Blister Chesterfield, by Rick Dove

I am not a silent poet

sore these eyes,
watching
a predominantly white
audience,
and predominantly white
panel,
discussing the betrayal
of the Windrush generation,
and their children,
on late night television,
via the BBC’s (and therefore the U.K.’s)
de facto flagship politico show

sore these eyes,
red raw, reminded
of all those times
I was the only black man
in the room,
at a flagship British university,
at a British book fair,
at my British book launch,
in inner city south London,
where I was born,
as I finally realise
what it is
to really feel,
these accidents of birth,
realise
why representation matters,
realise
why they listed us with dogs,
realise
what really happens
to the robots,
when the tokens
for the metre
run out…

sore these eyes,
rubbed raw
by colourblind whataboutisms
of EU nationals,
abhorred by the false equivalencies
of the Brexit petty
point scoring
as they shout,
as people die.

and…

View original post 168 more words

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s