Watching Anno - Who Said the Race is Over?
“Who is Anno?” asked E, my most passionate student.
I smiled deeply, that is, to myself. I read from across articles and posts about Anno that he had often asked that very question. In fact, he scrawled it on a wall (well, almost that exact question. There was a curse word inserted which I would never share with my children).
“Yeah…” echoed G, a little naive and utterly sweet, “Is he - or she? - the founder of the charity?”
“He. And, well, no,” I explained, “but it wouldn’t exist without him.”
My students ages 9-13 where all gathered around my desk, sitting cross-legged on the floor as I played various videos about a certain charity called Anno’s Africa. My children were listening to those children sing and act, watching them paint and dance, spying them write and film. These weren’t at some of the places I had taken them to volunteer across town, but children far away in the slums of Sub-Saharan Africa.
“Why?” asked J, my smallest, and he came up for one of his random hugs.
“Anno was a poet, and-“
“A POET?” Interrupted S, clever and funny, “Like Shakespeare? Did he write another Hamlet?” S, half joking, half serious, was rightly obsessed with Shakespeare. I taught all my children to be. We loved words.
“Well,” I tried to start, “They were both writers, but Anno was a modern poet.”
“So was Shakespeare!” The kids chimed in as if to scold me.
“Okay, okay…you wanna listen or what?"
“Ooh…” said J, almost breaking my ear, “there’s a story! I know there’s a story!”
“Oh, tell us,” E came back in, “tell us a story.”
***
The morning before that geography class, I didn’t expect to share Anno’s story. He was incredible poet and brilliant musician, but he was killed in a car accident near the end of 2001, just one month short of his 21sth birthday, on the cusp of recording the debut album with his band Kicks joy Darkness (KjD). And then, in a tragic instant, he suddenly transcended into being, as he once described dying, “one with the universe.”
I often read his book and listened to his songs. And what’s more…I took in the words of so many who shared his creativity via articles. I’ve read of how his songs touched many chords in friends and lovers. I’ve read of the suffering and pain in his family on memorial posts. And I have also read of his legacy thriving in the poorest of places. And, of course, I have read of him throughout his book…this book I’m telling you about today. This book that turned death into life.
“You can hold me & complain about dying if you want
I’d like to do the same to you.
What are we to do?
What possible chance do we have in a world of
designer ideas & advertised truths?
Are we best left to play with the wolves in
our nightmare?
Alone w/ the right kind of need but
the wrong kind of want.”
-November 8th, 2001
That was written a couple of hours before his death. His last poem. I sometimes think of it when I’m frustrated with my students (really with myself, my own teaching because it fails to reach them). After all, sometimes kids' hearts are filled with hate by the generations before them and I sense it growing too late for them to stop cheering terrible wars, to stop fearing opening doors.
There’s a horrific attitude without true imagination. Anno once wrote, “Napoleon was right when he observed that only true imagination gives the masses might.” No matter what part of the world I’m in, what class I walk with, what child I encounter. Loss of imagination is a part of us if we don't turn our boredom into creativity. I know that my students and I want to feel secure in prejudice, but we need challenges that bring us empathy and experience and entanglement with others.
Until that moment, I never taught my students the poems of Anno Birkin. It couldn’t be helped, but I do wish it could’ve shared his book. Though he felt through words a unique cosmos of his own, his themes also had universal passions. Every reader should try a poet like that. Still with glorious curse words and tender sex scenes here and there, it wouldn’t have been appropriate (Anyway, Shakespeare would give many of the same modern ideas for my kids disguised in an above their head language, and no parent would dare complain about him!). But how they would have love to know a youth not that far older than them, not too long ago to live such a profound life and prove through language and music…through words of his own.
***
I tried to keep it simple, “Anno was born in England. Yes, like Shakespeare,” I teased S and he winked, “but in 1980, quite a while after.”
“Was that before you?” G asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “just 8 years or so, but it seems longer.”
“Did you know him?” E asked.
