Doth Drip Maketh the Man?

Doth Drip Make The Man?

Drip Maketh The Man is a Spoken
Word Project at The Victoria & Albert
Museum. A cohort of 13 Poets, during
2022, directed by Yomi Sode in response
to the ‘Fashioning Masculinities: The Art
of Menswear’ exhibition.

table of contents
Donald Osubor,
Omar Kent,
Jack Cooper,
Leo Stickley,
Mohammed Noor,
Iftikhar Latif,
Daniel Grimston,
Timotei Cobeanu,
Jamel Duane Alatise,
Alfie Neill,
Eliezer Gore,
Jordan B. Minga,
Fawaz Sajid,
vi – ix
x – xiii
xiv – xix
xx – xxiii
xxiv – xxix
xxx – xxxv
xxxvi – xxxix
xl – xlv
xlvi – xlix
l – lv
lvi – lxi
lxii – lxv
lxvi – lxix

The wind turns as the grass burns
My dark denim jacket reflects the pain I
have learned
First comes the STATIC then comes the
rain
For those who stood out or never fitted in
As I walk through the misty forest
I feel nature repeatedly speaking to me
‘We wear our clothes to hide away from the
pain’
But once our clothes are gone the pain will
remain
The decisiveness of burying my sorrow
Is constantly racing my mind for no tomorrow
Layers upon layers
Tailored fit cargos
What does all of this mean?
Do we chase temporary things because it
aligns with a so called ‘dream’
Donald Osubor
vi

The wind turns as the grass burns
My dark denim jacket reflects
the pain I have learned
First comes the STATIC then comes the rain
For those who stood out or never fitted in
As I walk through the misty forest
I feel nature repeatedly speaking to me
‘We wear our clothes to
hide away from the pain’
But once our clothes are
gone the pain will remain
The decisiveness of burying my sorrow
Is constantly racing my mind for no tomorrow
Layers upon layers
Tailored fit cargos
What does all of this mean?
Do we chase temporary things because
it aligns with a so called ‘dream’
Donald Osubor
vii

Donald Osubor
viii

Donald Osubor was born in Italy, and raised in North
West London. He is a designer who currently runs a
streetwear brand called ‘STATIC PLUG’, using his
creative ideas through his brand as a way to express
himself. In his spare time, Donald likes listening to
music and visiting art galleries – it is the source of
his inspiration.
ix

third eyebrow
this third eyebrow elevated me
to levels of masculine perception not
previously known.
a few centimetres of wiry growth
allowed me to transcend my name
become a gentleman
a man of honour and prestige.
doors flew open
deals were cut.
my peers are still processing my new status.
this ‘stache separates me from you.
I’m man enough to sprout this hair
but not as much to neglect it’s taming.
this strip so valued by both sides of my
being.
old white strangers shake my hand
believing I’m their kind of man.
old brown strangers shake my hand
believing I’m their kind of man.
when imperial supremacy is resting on
your upper lip
it no longer matters what comes out your
mouth.
You’re a man now and that’s enough.
Omar Kent
x

unseeded.
the first attack is always my outfit.
striking fear as I step on court
perfectly put together
no sponsorship
but fresh as the tour’s finest.
minds racing before I’ve even hit a ball.
who’s bankrolling this guy?
should he have made it pro?
fuck is that a wooden racket?
I smile - knowing it’s only a decal
a veneer of age upon my tool of expression.
If drip makes the man
It certainly makes the player.
this game’s a chance to display
those three pillars of masculinity
resilience, romance and style.
on those three surfaces of life
grass, earth and concrete.
an expressive game of slice and spin
shall mark you out
never focus on victory
only beauty.
If it’s not effortless
It doesn’t count.
Omar Kent
xi

