This poem was written as part of a Bi+ Lines workshop run by Kobi Ayensuo which was looking at creating from the archive, and how we can bring lost bits of history to life through poetry.
The seed of this poem comes from a death certificate of one of my ancestors Leontice Finlayson, 16th July 1889, 32 year old woman married to Thomas, a 71 year old British Merchant. Cause of death ‘Poisoning by Laudanum, Suicide, Insomnia’
Laudanum was considered a cure-all medicine of the time, and it was very widely used for all manner of physical and mental ailments. Laudanum, like opium, is derived from poppies, and is highly addictive and poisonous above a certain strength.
Often in a colonial household, one of the closest relationships that a young child might have would be to their Ayah. An Ayah is a nursemaid or nanny recruited from the native population of a colonised country (such as India) to look after the children. Ayah's were an exotic status symbol, and were especially indispensable during the long sea voyages between territories - some Ayah's clocked up over 50 return trips over their careers! Ayah's were also sadly exploited and seen as expendable, often fired for causing bad habits in children learning English and 'proper' manners, or simply abandoned once they got back to a location where their services were not needed.
If a young child in this time period had trouble sleeping, or with anxiety, it is very likely that their Ayah would have been tasked with giving Laudanum to help soothe them.
Dreaming Of Poppies
A heart beats to the beat of a military drum. A little one with ringlets curled all around calls for their Ayah in the streets of early childhood’s home, so dusty and aromatic. A world of spiced spite and poppy. The whole world sold for this little black orb. A poppy for you, poppet. Crush the seeds in your teeth for a taste. The Ayah is pushing the perambulator in Regents Park across the iron gated mouths of a grey spired sky. The baby cannot sleep. They miss the rocking belly of the ship. Soothing ocean rising and falling like kingdoms. The cockneys on the street are chatting about Clarence Street and the Prince sucking on that huge Hampton Rock. The Ayah knows many languages and she’s listening and learning the rhythms of the rhyming slang. Such a quaint tongue. She wears woollen gloves and scarves with her uniformed saree. She pushes an iron perambulator in a far-away land of grey spires, sharp teeth in the sky. In the city of London, the old boys drink whisky and wine and they use laudanum to help them sleep. They call her foreign on the streets. They call her exotic luxury as she puts the children to bed, as she kisses their lion hair heads. She tells them fairy tales in tongues woven from a lifetime of travel. She works on removing every trace of accent from the words that tumble from her loving lips. She is told that the sounds of her people persist. Do not speak in front of the children. Give them laudanum to help them sleep. Just a drop under the tongue, reddish brown like the homeland earth Ayah has never seen, because - like the British she works for - she was born a subject in overseas territories to a family searching, searching for opportunities. Family forgets she is subject, treats her like object. Bouncing around in an iron bellied ship. Ayah helps them curl their lion cub hair. Sings them songs to help them sleep. They have such troubles with their dreams. That’s why they plant them in fields of poppies.
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