“No. Not at all. But…I’ve read much from others who did. You see, he affected a lot people. You must remember that - you can be butterfly-hurricane to those around you, changing their world. Let’s see, I don’t have it all in front of me, but let me remember…He grew with very good parents and siblings and cousins and friends…and what every child should have. He lived a Wales, a beautiful place, and he had books and he had so many adventures with his family whether they were home or traveling. He did well in school…”
I sighed a bit. I had taught in various schools, and I knew not all children understood that, but to the ones I taught, I hoped they would know what was essential and rightful for every child, so they could break cycles for themselves or for those they encountered.
“What was he like?” J asked.
“His father said in an interview once…he was very smart, very funny, very willful, and also very sensitive. Like all of you! And let me see…I remember his aunt saying he was cuddly and warm and a bit clumsy. Again, like my sweet kids! Some things were different though. You see, he was part of a family that worked in film, but one friend said that he never thought himself different than anyone else. That’s because was very empathic. Another friend said he couldn’t stand to see people unhappy.” I thought how my kids sometimes bullied and how I sometimes failed to show them it was wrong, “we all struggle with that, don’t we, but I hope all of you and I will grow.”
*****
“Time, alone, spent thinking,
drinking sorrow in its purest form.
Time, spent waiting for tomorrow.
Time, or lack thereof, is taking over,
and my grave is getting closer.
And though I’m miles away, my arms are open,
and I’m hoping for an accident…
some tragic intervention of
the Gods.”
-Winter, 1998/99
This poem was by Anno Birkin. I have often heard his mother read it on the CD version of his book. I’ve listened to that recording over and over. As she reads, I feel water overflow in the womb of my heart because I can’t imagine the pain of knowing the future. And I’ve had to ask that poet in dreams, “Anno, were you ready or sad or pleading or peaceful or...?”
Today, I thank Anno’s spirit for taking this time with me. I don’t know what people who have died notice about us with bodies still, if anything. Yet…if they are still a part of our experiences, I wonder…does Anno ever notice me? A stranger to him, yes, but also a reader of his. And, in great part because of him, a writer. Of course, I don’t need him like his loved ones do, so I like to believe that he visits them often. His mother reflected how Anno and her would talk about books and music and emotions. She had held this poem with a hope that Anno may come to see her in dreams…
“Steal me.
Melt my gold centre.
I enter through your dreams,
where you're weak,
and where I'm clean of inhibition.
I'm killing this body, this prison of flesh,
this heart and this head that you loved – put to rest,
but I'll see you in sleep,
when I'm perfect.”
-Spring, 1999
Before telling my kids Anno’s story, I thought of how though I have read him for over 20 years, I had never shared anything about Anno with any students.
Wait, there was one student…
Yes, there was one… but it was okay, because he was more than a student. He is my nephew. And, for his childhood, we were best friends (I was also one of his elementary school teachers). David, or King David, as I call him, adored Anno from babyhood till just leaving his double digits. Actually, our first encounters with him were together.
Just after David was born, age 16, I came to know about Anno. This was 4 or 5 years after the car accident that killed Anno and 2 of his bandmates. I was led to the website - anno.co.uk and got a hold of two of his albums as well as a copy of his book Who Said the Race is Over?
Anno was my first poet. I was a passionate, but not a profound reader. I would walk myself through the fire of his words, but not be able to come out with my own universal analysis beyond biographical connection to Anno. “This poem is like when he or when he and when he…”
I still have trouble reading any poetry, understanding it that is, to this day. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love it! I read it aloud to myself by whispering the words under my own voice…
“Tearing down the air again,
trying to find a stare that's faint and haunted;
teased and taunted mind recedes –
diseased and out of fiction.
Belladonna anodyne, fill my blood and fill my world with lust ...
Roses sunk in cyanide, thrown aside and blown back by the wind ...
Do you see the ...
sinners drinking iodine, to cleanse their dreams and
rid their minds of thought?
And I've seen her rise ... at times ... at night ... her majestic pupils cast,
and setting stars ... are hung ... above ... horizons where you are.
