mocked for being more interested in talking than doing, but the truth is that policy changes often only come about after vigorous debate.  Given that Corbyn has only been on the job a few days, and has seemingly prompted a step this major, we can only wonder what conversations he will prompt if he remains in his position for a couple of years or more.


The next time Sandra Bland

The next time Sandra Bland

Should drive through a particularly bigoted town,

She should make sure she does so

with her windows rolled right down,

so the officer can see her hands, and is reassured

she’s not storing an assault rifle in her lap.

She should also – I don’t know – try being polite;

That is to say, female and white –

For when a white policeman is in pursuit,

A black woman is only acceptable if mute.

Still, Sandra fell silent in the end,

So it’s doubtful anything she now says can offend.

The usual will happen:

People will loudly gawp at the injustice

But quietly conclude her temper was not to be trusted.

Sandra’s crime was simply that:

Smoking a cigarette while black –

Another heinous vice to add to the list,

Such as attending Bible class in Charleston,

Or simply daring to exist.

“Danger: The Role of the Poet” – my talk at Mikrofestiwal, Wroclaw, 26 June 2015.

Recently, I was very kindly invited to speak in Wroclaw, Poland, at the town’s Mikrofestiwal; below is a copy of the short talk that I gave on Friday 26 June.


I have been asked to say some words today about the political potential of contemporary poetry and spoken word in the UK. And so I thought I would give my short talk the title “Danger: The Role of the Poet”.

Why am I saying that it should be the role of the poet to create a sense of danger? Well, I’m probably being a little dramatic. After all, poetry can just be about describing nice countrysides, and flowers swaying in the breeze. But it can also do so much more. Poetry is dangerous because, in a world where we are so often encouraged not to feel, poetry makes us connect with the people and the society around us. It makes us pause through its perception, through its beauty: and, most frighteningly of all, it makes us think.

Authorities are well aware of the threat posed by poets. Just a year and a half ago, in Qatar, a court upheld the prison sentence of the poet Mohamed Rashid al-Ajami, who was jailed for insulting the emir and spreading incendiary material. Al-Ajami had been arrested late in 2011 for his poem, “Jasmine”, in which he appeared to look forward to the prospect of political revolution in Qatar. “I hope”, he wrote, “that change will come in countries whose ignorant leaders believe that glory lies in US forces”. By Western standards, this might have seemed relatively tame – after all, it was alleged that Al-Ajami did not even perform the poem – but the authorities had seen enough danger in his words, and consigned him to fifteen years in prison.

Fifteen years. Qatar clearly understand the danger of the poet. Al-Ajami was speaking at a time when the “Arab Spring” looked as though it would sweep away a succession of governments. “We are all Tunisia”, wrote Al-Ajami, referring to the first country where an authoritarian leader had fallen. Shortly after the publication of these words, in what was perhaps the ultimate sign of his potential influence, he was deprived of his freedom.

British poets have a far easier time of things. For the most part, we are able to speak as we please. If I would have to name the UK poets who, in recent months, have been particularly effective on the political stage, I would have to identify five people: Hollie McNish, Michael Rosen, Kate Tempest, Inua Ellams and Raymond Antrobus. I will discuss those poets each briefly in turn, but first I must explain what I mean by “effective”. By that, I simply mean that they have, through their skill with words, enabled many people to reflect upon what it means to be human, and to celebrate our common humanity.

That may not sound like much, but we are currently in a political climate where we are being encouraged daily by our media and our elected leaders to think less of “The Other”. Just last Friday, in Berlin, I attended the funeral of an unnamed Syrian man who had died whilst crossing the Mediterranean. His burial, with the consent of his family, was carried out in a cemetery in the German capital by a group called the Center for Political Beauty. The Center’s aim, in their words, is to “tear down the walls surrounding Europe’s sense of compassion”. They seek to do this by reminding us that these dead migrants are people, by making us grieve for them.

