Daily Archives: March 3, 2016

Trapped by Michael Peck

I am not a silent poet

Trapped inside
their own bodies and minds,
by a failed society
whose time is lost.
Standing in between
two fences
unwanted, feared, abandoned,
by their own country
and their world.
Archaic images struggle
with present separateness-
the laughter is gone
drowned in their children’s tears.
Living in cages of cardboard
and despair –
shadows of a forgotten time
a forgotten century
a living symbol,
of what the overpopulated future
offers to those
they find no use for-

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Donald Trump has got yellow eyes

debasis mukhopadhyay

Nothing so sensational about the Calais refugee camp evacuation, a poem I wrote about the Pas de Calais migrant evacuation is now up at I am not a silent poet (March 3, 2016). Many thanks to Reuben Woolley (I am not a silent poet) & Mari Lightman (Writers for Calais Refugees) for letting me take part in the poetry assault they are doing in response to what is happening in Calais.

Click here to read my poem: Nothing so sensational about the Calais refugee camp evacuation

Some other poems published in I am not a silent poet in response to Calais “Jungle” Evacuation:

wild jasmine by John Mackie

After the blaze by Kushal Poddar

279. courage to cross. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

Sightless Eyes by David Wilson

No one deserves to be teargassed, looking for shelter by Dave Rendle

One More Day 29/02/16 by Natalia Spencer

Nowhere Girl by Anshu Dhamiwal


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Dead ends by Jackie Biggs

I am not a silent poet

Kids run around small tents

catching sunshine

among fluttering canvas

parents watch

their anxious knots

gathering tighter

beneath a belt

of razor wire

coiled and cold

one metal gate


locked in

locked out

shut up


in a cul de sac

where mulberry trees

make frames for

men to hang

their final protest

and the man with the cold heart

in the black suit

says: ‘Do not come here’.

While we struggle


to find words to say

this same story


in some different way.

Jackie Biggs.
poetry blog:http://jackie-news.blogspot.co.uk

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The Devil Slakes his Thirst by Lyndsay Oliver

I am not a silent poet

The devil dons his mask

and casts our children from the land

with promises purloined

fromthe nightmares of the dead

The devil sheds his skin

walks the dark sequestered streets

as we worship and adore

his glory all unbound

The devil stakes his claim

to pitch his shadow on the sea

while we collect his rent

from the safety of the shore

The devil takes his due

with an unforgiving hand

more practised than restrained

and lays his burden down


Lindsay Oliver lives in Leith and writes poems, short stories, and longer fiction. Her website address is http://lindsayoliver.scot/

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This by Mark Rawlins

I am not a silent poet

This is the tyranny.
This is the fear.
This is the misery
for those who live here.
This is the hatred.
This is the war.
Nothing is sacred,
not any more.
This is the anger.
This is the pain.
This is the hunger,
but this is no game.
This is the pestilence,
this the disease.
There can be no resistance
from down on your knees.
This is the rotten,
and these are the starving.
The people forgotten
when it comes to the carving.
These are the children
fighting for rice.
This is globalisation,
and this is the price.
This is humanity
at its very worst.
This is insanity,
and these are the cursed.
This is the murder
and this is the rape.
This is the fervour
they try to escape.
This is the boat
and this is the lorry.
‘This is our quota,
we’re terribly sorry.’
This is your great…

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Voyagers by Matthew Smith

I am not a silent poet

People, packed tight into the backs of lorries
like tinned sardines.
When we see them washing up on the shore
we remark that they were
‘Simply returning to the sea.’
That’s where they belong,
not breathing our air, breathing our waters,
there’s room down there
we can spare a whole corner of Atlantis,
but not one square metre of our Zion,
our promised land was promised to us,
it’s never been a melting pot,
even if it looks distinctly like a cauldron
if we add anything more
it will be boiling over.

We don’t care if you’re dying on our doorstep,
just don’t get blood on the welcome mat,
the “welcome” isn’t for you,
it’s for the privileged few.
Only people with capital
are allowed in our capital
that’s why the housing market is in “boom,”
gentrified neighbourhoods,
prices through the roof,
we barely allow our own to live here,

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Shove Ha’penny by Pat Edwards

I am not a silent poet

When you play this game with people
lubricate the board with French chalk
those worthless coins
will reach tipping point
fall in human cascade

Why we couldn’t see this coming
pennies lining up haphazard
pausing only to glimpse
futures worth the risk
as they hopeless tumble

What did we expect but chaos
wrapped in tear gas grimace
no order to this penny pile-up
lives saved from one battle
shifting game show to another

When you play this game with people
lubricate the board with French chalk
those worthless coins
will reach tipping point
fall until you stop shoving

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