Hot to touch and out of breath,
lost for words, it's best I just stay silent.
Upped inside and on the rise, I found a little low.
Do you feel these roots, so weak?
I'm paranoid,
and fear of rain has left a joy in storms …
And in their eyes ... at times ... at night ... see the light of sudden stars,
etched in sand ... I'm walking on horizons where I stand …
high on her eyes …
high and I rise,
over the land......................................
-Spring, 1999
David and I lived in the same house for a good bit of his life. We went on all kinds of adventures - exploring cemeteries, deep forests, and, of course, banned-book libraries. Much to his loving mother’s worry and sometimes scolding! I often read to him as a baby. We usually went through each book only once, except for Anno’s. David loved hearing his poems and watching video clips of his life via the website. His first toddler dance was to one of Anno's songs; his first reading was a picture of Anno’s spray painted words; and one of his first phrases was, “I’m watching Anno…”. For some reason, despite the level of “appropriateness” in Anno’s poems and songs, my sister allowed David to enjoy him without any complaint.
Before King David understood the word death and a sense of time, he was convinced Anno was his friend and said that he often met with him at night to go on adventures.
He’d quote him too. In Anno’s book, there are spray paints and drawings and scribbles which David liked best. And they were the easiest for him. As we walked through the cemeteries, David would sing, “Oh the noise the skeletons make of trying on new bodies.” When we run through the forests, scaring birds, David would say, “The swallows are leaving - what cowards!” When we talk about the universe, David would echo, “We are of God’s nature and he is of ours.” And when we’d open a new book, he’d have me recite parts of one of Anno’s brilliant early poems which describes the miraculous dawn of new poet.
“Come, will you join me in my precision?
Celebrate the blackness of our future minds,
tear off the hide from the cow of conformity -
bury it in madness and add a sprinkle of remorse.
Poetry is the expression of the unexpected,
to break through the walls of possibility
Anything is possible through the
inscription of words placed writhing
mad on a page, willing to rear apart
any boundary in order that they may be felt.
To you, my pages may seem insignificant,
pointless and vain. So be it. Treat them
not as a meaning or a collect of
words, but as a spear, parting the flesh
so that it may sting the core of self -
so that it may release its venom into your
system and stop at nothing to tear apart your soul.
Read again my friend, watch how the words bend.”
-1996
But around the age of 7, he began to realize that Anno was missed by people far away from us, by family and friends we never met. So once a year on the accident’s anniversary, David and I lit candles under the stars. The child would read a poem of his choice, and then he’d whisper, “You live in all of us, Anno, and I know you’re watching over all of us all the time.” I wasn’t sure if that was reality, but I didn’t contradict the child for his found truth or beautiful lie.
The last time we did this ceremony, David was about 9. Why did we stop? I moved from his home and classroom to the other side of the world for a few years. Though our original relationship was never the same, it grew into something altogether lovely in itself. Like many children entering teen hood, David experienced a formative-years amnesia that made him forget the many of the games and books we shared. When I returned, he couldn’t remember our adventures, but I learned about other things he came to love - anime, cooking, sports, and sometimes, and yes, sometimes still, music. So we still had beautiful times together. That last time I saw David, about a year ago (before I moved away again) was when I played him one of Anno’s songs, Sacrifice and Bliss. David, just 20, smiled, “I don’t remember it, but it’s incredible music.” I had an extra copy of Anno’s book that I was about to give him, but David reminded me he didn’t like to read books now. I smiled, and decided to hold on a little longer for someone who may need it one day…
***
“When Anno got older,” I continued, “he started reading so many poets that came before him. Many I will teach you one day. And then his parents got him guitar for him to play and compose, and around his 15th birthday, he started writing poetry…
***
“The stars are out in hordes tonight,
and he's wished on every one three times.
He's out of words and he's out of rhymes,
so he pities himself and he lies.
And a star sees his chance and he beckons the boy
to give ear to the bargain he brings.
"I can see her from here," he says with a grin,
and a tone that is ridden with mocking.
"There! Out in the half light
She's out in the dark, with her sword and her spear!
