In this episode, Ana Sampson talks with us about the poem that has been a friend to her – 'The Republic of Motherhood' by Liz Berry. Ana Sampson is a highly accomplished poetry editor. She has edited 8 poetry anthologies including 'Night Feeds and Morning Songs: Honest, fierce and beautiful poems about motherhood', as well as 'She is Fierce' and 'She Will Soar' - two bold and brilliant anthologies of women's verse throughout history. Ana's books have sold over 240,000 copies and she writes and speaks often about books and poetry in the media. She has also spoken about the hidden history of women’s writing at bookshops, festivals, libraries, schools and literary events. www.anasampson.co.uk We are hugely grateful to Liz Berry and Chatto & Windus for allowing us to share Liz's extraordinary poem in this way. You can buy Liz's entire pamphlet - The Republic of Motherhood - here: www.poetrybooks.co.uk/products/republic-of-motherhood-liz-berry Ana is in conversation with Poetry Exchange team members, Andrea Witzke Slot and John Prebble. ********* The Republic of Motherhood By Liz Berry I crossed the border into the Republic of Motherhood and found it a queendom, a wild queendom. I handed over my clothes and took its uniform, its dressing gown and undergarments, a cardigan soft as a creature, smelling of birth and milk, and I lay down in Motherhood’s bed, the bed I had made but could not sleep in, for I was called at once to work in the factory of Motherhood. The owl shift, the graveyard shift. Feedingcleaninglovingfeeding. I walked home, heartsore, through pale streets, the coins of Motherhood singing in my pockets. Then I soaked my spindled bones in the chill municipal baths of Motherhood, watching strands of my hair float from my fingers. Each day I pushed my pram through freeze and blossom down the wide boulevards of Motherhood where poplars bent their branches to stroke my brow. I stood with my sisters in the queues of Motherhood— the weighing clinic, the supermarket—waiting for Motherhood’s bureaucracies to open their doors. As required, I stood beneath the flag of Motherhood and opened my mouth although I did not know the anthem. When darkness fell I pushed my pram home again, and by lamplight wrote urgent letters of complaint to the Department of Motherhood but received no response. I grew sick and was healed in the hospitals of Motherhood with their long-closed isolation wards and narrow beds watched over by a fat moon. The doctors were slender and efficient and when I was well they gave me my pram again so I could stare at the daffodils in the parks of Motherhood while winds pierced my breasts like silver arrows. In snowfall, I haunted Motherhood’s cemeteries, the sweet fallen beneath my feet— Our Lady of the Birth Trauma, Our Lady of Psychosis. I wanted to speak to them, tell them I understood, but the words came out scrambled, so I knelt instead and prayed in the chapel of Motherhood, prayed for that whole wild f*****g queendom, its sorrow, its unbearable skinless beauty, and all the souls that were in it. I prayed and prayed until my voice was a nightcry and sunlight pixelated my face like a kaleidoscope. © Liz Berry. From 'The Republic of Motherhood' by Liz Berry (Chatto & Windus 2018).