Omar Kent
xii

Omar Kent (b. 1996) is a British
Pak istani w riter, dire c tor and poet .
Film is his primary medium and Omar’s debut
short Private Screening premiered as part of
the BFI’s Southall on Film programme. Omar’s
mixed heritage, neurodivergent perspective
and love of the absurd allows him to explore
and ridicule cultural and societal expectations
through light hearted poetry (and substandard
fiction).
xiii

A far future statuary
Michaelangelo’s David stands at the centre of a maelstrom,
statues in orbit around him
like hundreds of misshapen moons.
Those closest to him could be cousins;
only subtle differences, an inch here or there
on the in-seam and sleeve,
between the eyes,
below the belt.
But soon the figures seem distorted;
too-jointed
long-necked
seal-sleek
penis buried inside the pelvis like a shoot
awaiting spring,
the stomach distending.
If each statue were a single frame of stop motion,
you would see stone sculpting itself;
Jack Cooper
xiv

A far future statuary
David dropping his sling to leap from his plinth,
legs paring down from columns to twigs,
slim limbs that have forgotten weight,
fingers fine as lace.
Evolution in one fluid motion:
a body refashioned.
A new man for every world
the slow ships discovered.
Exhibition is curation.
Curation has intent.
The statuary is saying that a man
is so often what his home makes him.
That there is hope for a man to be more
than where he came from.
That a body can change
and remain
a man.
Jack Cooper
xv

Form follows function
A poem is a prism held against the mouth,
words coming out at strange angles.
A body can be refashioned, one stitch at a time.
Clothing lets a man be more than himself.
The oldest trousers in the world were worn by warriors,
cavalry charging the steppes of Xinjiang.
They were tailored, made for mobility and comfort:
for the swing of a battle axe, a season on horseback.
They were beautiful. Wool with handwoven patterning,
craftsmanship that lasted three thousand years.
Necessity is the mother of invention
and we needed so much.
We have always wanted to be more than ourselves,
to stare into the sun without blinking.
Jack Cooper
xvi

Form follows function
When I step on stage, wanting to be seen,
I have history behind me:
a nature.
Jack Cooper
xvii

ONE PHOTO??
or ONE BIO + ONE PHOTO?
Jack Cooper
xviii

Jack Cooper is a science communicator. His
poetry has featured in Ambit, Popshot, and
Young Poets Network, and was recently discussed
on BBC Radio 4. The Poetry Society educational
resource “We Are Cellular” uses his poetry to
explore metaphor and cell biology. Explore more
of Jack’s work at www.jackcooperpoet.com
xix

how do I wear the world
I have to carry myself first
I cannot pose for photos
but I can walk to make you look at me
I can walk to make what I’m wearing the second thing you see
even if it happens to be the world
but your question
how do I wear the world
I hate to say it but I wear it sunset-side-out
I wish I could say sunrises
the poetry of a sun always rising I need hope not death
but I’m not the one who put them at odds
and sunsets
they sound better in Italian
and sunsets
go better with my complexion
the world falls around itself
and I fall around with the world on my shoulders
I don’t think I could make you love me any more
but I think I could make you look at me
And the world balances my posture after having ruined it in
the first place
the world keeps falling
the sun keeps rising
il tramonto non finisce mai
how do I wear the world?
really fucking well, thank you
Leo Stickley
xx

RETURN
revert, regress, backdown
or
RETURN
none of these feelings are new,
except I feel them and don’t hate myself, so
all of these feelings are new.
return to flesh, to hope, to an idea of being alive?
we’re not there yet, don’t get too far ahead,
but the idea!
it’s not new! the foundations are shoddy but the
blueprints are fine
return to youth without immaturity,
return to the clown costume without denigration
I have something to return for and a place to
return to
and I can’t draw but that’s something I can learn
new
returning does not make easier the churn too
but I can make it something I return for
a belief in being alive, so much better than before
Leo Stickley
xxi

Leo Stickley
xxii

Leo Stickley (b. 2000) goes by the mantra written
on the side of Barilla Pasta packaging: family,
food, and life. He is an undergraduate historian
at UCL with a focus on queer theory, applying it
across times and places. Although a playwright
and a songwriter, performing is his first love. He
has found the stories that give him unbridled joy
and hopes to give that catharsis to others.
xxiii

