Jason N Smith

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INSPIRATION GALLERY

Mental Shackles

Feeling light relieved of weight At a release date, but not a true Freedom date, for mental shackles Of the mind, if only could be set free In kind. A life of fear becomes a self-imposed mask And no matter whom throughout history it’s cast Hate, anger, blame, shame, pain Continuously stepping past one to fall again Until struggling to fulfil the basics of life Become a physically, emotionally exacting tithe Where we are mentally blocked, locked in captivity Held a prisoner fr

Jan 271 min read

How Can I Explain

How can I explain the pain of a prison gate’s gaping maw opening and closing with a soul shaking finality?  A finality echoing screams off walls along dark corridors of unforeseeable futures, where life-giving umbilical cords are cut within cold solitary cells of confinement, with an empty vacuum sucking life from bones.  How can I express the short sharp shock of being birthed to emerge into numbers  I can never forget, where every day I regret  having to recollect decepti

Jan 272 min read

A Matter of Life and Death

On 27 September, 2018 Safe Ground Producing a poetry piece for a ‘Matter of Life and Death’ symposium and had me reliving unrelinquished episodes along corridors, exercise yards, cells and prison wings still existing inside my head. The event sought answers to address numbers of deaths in secure settings. When reliving ground zero of a suicide, Ego was denied a ‘Visiting ‘Order,’ and only honesty allowed past security into reception and general population. Walking landings

Jan 275 min read

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ABOUT JASON

Jason N. Smith is a poet and has read at the National Theatre, Bet355 and the Royal Festival Hall, London's St Ethelburga’s Centre for Reconciliation and Peace, Six Towns One City Carnival and featured in BBC 4 Listener programme and National 'Prison Radio at BBC Broadcasting House.”

Jason's work addresses themes of personal and social struggle and he has been involved in various projects and performances highlighting diverse talents.

Jason has created works in response to the demolition of a shopping centre in Hanley, Stoke-on-Trent, and clashes between left-wing groups in England. His poetry frequently aims to heal, teach, and share the joy of life, blended with personal experiences.

His workshops focus on motivational speaking, creative expression, and well-being, providing inspiration and insight drawn from life experiences.

CONNECT WITH US

As they say, 'It's in the little things.'

Co Creation

Send the email. Make that call. Co create.

Create inspiration. Create a revolution,

Of processing…

Community of knowledge and support.

Intersectionality and belonging of cultures.

Voices seen to be heard, heard to be seen.

At easels of our days bellow blue above,

Sketching practice, writing What, while we live

Unpicking tight strung poetical tapestries,

On page of days
We sketch, We paint, Co-create
Humanity writes

Considering USA is in debt, who has the best resume for bankruptcy?

If Iran let oil through, but only those trading in Yuan, then the world economy takes a major shift.

The first book I heard was James and The Giant Peach. Listening to a teacher reading took my young mind on a magical journey and when given a tin of little card cut words to learn I raced home to ask for help…

The tin of words were left abandoned however, I began taking note of words and their meanings. I didn’t know how to spell, but my young mind was hungry to understand.

Then, years later, when thinking about neural divergency, my sister Joanna Oliver and I interrogated how this intersects with ethnicity, disability, gender and identity, and the dynamic effects gave me cause to pause and reflect…

The spoken word ‘Non Standard’ is now being used as part of a trauma informed practice learning program for probation staff in Kent. and has been presented by r at The London Safeguarding Children Partnership Conference to 550 delegates and was shared as part of my keynote speech at Expert Citizens National Insight Awards at Staffordshire university.

@consultachameleon

Thank you to all mothers and motherly figures. #happymothersday

As consciousness merges with morning,
yawn away yesterday and find fun in glum
Grey’s pouring dribs and drabs of sunrays
to grab,

Absorbing for wet weather weeks ahead.

And the be a monger of soul food getting
high on your own supply,

And buying bright immunities to inoculate
community,

With something you cannot buy.

And then, like a Fountain pen's stop
and starting of ink flow on Monday,
use reserved overflow until cartilage
runs low at the weekend,

And then begin the thrilling filling
and blotting of days page, friend.

To all mothers and women in motherly roles. Thank you.

#happymothers #thankyou

Hope

Hope is now like a message in a bottle adrift at sea, with a decree limiting uncorking the message, because of fear seeing embers rise from remnants of letters, and ashes.

Hope is now like casts dreams to factions hoping sides catch them to find peace and live
giddy glib days again or at least attain,

A quietened mind
No longer blind to loud sound
Of the universe

But fuel to fly through skies turned tar to taste
from burning revenue streams is now limited
And we search through smoke for certainty
on which to land, but once familiar is uncertain,

Uncannily strange.

#hope

Train of Thought

After the event on a train. I glide through town sprawls and graffiti spray paint the snippets of stories reading like her or his-story's prophetic news, I try to relax as memories threaten to intrude on the vista of factories, Hay Bales, Downs, Dales, industries shut down, sitting derelict below clouds ready to birth number two’s when I emerge from the train.

Then memory presents suns heat on age five brown skin, a middle-aged woman, the scent of bubble-gum smelling blue liquid in a glass and drinking unaware the offering a revenge underserved served to kill or make ill, causing my brain to not be the same after headaches, without hindsight of age to explain why I sat in darkness, head sweaty under blanket-stuffed pillows, sick with no doctor to medicate.

With a sharp intake of breath, I want to abstain from retreading memory’s catacombs like a poetry refrain and lay past to rest, to just rest in peace.

My unamused muse quickly switches from the unwillingly exhumed and the outside windows cloudy view, into poetical pregnant grey breaking water to birth and nurture spring shoots anew. Just as the smell of Americano heralds the arrival of a food trolley, but I don’t have digits for highly priced budget abuse, to choose crisps, cookies, sandwiches, soft drinks, wine, beer, juice, so refuse as dusk highlights life's bright lights and sight from window reflecting backlit views of laptop users, book readers, contrasting napping dreamers, and those on phones scrolling in suspended disbelieving unsocial media causes mental wealth decline like economies. And me, I quietly listen to occasional loud laughs and chats about scandalous news blues, echoing shadows, like the train passing through a tunnel or like a long prison sentence and emerging into the stage light of The National Theatre.

Then there’s rustling bags when a man stands, queues for a stop, and I spread legs and we’re off!

#listen or #read from the video taken on the #train #positivity #journeys

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