Research Collective: Questions from Bristol’s communities

Morning light, voices gather.

A tapestry begins, fragile as a single thread,

each stitch a quiet act of faith.

The memory of touch awakens the hand,

a rhythmic pulse in the fingertips -

to simply be here is the harvest.

We move together past hidden seams,

toward a door of silent sorrow,

where withheld knowledge opens.

With wisdom, with heart, with care,

every moment shared, the thread lengthens.

on our return, the needle naturally finds its place,

following a simple line or a French knot -

we gather our stories, growing inch by inch.

In safe circles, held by quiet trust,

we unpick the knots of silence.

We do not hide the old wounds or the worn edges.

rather, we bind the gaps with new colour,

mending the spirit with a detailed pattern of resilience.

As the years turn, the shame

once heavy on the heart begins to loosen.

In this unravelling, we find one another.

Spirits warm,

a quiet weaving of esteem.

Every thread is a lesson,

for we are the tapestry.

- Shy Pen 

(This poem can be viewed alongside Sayambrita's Banner)

As she stepped into the sweet shop, 

Jars glimmered with bonbons and Cola bottles, 

Each label turned outward, facing her. 

The air thick with a chocolatey warmth, 

A fortress that promised nourishment for the pockets. 

At first, she marvelled at the bright, vibrant hues, 

Mesmerised by the sugary scents wrapping her in nostalgia, 

Sweetened with something she couldn’t quite name. 

She saw an abundance of treats, a landscape of potential, 

Each jar a promise of intellectual fulfilment, 

A sugary pipeline to the growth she craved. 

But as she wandered through, step by step, 

The sweetness wasn't as sweet as previously advertised. 

A dismissive word here, an ignored idea there. 

The barometer began to shift from sugar to something else - 

As salt started to appear, seemingly from nowhere. 

Was the fizz in the Cola bottles turning too sharp? 

Were the strawberry laces too slippery to hold? 

Small moments, seemingly insignificant, 

Gathered like sherbet grains to form a pattern of unease. 

Their kindness was but a carefully crafted veneer, 

A bleached and processed version of genuine intent, 

Two-faced like a striped humbug - bold lines hiding a hard heart. 

She saw the difference now between the raw and the refined. 

This white-sugar sweetness destined to rob her health, 

A place where one could never truly build their wealth 

Without a consequence that messes with the mind. 

The judgments hit like a dog whistle - subtle to the room, 

But striking like shooting pains to the nerve. 

That electric jolt when the sugar hits the bone. 

An ache like no other; a warning from the brain 

That a treat is never a treat when the price is the pain. 

She felt the slow ache of a deepening rot. 

One cavity grew a family, a catching, quiet decay. 

Since the sweets would never change and the jars would never move, 

The only cure was to step out of the shop. 

The white chocolate mice melted into featureless pools, 

Their truth finally showing through the sticky residue. 

Tapping into the earthy depth of the honest, unrefined cane, 

She turned away to forge her own lane. 

To craft a spirit of genuine, dark-sugar strength, 

She would build a space where well-being is the true, primary flavour, 

A sanctuary where your health is never at risk - 

A place where IYKYK. 

Now, she finally understands the gravity of the warning, 

The wisdom in the words she heard as a child: 

Don’t take sweets from strangers. 

- Shy Pen 

(This poem can be viewed alongside Cushion's Banner)

Listen  

Before the plate was ever balanced, 

It was held 

By aunties, 

By neighbours, 

By hands that knew hunger 

And answered it with abundance. 

We come from food that sings, 

From pots that gossip all afternoon, 

From spice that introduces itself 

Before you even step through the door. 

My mother carried this knowledge 

Across oceans, across winters, 

Into a land colder than memory. 

Arriving somewhere where plates are diagrams 

And joy is measured in portions, 

They asked me to divide myself 

Protein here, 

Carbs there 

As if culture could be boxed, 

As if survival ever followed straight lines. 

But our food is not confused. 

It is layered, 

Intentional. 

It knows how balance tastes, 

Because balance fed us 

Long before it was named. 

And now 

Our children sit at the table, 

Negotiating. 

Suddenly, dinner becomes diplomacy: 

One pot becomes two, 

Sometimes three. 

Love stretched thin across plates. 

We didn’t grow up with choices like this, 

But we are not failing. 

We are translating. 

When my body changed, 

They offered blame dressed as advice, 

As if I had eaten myself into illness. 

When really, 

The land had changed, 

The light had changed, 

The pace of my days softened. 

Back home, 

My body moved with the sun, 

With fields, work, and sweat. 

Here, 

Winter lingers, 

And the body listens. 

This is not shame. 

This is adaptation. 

This is learning how our food lives 

In new climates, 

With new ingredients, 

New portions, 

New pauses. 

This is keeping the soul of the meal 

While adjusting the volume, 

Teaching our children 

That culture is not fragile. 

It can bend, 

It can share space, 

It can sit beside pizza, 

And still know its worth. 

Re-imagining the plate means 

Making room for joy, 

For heritage, 

For health that does not demand erasure. 

It means telling our bodies 

And our children 

You are not broken, 

You are not outdated, 

You are responding. 

So, we eat with pride, 

With patience for change. 

This is balance, 

Not divided, 

But held. 

- Shy Pen 

(This poem can be viewed alongside Shabaana's banner)

Ten winters since, forced to flee for pastures new, 

Trading conflict-ridden land for the grey of England’s hue. 

A roof was first a mercy, a reprieve from fray. 

In due course, scars began to fade away. 

As the symptoms settled in the "safety" of the cold, 

A quiet war was brewing - subtle, then growing bold. 

“Be grateful,” the anthem, hissed with a knowing look, 

Scanning her pleated silence like a ledger or book. 

Under this surveillance, she kept her posture low, 

Protecting her children from the cruelty and blows -  

Till their tears flicked a switch, 

A sudden sharp reminder 

That smug appraisals were destined to snuff the light inside her. 

"I have done no wrong," she whispered to the bone, 

Reached across the silence to find she’s not alone. 

Plans to hold onto, a purpose for her kin, 

Where veils are worn with dignity and healing can begin. 

Far from the jagged edge, they brew and be themselves, 

Sharing buoyant histories, photos on their shelves. 

They speak of "gratitude" as swallowing the bile, 

Of cowards who could never even walk a single mile - 

In their shoes. 

If the tables were reversed, 

The "bravery" of judges would always be their curse. 

“Come,” she says. 

Let's move, let's talk, let's laugh. 

Whatever we face, 

We know our chosen path. 

- Shy Pen 

(This poem can be viewed alongside Ifrah's banner)