At skin surface, the shell:
DEEP DIVING THE DEPTHS
To be stuck in the box, trapped in the endz- the supply chain, the conveyer
belt, the cycle.
In a Nike tracksuit, working class stress suit, puffer jacket but cool, blacked
out AF1 Lows
on the run or on the road uniform.
Looking at the world through broken lens, narrow sight not birds-eye,
distorted view not HD or HQ.
They expect me to have my arms behind my back, bonded together,
stuck in a tight room, behind cold steel bars, be a fanatic.
They expect me to lay down and give over, to be a victim taking handouts,
another static, data, a number added or subtracted to the ongoing broken
societal equation- System.
They expect me to be the ‘diversity hire’, the ‘quota’, the ‘minority’, a tick box
exercise for high tier, high dream professionals. They disregard my lived
experiences - struggles, persistence,
abilities, resistance,
intellect.
Going inwards, going skin deep:
They expect me to be married before 30 with youts already,
with little ones running around with their little arms and legs.
To have everything thought out, planned out, exit routes, budgets, sat nav
To have my shit together,
with the means for whatever the weather
To have a house,
have a car,
have job security
Like really? The pandemic? Have we learnt nothing?
Going inwards to the core, to the soul:
Mohammed Noor
xxiv

I want to be stable but liquid, ripple like water,
‘being formless, shapeless’ but adaptable, occupying the different ‘cups’,
spaces and places in life- like Bruce Lee.
I want to be flexible rather than solid,
creating streams of intergenerational prosperity not tsunami clashes,
‘no one wins when the family feuds’ like Hova
I want to create tides of legacies, ‘loyalties, get royalties inside my DNA’ like
K Dot
To live,
to thrive,
not just survive.
To be able to breath,
Go there,
go far,
go beyond what the eyes can see.
To be FREE!
Mohammed Noor
xxv

MAKER OF THE BODY
Mi casa Su casa
They say what’s yours is yours, what’s mine is mine that’s
the spoken line, well if this the skin I wear then this body
is mine.
But the reality is that your body has a right over you, can’t
you tell?
The heart, the soul is eternally yours but the body is
merely a vessel, a shell. During the dry mouth, cracking
heat my skin darkens like a shield with melanin rising up
to the throne protecting my skin-dom from UV attacks
Your body is a Barakat from the Designer,
the Atom cutter,
the DNA fabricator,
the maker
Your body is a temple, high value to be worn well and
treated as a shrine. I know what you’re thinking, do I even
listen and care for mine?
We abuse it, misuse it, bruise it, bastardize it at the
expense of the others, earths minerals and nature.
Give it up for anyone or anything, reducing and losing its
original value overtime.
Humankind can be one body, one blood, ‘all we got
is one love’ (Black Eyed Peas), with different creeds of
limbs with veins bleeding the same.
But being jaheel, greedy and consumed
but for status, superiority, supremacy,
Mohammed Noor
xxvi

we cut each other off becoming amputated, disconnected,
at conflict with no shame
But when the life cycle ends, amra data neigh, amra sull
neigh,
beyond stitching, washing and repair,
we will be stripped back, stripped bare naked before the
Maker.
This soul is mine but this body is yours.
Mohammed Noor
xxvii

Mohammed Noor
xxviii

Mohammed Noor, is an East London native with an
extensive background in Architecture, Construction
and Creative Arts and prolific by character.
“Pursue your Dreams as they’ll always overpower
your excuses, failures and struggles in this life” - M.N
xxix