This is why the work of the five poets that I have mentioned is political, and therefore dangerous. Each of them examine the lives of those whom we would regard as marginalised, and they do so with a sympathy that is not helpful to the powerful. The first of those poets, Hollie McNish, published a poem on YouTube in February 2013 called “Mathematics”. In this poem McNish, who studied development and economics at university, challenged the assumption that immigrants merely came to the UK to take the country’s jobs. This poem has now been viewed almost two million times, and has seen McNish tour the nation with its message. “Your maths is stuck in primary”, she recites, “and most times immigrants bring more than minuses”.

Alongside McNish is Michael Rosen, whom you can follow on Twitter as @MichaelRosenYes: he uses this platform to write poems and open letters critical of institutional excess and corruption. Kate Tempest, a poet, playwright and musician, is fearless in her examination of the struggles faced by everyday people. Inua Ellams, like Kate a poet and playwright, writes and performs work with nuanced portrayals of black life. Raymond Antrobus, meanwhile, is one of the country’s first graduates of a programme where poets are trained as educators. He now teaches poetry at a school in East London, and performs his best-selling poetry collection to audiences at various festivals.

What do these poets have in common? Well, they recognise the tremendous power of the spoken and the written word. We arguably now live in an age that is better for poets than any other. The poet, after all, is gifted at one thing above all, which is to distil an image or an emotion into just a few lines, just a few words. In a world where attention spans are shortening all the time, where many of us – including me – are constantly staring at our smartphones, poets still have the ability to capture us, to captivate us. There is a reason why, when advertising agencies are looking to launch their campaigns, they come looking for the expertise of poets. It is because they know that we have an eye for a slogan, for a quick catchphrase.

This skill – to condense a complex situation into just a few lines – also lends itself well, I have found, to a career in journalism. I would encourage any poet who thinks keenly about the world around them to blog more, to report more, to comment more. When leading UK poets are called upon to provide their view to the media, they are frequently very impressive. Benjamin Zephaniah, for example, has been an outstanding advocate for social change for many years. Many other poets are actively involved in fundraising for political causes, and can be found joining marches for progressive causes.

I have spoken of the danger of poets, but I should also speak of the danger for poets. Speaking frankly, most poets will never make that much money or gain that much visibility, which can make many of us susceptible to flattery by the powerful. In that desire for publicity, celebrity or attention, we must be wary of lessening the severity of what we wish to say in order to be acceptable to a wider audience. This is, I think, a temptation. At such times, we poets need to remember that we can amplify the voices of the marginalised partly because, as a genre of artists, we are often marginalised ourselves. We poets must remember that we can promote the cause of the Other because, in so many ways, we are Other.

I don’t mean to congratulate myself and my peers too much, but I am proud of one thing. I am proud that, though the poetry world is by no means perfect, it at has at least managed to provide spaces for self-expression that many other art-forms have not. Some of the most compelling voices in the genre right now are women, or women of colour: Sabrina Mahfouz, Jessica Horn, Warsan Shire, Rosie Knight, Chimene Suleyman, Vanessa Kisuule. Poetry has also been something of a refuge for black people, for queer people. And that, I think, is because – despite the conservatism of the institutions that sometimes surround it – poetry represents freedom. It represents, at its best, the ability to speak from the heart with a carefully-honed craft.

That is poetry’s danger, and its power within the political context. Whether using YouTube or Vine, using microphones or speaking in front of a classroom, we have the ability to humanise, to inspire. That is a skill that those on our society’s fringes – the disabled, the poor, the carers, the unemployed – need us to use more than ever; and, at the risk of preaching, we must not fail them.

My debut poetry collection, “Eating Roses For Dinner”

Musa on the stairs (6)

UPDATE: you can now purchase my collection by clicking this link, for anyone using Google in order to find the book. Thank you very much for your kind support of my work.