And I'll give her a kiss for each tear that you've cried
in forfeit of both of your eyes.”
"But what good are my other four senses!" he screams.
"What good is taste, with no method or means
to relate it to that of her tongue?
I can drink and get drunk on the same wine,
but it's not the same place, and it's not the same time,
and it's not the same look in her eyes.
And what good is smell,
when the scent that I let take my nose as a hostage
has faded and lost all its meaning?
I've been falling and feeling my way through the night
though I know it in vain
in some hope that I might find a flower that bore the same fire.
Restless and tired, I wake from my dreams,
and my nostrils are as clean as the sterile white bed
where she lay with her head to one side
as she called out my name in my night.
And what good are sound waves
that don't bring the noise of her name to my ear?
I thought once that fear came in silence.
Now, though I fear not, I loathe
just the violence of words that aren't hers.
And how can I know what she feels like to touch?How can I know what is real and what's not,
when all that I've got here to go on is dreams,
and a sun that makes vows, that he's not what he seems?”
So he turned to the star and he threw him a smile,
and he said: "So you see, all I have are my eyes
and four coloured photos, and a few faded lines
that she wrote and left floating on sour white paper.”
The star looked above to no maker and laughed,
and the boy cast his eyes to the west and laid claim
to a spot in the sky. And he gave it her name,
and he cried for the star, for he longed for a place
for those things that we treasure but hate.”
- Autumn, 1998
I listen to his expression, my hands over the pages. I think of his poems that sometimes rhyme spiritually and are always filled with physical rhythms. I think of a poem that often addresses a girl or a friend, but then changes perspective to himself, the writer or even to you, the reader. I think of the poems that talk about death, love, compassion, and imagination!
***
I continued the story for my children, “Anno had many more adventures. He was in love sometimes, he was part of bands, and wrote poem after poem. He touched people everywhere he was because of his compassion and thoughts. In 2001, they played a farewell gig in London and he went to Italy with his band to record their album.”
“Wait, wait, wait…” S stops me, “Farewell?”
“Shh!” says E.
He wrote to his girlfriend, “Everything has fallen into place around my skull thanks to this opportunity. For the first time in my life I feel like I know what I'm doing, and I'm doing what I know. The fear and anxiety and excitement I'm feeling at the moment is bursting me.” Do you ever have that feeling?
I do, says E, “when I draw!”
“And I do,” says S, “when I pretend to be Hamlet."
“Me,” G says, “when I make something.”
*******
Though I started out younger than Anno, now I’m older than him. That is strange. I experienced pain throughout my youth in ways he did not, but I was incredibly blessed without the rush he knew of taking in all of life so quickly. That is he devoured so many books and travels; experienced friends and loves; and released words into his notebooks and songs into his guitars! All in 20 years. I’m almost twice that age now and I finally feel I’m just getting started…
I look forward to so much. While I can probably never birth or adopt children as I had once so hoped, I have so many that are more than enough. My students are the loves that starlight my own cosmos. But I have a mission as a teacher. It’s not just about feeling good to play with children and learn from their wonder. I try hard to let them know there’s a world beyond their beautiful or -depending on their circumstances - ugly backyard. We read many books together, listen to many songs, go on walks, draw pictures, and have talks beyond the lessons. Mostly though, like Anno’s sublime parents did for him, I try to teach and let them express themselves creativity. We learn to write together…
When I look out the window of my Anno room, I need words and music. I don’t play a tranquil song. Instead, I raged in glory with the birds and sunlight to Sacrifice and Bliss. I thought of Anno hunched over his guitar singing the song to his girlfriend…
Though it took me years of life’s heartbreaks, this was the song, this experience that I came to love my own life. Lately I had been wanting to dare things I have hidden in myself for years. I wanted to share my writing even if it was rejected, I wanted to try to play music even if I sucked, I wanted to read poetry even it hurt…I wanted to work hard on all the things that I, as a teacher, encouraged my students to do. I wanted to give my life to life…
“The veneer has been varnished,
Our hope has been harnessed and
Hung to blow on the gallows.