Male body problems
A body like mine is too unrealistic
to represent in films, tv or any medium
where medium build chubby torso
is on a proud pedestal of ashy, brown
knock knees. Sometimes, I’m quite pleased
that I’ve not yet been perceived by media
lenses that act as plastic wrap for my appearance,
quickly distributing it through Netflix supply-chains,
ready to be consumed on high-def platters.
A body like mine is too unachievable
to be obtained by ordinary Olympians
or your garden variety Hollywood hardbodies.
It would take years of eating bountiful amounts
of basmati, adorned with the finest curries cooked
with my mother’s golden touch just to meet
the nutrient requirements alone. When asked,
Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger
shed manly tears over how they were so near
achieving a body like mine and yet
didn’t have the facilities for it.
A body like mine is too unattractive
to attract the masses. It is therefore quite right
that I am defined as a cult-classic, acquired taste
and ‘growing on me’ until I am a dad-bod giant
in your subconscious desires. The hair on my body
Iftikhar Latif
xxx

is the draught excluder that keeps out fair-weather lovers.
The lack of muscles on my arms mean I am unable
to carry any freeloaders. And my poor eyesight
means you might need to be as special as me
just to catch my gaze.
A body like mine is too unwieldy to swim
the currents of male fashion trends.
Instead, a bespoke fashion code must be etched
into the Rosetta stone of my weekly wardrobe
so that those clothes exactly fit my strange slabs
that I call thighs while maintaining the right length
for my Bengali boy height. Like an emperor
showing gladiators the thumbs down for execution,
I filter ASOS for anything that won’t act as a showcase
for my awkward frame. My body is a guide
much like the blueprint for a majestic Manhattan
skyscraper - not just any glass panes will do
because I need to be encased in materials
that match my mettle.
Iftikhar Latif
xxxi

Beige is not a boy’s colour
when i [13] was adamant
my lil bro [7] could not wear
any glowing turmeric mendhi
on his brown lil palms i knew
an aversion to colour was
colonising me from the inside
like men must be uniform
men must be uniform
men must be uniform
men are soldiers all uniform
in the same army fatigues
they are all beige
with the same beige blood
spilled by the brigade
for man not being beige enough
there was a boy in blood orange chinos
at college one day after that day
he never wore them again
the masculine industrial complex
enlisted another boy
into the beige army
after that day
the muted colours of mens fashion
in the west is violent in the same way
unseasoned food is racially motivated
discrimination on my tastebuds
the same way the creative recipes of bengali
Iftikhar Latif
xxxii

slang in my school was washed away
as a mark of disrupting lessons
we brown boys have toned down the loud
shades to adopt these faded colours
and it makes me brown in sorrow,
frown in sorrow
let the colours run in the machine
drown in sorrow
let them dictate
how we dress when these threads
were probably made in bangladesh
we dare to wear colours
as a brown
i come from a long line of men dressed
in peacock-patterned longhis
sequinned shalwar kameez and textiles
as bold as the brown boys wearing them
were suited to mutiny
with wardrobes filled as colourful as spice racks
a toolbox ready
for every occasion
whether youre a man thats asian
or not we are more
than the monochrome
your outfits deserve to speak
in full sentences
multisyllabic tones
Iftikhar Latif
xxxiii

Iftikhar Latif
xxxiv

Iftikhar Latif is a writer and spoken-word artist
of British-Bangladeshi descent. His work often
refers to the British Asian experience, immigrant
family relationships and deconstructions of
masculinity. He is also Co-founder and Producer
for ‘Off The Chest’ – a poetry organisation that
aims to create spaces for poetry through events
and workshops.
xxxv

Seedheads
The farmers are all becoming flowers,
their tweed caps firm buds,
their wax coats green leaves
bubbling with chlorophyll and palisade,
their sweaty toes bursting out of rubber boots
to seek the moisture they can actually feed on.
I am watching the colour pour into their unfolding faces
as they gasp up at the sun,
their tongues light as air,
the air thick with their words
which have become so soft with love,
so eager to be lodged inside another.
I will watch them go to seed like an unweeded garden,
I will watch their colours rust,
their stems dry, I will watch
as they become rattles for the wind to shake,
food for migrating birds, scarecrows for kids to chop with sticks,
sewing their bodies further, further.
Daniel Grimston
xxxvi