So, as some of you already know: I am self-publishing my debut poetry collection this summer, “Eating Roses For Dinner”, to mark my first 10 years as a poet. The cover of the book is the photo above, taken by Naomi Woddis; and the book features a foreword from Scroobius Pip, and other very kind words from artists whose work I greatly respect. It will be just under 150 pages in length.

I am charging £10 per copy, plus postage to wherever you may live; I will also sign the book with whatever dedication you would like me to include.

I am printing a very short run of books now, just to gauge initial interest, and if that goes well then I will print some more in time for Christmas. (Please share this post with anyone who might find it of interest – I have included some recommendations below from other artists, for those who do not know my work.) Thanks very much for reading everyone, and have a fantastic day.


About my poetry:

Ed Sheeran, musician:

“I’ve known Musa for many years and I’ve always found him a very honest, poignant wordsmith. He writes from the heart with no filter, and that’s what the best lyricists do. I’m a fan.”

Kate Tempest, poet, playwright and musician:

“Musa is precise and all-encompassing in the same line. His poetry is intimate and erudite, passionate and beautiful.”

Cerys Matthews, musician and broadcaster:

“From the first time I heard Musa’s work, at a launch event in Old Street, I found it to be lyrical, heartfelt and compelling, and I have enjoyed collaborating with him since then. His work is warm, engaging and reflective, and I hope you enjoy this collection.”

Nikesh Shukla, author and playwright:

“Musa Okwonga’s work is often about space – distance travelled, loneliness, the terse relationships between people, cities, digital lives impacting our analogue sense of being in the moment, actual outer space – and it’s these landscapes that give his poetry the gravitas of someone who plays the part of social commentator in the trenches as well as alien observing our peculiarities from afar. I never fail to be moved, astonished, surprised and humoured by his warmth and deep understanding of what it means to be human, and what it means to be other.”

Steven Camden (“Polarbear”), writer, spoken word artist and playwright:

“Musa dances between worlds and circles that many others can only stumble into. He writes importance and compassion and homage and love. I think of him as a disciple of beauty, in all its forms.”

For McKinney, and Eric Casebolt: “They handcuffed the black baby the second it left the womb”.

They handcuffed the black baby the second it left the womb,

Replaced its umbilical cord

With a chain attached to the wall.

“Well”, they reasoned, “it can’t get used to freedom;

Once it’s set free, it will attack.

What it needs is a knee in its back,

A SWAT team watching its cot,

And a drone sneering overhead

As its mother combs the hair of this sighing, gurgling threat.”

All in all, they say, “that police officer, Casebolt,

Did one thing wrong; he got there too late.

He should have pulled that gun on that girl

When her mother was eight months pregnant with her,

Should have pinned her down in the ward

And warned her of the angry cargo she was carrying,

Who might, fifteen years later,

Slip on a bikini and wander lethal as anthrax

Across a white suburban lawn.

Eric Casebolt did nothing but obey one whispered law:

That the birth of each black baby

Is a fresh declaration of war.”

FIFA and Loretta E. Lynch: a milestone for black women.

Several of FIFA’s senior officials have been arrested on charges of corruption, news which has been welcomed by very many people outside the organisation (and, I suspect, more than a few within). The person leading this effort is Loretta E. Lynch, the US Attorney-General, who has only been in her job a matter of weeks. Lynch is the first African-American woman to hold this post, and here she is, holding possibly the most powerful organisation in world sport to account. This is, I think, a milestone for black women. At times like these, I look back at the history of civil rights activism, and consider those who fought just so women just like them could one day have access to the same opportunities as their fellow citizens. Regardless of how these charges against FIFA go, I believe that the very fact that Lynch is here to make them is historically important.

It is probably important today, too. When speaking with several of my black female friends, I see how many of them – despite their considerable success in their various fields – still experience remarkable self-doubt, as if they do not feel worthy of even greater platforms for their talents. That self-doubt is often derived from a world which through the twin stings of racism and sexism frequently tries to hold them back. I doubt that Lynch herself will stop to reflect on this moment – for her, it is probably just one more day in an outstanding career – but many black women, those long gone and those yet to come, may thank her for showing that someone just like them can make it as far as she wants to. And, somewhere out there, I hope that countless ancestors – among them Sojourner Truth, Mary Church Terrell, Rosa Parks – are raising a glass.



