English A Level: Isolation Monologue Based On Grace Nichol`s Poem `island Man`

A dramatic monologue

Theme: Isolation in London, desire to break free

Every day. Every bloody day man, yer man, it s the same in da city. I wake with this bubbling feeling in ma stomach. Yer man I crave to return to da homeland, da familiar smells of the Caribbean, da emerald isle, watchin da fisherman reel in his catch, taste the warm, illuminating tropical drink which travels down ma warm mouth, bursting with flavour, me culture me world.

Man, in dis dream, dis colourful dream, where I can tell ya all me beautiful history, and the place where I belong. The beaming sun shines down on ma feet which transports me back to ma illuminatin world. Yer man I say, I m back in me village of coloured people, full of life and spirit, ma friends, ma buddies, ma bruvers and sisters. They have soul man, soul train love man

This cool island where da reggae people chill. Natural rhymths of the Caribbean where ma heart belongs. The sound of blue surf that calls me back! Im back in ma world da colour and adventure. Thanks be ta God that I wa born in da Caribbean. I were blessed fortunate God were with me.

And now? Where da hell is ma God?

I wa brough up da respect ma mum, every pleasure, loadsa free n easy da masia, da melody, da swingin on the beach, da rum n calypso party...

Ah rass, God bless you my Caribbean peoples, you taught me, shows me da right path, respect to my roots, ma culture, you shown me the faithful way, polite man, thank you, ma lassy yo welcome, yo very welcome

God man, ma reality is painful, grey nightmare, Made, bad traffic honking, da crazy fella screaming down da stress, dem mad city geezers roaring into dem skyscrapers in dem sissy posh frocks, dem shiny cases stuff full da money.

Nightmare yer God!! Crazy man so crazy! Cold pillow waves. Freezin to death in ma bedsit. Nightmare! Dawn s oppressive despair tightens my mind. Darl jauntin so mysterious with the ghost-like face on the window magnifying the bitterness of the cold and the smoke o trains and skeletons, bloody urban city grind! Nightmare! With one puff of a fag I am sucked into the spiral of da crazy bad ass place, where da fog of sulphur and carbon monoxide overwhelms my vitality and energy, sucking me down them there tubes and alley ways of ever decreasing tunnels towards... fuckin death.

The sea of anonymity in a seething, boiling mass of human waste, ma mouth feels like da bottom of da sandpit. Who s the bastard honkin ? Who s roarin ? Who s blastin that fuckin rap down his beatbox? Where s the soul in this place, no beatin heart, no pulse, no soul .

Threadbare, my wallet lies open with two coppers staring at ma hopeless face, waiting to be sucked into YOUR impersonal , YOUR intoxicating environment.

Rush-hour London 8.24 bleedin traffic. Crazy cars pollutin . North Circular, just look at dat, no man goin nowhere in da surge of wheels, clinical mechanical drudgery of alloys turning, chipped concrete snarling dogs competing to be the big I AM in this aggressive urban jungle.

And den I m back in ma dream blue sky da buddie doin calypso drinkin da bud on da beach man drinkin under de soft stars an chillin to da tune of da tropical beatbox.

And then man, I witness it da Caribbean light, mingling with da artificial unloved light glaring defiantly on ma street lamp post in dis honky city.

And NOW, I m awake again da blue sky was some bleedin dream, NOW I m stuck in London but pinin for ma home ma pearl ma roots ma sexy gal.

What have I got? Thus bleedin , faceless, good for nothin bedsit in some block of crumbling flats. View of a greedy grey skyscraper.

God help me man, another London day....