Cloudspotting
there are whole shoals of us, like clouds,
learning our shapes, filling the skies,
pulled out and in by the blue light
of distance, of the past
it is hard to remember what any of us were
before the workwear - he’s and hims -
hymned our destinies into our hearts,
our arms which are so hard, so soft,
so pressured by the time, the hormones,
to harden and sag, to pull the body
out of edgelands, hew and weave
a certainty from rubble and weeds
it is hard to remember when, if,
the world existed undivided in the past,
it is hard to remember the shapes
I dreamed my body would take
it is hard to remember the bodies
drifting over my head as I sleep -
the hes, the hims, the shes, the theys,
the freedoms and incarcerations
it is hard to remember that the shoals of clouds
are just the water come again
in a new form, on a new day,
that we are free to change
just as they are
Daniel Grimston
xxxvii

Daniel Grimston
xxxviii

Daniel Grimston is a London-based writer, actor
and director from rural Sussex. He has worked
with Apples and Snakes in their Writer’s Room
and Red Sky Sessions, The Poetry Foundation,
BOYSBYGIRLS and eARThworks Magazine.
His work has appeared in Hope and Monsters,
BOYSBYGIRLS, This Is Our Place, an anthology
by Spread The Word and London Wildlife Trust,
and FIERCE, a book of queer monologues
published by Team Angelica Books.
xxxix

my manhood over tea
i’ve been questioning my manhood over tea.
hardly noticed how heavy my body is, carrying
the depths of my eyelids; the burnt jeans, their
tired rage. my scared puffer jacket hiding itself.
i’ve been dying to know:
where does my anger come from?
what country, what state, what burning lake?
is it the clothes i don’t wear? is my body
a stranger to me and my slim silhouette?
it comes at the strangest of times. it breaks
me, like a cracked mirror that sleeps at the
edge of time: i loathe my reflection, even in the dark.
i’ve been questioning my manhood over tea.
tried to look past the thick zara overshirts,
to tie strings in-between me and my inner hurt;
find stillness in the sapphire earrings for years i chose
to avoid. whether they clash with my nikes is a different poem. i
want to learn how to love like a child again.
to be radiant and smile and wear lace like i’m ready for
sun rays to swallow me. to fear nobody.
not even the clouds when they’re blocking the sunset.
not even my necklace when it whispers me nightmares.
the truth is i am tired. i heard my silence screaming at a
rave where my fears were dancing for days to escape me.
i’ve been questioning my manhood over tea.
i’ve been thinking more than my clothes can hide.
Timotei Cobeanu
xl

i’ve been eating scones with rose jam. swam in the
deepest pond. sank with my eyes closed.
is my manhood too busy to know hope at all?
i work hard, chase dreams, go to bed, bite my nails.
who’s to say it’s too late to moonbathe in the sleeping river?
to hear the grass grow; the stars dripping answers.
my manhood is a wound with no plaster.
i’ve been taking my fingers for a dance across my
thinning arms. i’ve rolled up my sleeves, so my muscles
could breathe, in the softness of early light.
i’ve been learning to let go.
my gloveless hands like two tears in a flower vase:
foreign. frail. reaching for stillness in the waters that
know them not.
and how brave it is,
to just go on reaching.
and how liberating to dissolve
the male they want me
to believe in.
to be the sky for a new dawn.
to be the man who lets go,
who is set free.
i’ve been questioning
my manhood
over tea.
Timotei Cobeanu
xli

~
To become
To be present
To seek myself
To paint my nails
To become whole
To speak like liquid
To move like my Buddhist
Bracelet ~ wisely
To breathe like I
Breathe in the air
Where I come from
Hope
To put on the new
To undress the old
Youth ~ he
Who would run
Through the tall grass
‘Neath the cold stars
Falling
For the love of all beings
Who stared up at the birds
Flying past ~ who believed in his
Timotei Cobeanu
xlii