In the shallows of bliss where we
Kissed without mercy, so
Salty and thirsty for sin.
Oh man don't open the gates and he'll never get in,
Thin man. Why wish for a sun that is wrinkled and white,
And your tight man, your fate's up for sale and its your turn to bid,
Don't even think it, don't open your heart and you'll never get hit.
You are too dumb for words,
You are too numb for lust, you are
Too young for aged desire.
You are too young for her, far
Too fun to trust ... you are
Too wet to let near our fire.
Tired man, don't open your eyes and you'll never grow old,
Old man don't live in the light of a sun that's run cold.
Cold man, don't sleep for the dreams that you daren't understand,
Don't question why just don't open your eyes and you'll never go blind.
Deep within the storm find calm, find solace in your arms.
When days of soft decay and sweet corrosion were my dreams.
And all the world was still of all it's agony and smiled.
For just a moment. Just a little.
Entombed man, open your eyes or you'll never see light
and decay man, what good is a fist if there's no one to fight
but yourself man, you're stooped in the Gulf of your own stupid mind
and you find man …”
-Autumn 1998/Summer 1999
Anno’s poetry and music are ... my room. That is...my room for reflection. With his words, I hear and go deaf all at once. With his songs, my blindness comes to see new worlds. You must have a room away from the world be what and bring forth who you are.
There’s a poem that reminds me of such a feeling:
“My whole life hangs tonight - like water -
swelling to the final drip.
My grip on nature fumbles - as I
stumble backwards - over rhetoric and rhyme
The rumble in my heart could uproot heaven,
and all their ghostly judgement is like air -
is naught at all.
The dust that is my body shall be
one dust once - again -
with all things, not soon…not soon enough -
Ring the bells of murder!
Jesus sleeps - in every one of you.
Wake! Wake Sweet prince and sing!
Fill the avenues - with laughter.
Scream your words of
goodness in my ear - let me hear - what I have done.
I just seek closeness with my fellow man.”
-Winter 1999/2000
The waking of the prince turns me to Hamlet…I imagine the rest is silence, according to the title character, but I still feel there’s more at the same time. On the night Anno died, he called his father on the phone. He had just read Hamlet, and he said, “Don’t you think if to be or not to be is the question than to be AND not to be must be the answer?” I smile to think of that as my own children often come to that same realization whenever we read Hamlet ourselves…
Oh, I don’t know Anno’s original intent! But beyond the prince with the whole of the poem above, I feel this making in my room of Anno’s words where I feel so much of myself and at the same time slowly release focus back to my students. I wish I could show the kids more on how to let go of the wars and find the doors to their fellow humans!
“I sat by myself past the bridge by the great white balloon,
with my guilt by the great yellow moon.
This place where I ventured with fire and with fear
of the devil's omnipotent moon.
And the wound in my heart bled into my brain,
and the wind blew the rain in my eyes,
and I thought it was tears, and I cried at my being in love.
And I writhed in the light of the moon strung above –
that lunatic moon hung above.
My senses were sharp!
And volcanic her lingering, luminous soul, we had rolled in
the raw light of manic delusions and danced like the dead.
Her head in my hands, like a spell, like a charm,
like a luminous psalm for my psyche, my arms are wrapped
tightly. and loosely enfolding the night
are the folds of desire that are tight round my throat,
and the music of madness floats on hind legs
through the dregs of my sunken serenity.
Do you trust me to cling to your word? For I do –
every letter.
I'm better off burned by your fire than cold to the world,
my desire.
My earliest memory.
We're animals trying to be angels,
but we are not able to know without words;
yet we grow without knowing the verb,
and we love without grammar.
-Summer, 2000
My King David had Anno, but I never worried about him. Even after his innocent beginning, David was kind too. Now one month short of his own 21st birthday, he grows in kindness everyday from his own heart and choices. While my students all over the world have been kind in their beginnings and are still in their curious and adaptive hearts, the world today can and sometimes has forced them into conformity and cruelty. And I can’t always tell them the truth about what’s beyond their world or I wouldn’t be allowed to be their teacher yet. They don’t know yet they are a part of the universe and that they will someday be one with it.
