My Throne

A seed by: Lydie Dubuisson (She/Her)
Lydie Dubuisson is a playwright, director, and curator from Tiohtià:ke/ Montreal. She studied theater and graduated with distinctions from Concordia University. Her work examines intersectionality, collective memory, rituals and multilingual creative processes. Dubuisson wrote QUIET/SILENCE (2018 Discovery Series – Black Theatre Workshop & Maison de la culture NDG), SANCTUARY/SANCTUAIRE (Black Theatre Workshop & Théâtre aux Écuries), SHARING OUR STORIES, TELLING OUR LIVES (Teesri Duniya Theatre), and she is a co-writer of BLACKOUT: THE CONCORDIA COMPUTER RIOT, (Tableau d’Hôte Theatre). She is currently writing a play about the Shelburne riots. She directed AFRODISIAQUE (Collectif Potomitan, Winner of Best Show at Zoofest OFFJFL 2022), RINGTONE (Imago Theatre & Montréal Art Interculturel), SHARING OUR STORIES, TELLING OUR LIVES (Teesri Duniya Theatre), AFRODRAG: PAST, PRESENT & FUTURE (Phi Center) and JANICE LA REINE AUX AILES D’ÉCAILLES (Places des Arts). Lydie Dubuisson is an Artistic Associate at Black Theatre Workshop since 2020. She is also the curator of the dual digital installation, THE BELONGING PROJECTS commissioned by the Black Community Resources Center. Lydie has been working closely with Arrivals Legacy Project since 2020 and the ALP process has greatly impacted her creative process and self-assertiveness.


Music, Theatre, Spoken Word, Storytelling, Literature, Poetry
This is an original seed

My chair was smashed

I was sent to the corner

To look away

While it is taken away

I was building a throne

Of my own flesh

Glued by my veins

Tied with my hair

But facing the wall

It’s dragged away

I hear the soil wallow

My shadow is my witness

The wall is not a journey

The wall is a lie

A hard commandement

A  fraud

Behind my eyes

I see beyond the wall

If I can’t look back

I start by looking down

My feet on the ground

My truth

I am here

At the dead end

To turn without turning back

To twirl and wander

Bending, rolling, jumping, flying

Anything but standing still

What is left of my throne anyway

What was the point

Who am I

After the wall

The air, the soil

The wall, the past

My flesh reborn

My throne of bones

I grow life around

And on me

My body is a village

I invade the wall

All my feet touches

Is lush

Where I lean

Bloom marks the imprint

I am

My throne and my everything

I am


A poem dedicated to …

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