Tender heart
To leave my fears at the door
Or to take them with me
Feed them
Ears ~ feed them
Beads of acceptance
To remember the past is to treasure
The now
To read from old
History books ~ understand
Where I stand
Trace
The lines
On my palms
Let them take
Me as far
French kiss my eyes with grace
With the horizon
~
I am alive.
Timotei Cobeanu
xliii

Timotei Cobeanu
xliv

Timotei is an actor and writer based in London.
His poems often touch on masculinity, mental
health and climate change, but also explore life
in the big city, family and love. He recently took
part in Gielgud Films’ Writers Room, developing
a number of anticipated feature films and TV
series. Recent credits include Romeo in ‘Romeo
and Juliet’ (Cambridge Shakespeare Festival)
and Stefan in ‘Barbeque 67’ (BBC Radio 4).
xlv

Are our birthday suits fashionable
I question,
does mine appear en vogue
does it need to?
Is it still enough we bare
our bodies
do they need to be instagrammable too—
If I don’t take a picture
of all that I am
did I ever exist,
did one actually live?
Jamel Duane Alatise
xlvi

What does it mean for me, now, to embody Killa Cam in the
Summertime?
Which daring garments will turn heads, provoke
“Is that you, yeah?”’s
Where are the final frontiers for forward thinking expressions?
Is it A-Cold-Wall while bridge building?
Loewe x Spirited Away’s Womenwear pieces, so everyone can see
I. watch. Ghibli?
For the moment, it became North Face,
channelling my Trapstar energy with suits:
trousers and blazer underneath for juxtaposition.
Mob traditions.
Master of both worlds. That’s what Cam did.
Showed us a hustler is never defined by a colour, but by our character
and craft.
Showed me that pink looks great against our skin. That fashion is
more than function. And style is more than what’s prescribed:
To break away from the everyday and the mundane
embody what’s iconic and hold no pain
these feel like fundamentals to the rap game
and
if it wasn’t for rain
summertime wouldn’t feel so fine
Jamel Duane Alatise
xlvii

Jamel Duane Alatise
xlviii

Jamel Duane Alatise (b. 1994) believes in people
and himself first and foremost. He is a graduate
of London’s world class conservatoire, Guildhall
School of Music & Drama. Founder of purposelyslow
publication, People Journal. A socially-engaged
Artist—Creative working primarily with people,
poetry and photography, while growing as a musician
and director. Jamel and his work has featured in Vogue
Italia, Today at Apple, HYPEBEAST, Highsnobiety,
Barbican, TATE and more.
xlix

Blessed Balaclava
October 1853,
I crown my bally’ upon my face
Dripping of sweat in a cold storm
Blistering shots are blistering my skin and my layers of leather soak
the Russian bullets in.
I scream allegiance to the Queen, to the country
in this quiet wasteland of Crimea.
A boy I grew up with loses his way
His body falls into the snow pit
My frosted mouth leaves me with nothing to say.
I bless him with his balaclava and cover his eyes
They still glisten with the memories of our youth.
From afar you see nothing but my eyes
But when you look,
when you really look
You’ll see nothing but fear inside.
October 2013,
I crown my bally’ upon my face,
Ready for the masked revolution
Ready for everything to be lost without a trace,
Because you
Push.
You can’t tell me nuffin’
You don’t even know me.
Push.
Hoodie brushes shoulders with other hoodies
Alfie Neill
l

you can’t see any of us sweat
Push.
A boy I grew up with fights the feds in the most beautiful way
But
Feds batter him from pillar to post for his protest.
They tear off his balaclava,
Strip him so his face is naked with terrorised youth.
He’s nothing now.
The mood has changed
But still the people push.
Alfie Neill
li