And yet.
As Anno said, “Truth is bold, but bolder still is love that needs no truth or untruth.” That’s what I must remember. I must remember to love them. Whatever happens to just love them.
***
“So there was a car accident one night…” I told them as gently as I could.
“Oh no…” E whispers.
“He died?” S said, now all serious.
“Is that the end of the story?” J asks, giving another hug.
“No,” I promise. “No, it’s far from over even now…”
***
I explained to my kids that Anno’s parents loved him so dearly, and their love transcended his spiritually rich childhood in Wales out of the literal poor streets of Kenya. After he died, they found over 700 poems. No one had any idea he wrote so many, but together they published many of them in this book I’m telling you about - Who Said the Race is Over? The proceeds initially funded the start of Anno’s Africa…
Anno’s Africa's own mission is to bring to underprivileged children in overpopulated areas (some of the poorest places on earth) an alternate education for classes in Writing, Music, and many other disciplines of the Arts. Some of the children have lives even shorter than Anno’s, but this gives them a chance to enrich into a better world. While others will grow up, this may be their own chance to get beyond their backyard.
In David’s childhood, we’ve done story-times and mini-fundraisers for Anno’s Africa to send what we could. I don’t think he remembers, but I know whatever help our small support gave is, not remembered, but felt by some child, hopefully now grown. And if not, enjoying the stars (as I hope Anno is).
As I prepare my lessons for new students in another part of the world tonight, I smile at the superpositional states. Maybe the rest is silence. Maybe Anno can't feel me with him tonight. But even so, Anno’s psychical death can’t destroy his spiritual life whenever someone reads him - or hears - his words for the first time. For my other students, I found a way…
This past year as I taught those children in that class, I spirited them with themes on the value of education in the humanities, the injustice of poverty. And with no bored eyes, my children watched several videos of Anno’s children, learning music, writing, dance, art, and more throughout Africa. I read a line of Anno’s, hoping for us all to feel a shudder…
“Don’t get me wrong - I long to know a
time that knows no pain, but there is
only gain where there is empathy.
I hunger for the fantasy that all men know each other.
I think we need another education.
Your homework is to witness things.
Me? I witnessed someone have a nightmare.
I could not share it, but I didn’t wake him for
I was so enjoying peace and quiet.”
-September, 2001
****
I played some of his music on a video…they were hearing Anno’s for the voice for the first time, watching Anno…
“I saw from this place at the foot of my grave
I gave myself in awe to childish hope and promise.
The tomb it was dug by those whom you know
and love and trust.
There's just room enough to put you in.
And you fear that you lust,
and you know what you love must be clean.
And you fear what you've seen,
what you've touched, what you've been.
And I'm touched.
I'm not naming anyone at all.”
E raises her hand. I pause the video. “It’s an amazing creation!” she says in tears. I wasn’t sure what she was referring to - the charity, the song, the words, the children - but she was right no matter what!
J chimes in, “I want to be an artist like Anno.” I nodded, but reminded her, “You are an artist, but you’re an artist like you.”
G whispered, “I wish I could’ve met him.” I echoed to him, “me too.”
S laughed, “I hope we can color the world like these kids in Africa do.” I quickly wished so as well.
“I know they’re there now,” said E, “I didn’t mean to ignore them. Thank you, Anno.” Yes, thank you, Anno
Then G cried out, “Anno must be so proud of his kids!” I agreed, for I knew how that felt.
Then the children all chime after one another, “Can we read his whole book?”
I smile, “Sorry, no, not yet.”
“But one day…?” a couple ask.
“Yes,” I promise, “Anno said that ‘his bold heart beats on', so yes, one day…"
I press the song to finish. No, to continue…
“I'm soon to return,
there's soon to be fire in my veins again.
I'm almost home.
I'm almost ready.”
Find more at
anno.co.uk
or
