For the final part of her time as Young Writer in Residence at Whitechapel Gallery, Gabrielle Fullam shares two new pieces of work.

We, being so young, and lost, (part one)

We, being so young, and lost, 

Do not need to find bright signs

And wonder, it comes easily in rhymes 

Head back, smile wide, arms uncrossed

The sun can drive and our room can be littered in fruit fly

Small fry, blink of an eye, no need to write about you and I. 

Keep your stones in your pocket 

And your heart in your chest. 

It used to be so full, but now 

These streets are just so wide. 

Furious feather bed light 

It changed. 

Back sad attractive, curling. 

People in concussion.


Pull something poetic (clear, beautiful, meaningful) together from your thoughts (incoherent, unsure, uncertain, unaware)


I know we were meant to come together

I think we may be meant to come apart

At the seams; and they’ll call us fairweather

Friends. But if we can just take our hearts

To the drycleaners, to the resort, to the post office,

To the schoolyard, the the funfair, to the airport

There is no need to be cautious 

Of what has happened here. 

O – remember, our common foe 

Not that apathy, not that fear, but that all consuming anger

That I can sing high and sing low 

And take back to whitechapel and you bury in your planter

With strength I can face my mistakes 

And with fear, you can make yours. 


We, being so lost, and just still young (part two)

I am not a sonnet writer

I don’t bluster, don’t move, don’t wax, don’t wane, don’t pull  

I am no harmoniser. 


We look at this world of coloniser and liquidiser

And I can’t find anything in it that’s still full

So I can say; I am not a sonnet writer


Though sometimes we find fertiliser

Me and you and you giving me an earful

I am no harmoniser


But you are a beautiful scrutiniser

Of worlds, of numbskulls, of seagulls, my heart full

I declare; I am not a sonnet writer


I can’t parse that kind rhyme from our world

But we can assemble

Something else.

I am not a sonnet writer [I am a sonnet writers son]