Money Tree
My money falls from the tree that stands over me, on our street
corner.
Its 100th birthday is soon upon us.
In them one hundred years,
The tree has been pissed on,
It’s been rubbed against,
It’s been molested.
But this tree is the cradle to my shop,
I sell and shift my goods from under it.
My white Air Force luminates my steps in the night,
To indicate I’m open for business.
My trainers are as clean as the glass windows of high fashion in
Covent Garden
You’
ll find me wiping them clean with my spit,
Saliva washes me down.
I wait for the push bike to circle towards me,
My illumination is his signal to take the kilo and fly.
Spitting ceases.
I come back to this tree in the day,
The drip I wear humidifies
this summer breeze.
Soul eases.
I live only for true religion jeans.
Held up by a belt so Gucci.
Tread on concrete with only Prada.
The Moncler coat is the armour for when my money falls from these
branches above.
Alfie Neill
lii

When the money falls and I’m rained up
on making me blinded by fashionable love.
So I go back to that tree every night,
Hoping when I turn up to my next deal,
Everyone compliments my branches.
But they don’t,
No one knows how hard I’ve worked for this.
They never will
Alfie Neill
liii

Alfie Neill
liv

Alfie is an actor, poet and writer. Lilian Baylis Award
recipient, and former cultural leader for Theatre
Peckham. Theatre includes: Come In Unity: An
Evening For Grenfell (Lyric Hammersmith), Heart of
Hammersmith (Lyric Hammersmith), Liar. Heretic.
Thief (Lyric Hammersmith), The Tempest (RADA),
Romeo & Juliet (Primary Shakespeare Company).
As Writer: ‘Common’ – an anthology of working
class voices. ‘Does Drip Maketh The Man’ (V&A
Museum). ‘When We Fall’ (Theatre Peckham).
’SLUMLORD’: A staged reading (Theatre Peckham).
lv

Bodies
stretched and thin cracks in glass you can’t
look past
what do you do when your body
can’t contain you?
Where does your body go when it can’t
frame you?
a narrow chest for a wide heart armoured
flesh
that can’t be torn apart
but words still hit
their mark
it’s a game
of verbal darts
you’ve been birthed
in mr potatoheads skin
new parts
aren’t as easy as pushing
them in
when the man has grown too small for the
boy.
Left with limbs too weak
to support your walls.
Now how does your shape
your curves and edges
your fine lines
every scratch
and stroke
Eliezer Gore
lvi

map out your river body
flowing down stream
that came to a halt
at a pubescent dam
at age 18
you sat and realised
This was the peak
now you wait
wait
for the grass to thin
mountains and hills
to erect
where there were open plains
wait for caves
to form
because you need to hide
the shame
store it so long
it crystallises
Eliezer Gore
lvii

Redress
The motherland crowns my head with black gold
curled coiled and moulded
guided by Afro and Caribbean queens
to be the king
they needed and wished for
so they lay it
and layer it tight
but open
enough for my feelings and thoughts to run free.
My home guards me
puffed up armour
covers my heart
a path back to a village runs though my veins
even in the face of north winds
I remain grounded in what I know to be me
I take this breeze as gifts from foreign lands
not dictating tugs on my reigns. Adorned in the soils
chains and cuffs
that latch
to my hands
and neck
they don’t restrict my dance but make it flash.
Ensembled in the treasures I have gathered
I am dressed as my own man
a king
in his own right
I demand the world address me as such
now
I know I can be more than a mere man
I’m allowed to take as much as I give
I can hold and hoard all that I adore I can be soft
as much as
I am hard
Eliezer Gore
lviii

that leading means following the voices of the people
And my voice is from among the people
So I hear
when my needs demand to be taken off the shelf
and laid on the banquet table
Eliezer Gore
lix

Eliezer Gore
lx

Elizer Gore is an actor–writer who uses the mediums
of poetry and theatre to question thinking and
practices. Especially those around black masculinity
and the Black British experience. Always starting his
exploration with a finger pointed inward.
lxi