On Asian-American men: John Cho, Hollywood, and inter-racial dating.

So: inter-racial dating. There are a few topics I don’t discuss that much in my writing, mainly because for all my openness as a poet I am reflexively very private about some things, and one of those topics is dating. Every now and then, though, I see something which frustrates me enough to take the leap. I have just listened to a short radio piece on Hollywood’s historical reluctance to cast Asian-Americans as leading men, and – perhaps it was the black coffee, the Monday morning, or the slightly early start – something tipped me over the edge.

John Cho, who is a fine actor and something of an ambassador for Asian-Americans making their way in the film industry, spoke of the boundaries he had encountered when growing up. “Girls would say in an almost benevolent tone that ‘I just (have) zero attraction to Asian men’,” he told the BBC World Service. “It wasn’t considered taboo to say something like that.” I can remember being told similar things, and so his words resonated with me. Whilst who you are attracted to is of course a deeply personal matter, the reasons for that attraction often go unexamined. Cho spoke of the way that Hollywood portrayed Asian men as weak, and not as natural leaders, which had implications for how they were viewed in wider society: including, in some cases, the fact that some would not readily consider them as potential romantic partners.

If you think about it, “I have zero attraction to white men”, or “I have zero attraction to black women”, is actually a really odd thing to say to someone’s face. The response I first think of is “what – all of them? There are millions, you haven’t even met each of them yet”.  Look – it could just be their preference. But it still seems a little strange, particularly when you announce that to someone out loud.

I mean – what do I know. Maybe sexual attraction really is as visceral and uncontrollable as the type of food that you like. Or maybe, at some level, we have been socially conditioned to say No! to the possibility of ever fancying someone from a particular ethnic group, to the extent that we feel entitled to look into their hopeful eyes and say it. I don’t know for sure. All I know is that, should I ever again be in a situation where someone ever says “I just don’t fancy black guys”, I will say “OK, so you’ve not met the hot ones so far. Give me a few moments, let me me go through my phone book. I’ll change all that.”

Steph Curry and Ronaldo, the human Vines

I used to follow basketball almost as closely as football, with my fanaticism for it peaking in my mid-to-late-teens; virtually every morning, I still check ESPN for the overnight scores from the NBA. Today I woke to see what had happened in Game 3 of the Western Conference semi-finals between Houston Rockets and the Golden State Warriors, and in one sense I needn’t have bothered. Steph Curry, the Warriors’ point guard, gave yet another demonstration of his genius, scoring 40 points as his team overwhelmed the Rockets by 115 points to 80.

Curry, like every elite athlete before him, is a contradiction: he is utterly predictable, yet wholly unpredictable. He is predictable in, every single time he advances down the court, you know the nature of his most dangerous tool — his three-point shot, which is probably the greatest his sport has ever seen. Yet he is unpredictable, in that you never know quite when he is going to release it. In this sense, he is similar to the Brazil striker Ronaldo, whose own uniquely devastating move was the stepover: in Ronaldo’s case, his feet would flurry around the ball until he veered off with it to his left, a technique honed to such a point that it was irresistible.

Curry is currently performing at such a level that, on any given night, it is he who chooses whether or not he will excel: his opponents, despite their most desperate attentions, seem to have little or no choice in the matter. Watching a video of his highlights from earlier this season, it occurred to me that he is essentially a human version of a Vine: each time he releases the ball, its arc towards the basket is one of identical beauty, as though he were playing himself endlessly on repeat. This is the monotony of excellence, the majesty of routine: where the athlete has achieved such supreme command of their gifts that, even as they are scoured by a thousand cameras and millions of eyes, they may as well be at home alone firing jump-shots towards that rusty, unprotected rim.