V Poem
Steve has been working on a number of poems to shadow Child I, for performances and school visits. Here is his poem portrait of the indefatigable V, who claims to be “almost 16”:
V
V walking in tight little circles,
muttering to herself, fists raised
like she’s going to do six rounds in a boxing ring
or run a race and go for gold.
V’s socks covered in dirt,
holes in the heels from stomping round.
V howling like a wolf, trumpeting like an elephant,
cackling like a hyena, hissing like a cat.
V rushing up to the Guard, facing the Guard,
hands on hips, jutting her chin at his face,
jabbing her finger. “He. Stole. My. Shoes!”
V scratching at him, leaping at him like a lion.
The Guard calling her wild, wrestling her,
but V clinging like a monkey,
getting her teeth into him, vicious.
The other Guards reaching for their clubs.
But V is far beyond fear.
She lived in a village visited by violence,
devastated by war. The family she loved
was bombed and evacuated.
V fled with her brother on a voyage across the sea.
The overcrowded vessel sank,
and V’s brother drowned.
Now she is on her own, she has nothing left to fear.
But the Guards call V a liar.
They say her version of events
is well-versed, but unverifiable.
Even so, they claim they
stole her shoes to keep her safe,
to stop her wandering into a place of danger.
V is vulnerable. V is a victim.
She is off the map.
Now V’s livid,
cursing beneath her breath,
spitting venom with a vengeance,
erupting like a volcano.
V versus the world. All in vain.
“I know!” I say. “Let’s play a game!”
I lead her to a crooked table football by the toilet block.
And here’s V, venting her rage against the spinning players
like her life depends on it,
demolishing me, seven goals to nil.
V skipping and whooping,
pumping and yelling, “Champ-i-on!”
V the invincible, and most invincible
of all when she’s all pumped up
and she is all pumped up right now.
V is vexed.
A charity drop causes a mad scrum for shoes.
Big men who live in the camp push and shove to the front.
V ducks between their legs. Fast,
digging her elbows against men twice as big,
emerging victorious,
clutching a pair of not-too-scrubby Nikes.
“Hah ha!” Leaping up and down. “Mine!”
Gazing at the trainers like treasure.
“Mine.” Bouncing on air.
“I am the Queen of the jungle!” she declares.
Tonight, V will walk out of the Camp in her brand new Nikes.
Tomorrow, the Guards will find her, drag her back
and confiscate the Nikes.
V, never giving in.
Child I 