Growing Process
Process of Growing
Growing to process
Growing is a process.
I am Growing to process trauma The
mixture. An odd texture Take a spoonful
just a lick of my mind
Let my chemical factory
Taint you’re senses
Spend the day tripping in my shoes.
Right hand / Left turn / Bold move
The way we fold up clothes
Pick up what you put down
What do you want to wear tomorrow?
The bags we carry, left behind us
Broken straps the back packs we are forced
to carry Sewn up like no lips
let the patchwork shield save us.
My mother was a horder
I grew up in her mess
The things
she was forced to carry home The mess I
make is unbearable. Mum took me home?
A burden / A mistake / A gift
The things we are forced to carry home.
Jordan B. Minga
lxii

My mother was a horder
I grew up in her mess
Static like broken glass
I grew up stepping on broken glass
I break abandoned beer bottles on the
pavement to break the silence.
You have to break the silence To bear the
silence.
A life lived alone
More time folding clothes
I can describe
my bedroom as an organized mess
I am as we all are a work in progress.
Jordan B. Minga
lxiii

Jordan B. Minga
lxiv

Jordan B. Minga (b.2001) is a black british Ugandan
Artist, Poet & tinkerer. Graduating in mid 2021
as part of the first cohort of the London Screen
Academy, Jordan has a strong interest in Filmmaking
& Photography. Jordan will go on to study at
Ravenbourne University in mid 2022. Jordan loves to
tell stories. Through performance he looks to explore
the emotions that come with lived experience.
lxv

Are you scared?
Why are you scared?
You’re so full of confidence,
And you, you think you’re incompetent,
My boy... don’t be so conscious but be filled with
consciousness,
Be aware, of yourself!
Because no matter what the outside world says, a
confident man who knows his worth is
Priceless.
The same way we love a confident Queen,
To see the way she shines, glistens and gleams,
radiating outwards,
The same way you should be inspired.
I know it’s not what’s taught,
I know industries thrive off of your negative
emotions,
Internalised self-hate, doubt, fear and insecurity,
I need to tell you what it means to me,
Fawaz Sajid
lxvi

I need to receive from thee, a quote that screams to
me “I’m feeling me and I believe in me!”
And my boy... if there’s even an ounce of hope,
Or belief, or any type of light shining through, no
matter how small,
Hang on to that, for that might be the very thing
that catches you after you fall,
We all, fall... and that’s okay.
Don’t let me paint a fake state of a place where fish
can fly and expectations are that we never
take a left turn,
Let’s instead make a place where we spectate each
other constructively, catch each other
simultaneously, give without remembering, recieve
without forgetting and love each other
fully and unequivocally..
Because it is possible.. It just starts with self.
And I’ll tell you one thing, happiness is being able
to ask for help,
...it just starts with the man we see when we look in
the mirror.
Fawaz Sajid
lxvii

Fawaz Sajid
lxviii

Fawaz is a London-based artist, poet, rapper,
and aspiring producer who makes sense of his life
through music and is a youth programme facilitator.
He is passionate about breaking down the stigma
surrounding creative industries when it clashes with
culture, and is currently involved with multiple
projects looking at providing creative and cultural
opportunities to young people in London.
lxix

Doth Drip Make The Man
was designed and assembled with love
by Jamel Duane Alatise.
Special thanks to Yomi Sode,
Afia Yeboah,
all contributing poets,
all staff and supporters involved,
and The Victoria & Albert Museum.

An exploration of Fashion & Masculinity,
inspired by the Victoria & Albert Museum’s
first ever menswear exhibition; with poems
by Jamel Duane Alatise, Timotei Cobeanu,
Jack Cooper, Eliezer Gore, Daniel Grimston,
Omar Kent, Iftikhar Latif, Jordan B. Minga,
Alfie Neill, Mohammed Noor, Donald
Osubor, Fawaz Sajid, & Leo Stickley.
Doth Drip Make The Man?