Everyone's a Batley Poet
(with apologies to Robert Browning)
Part 1 – Past
Oh not to be in England
Now that Thatcher’s here
Selling off the council houses
In the hopes the poor might disappear.
Oh not to be in England as she carries on her reign
Levelling up the country
With poll tax
So we all can pay the same
So farewell Donald Trump, you launched 10,000 memes,
And your sexual harassment prompted just as many screams.
You dismissed your foes as “Fake News” but told 20,000 lies,
Adding 50 falsehoods daily as you scoffed Big Macs and fries.
Heroes?
Coal faces and steely resolve
Miners, blacksmiths, Thatcher’s
Children thrown apart to the enemies within.
No medals. No salute. No honour for their service to those above the dark.
What honour for the darkest hour underground?
What honour for the heat of battle in the furnace?
Closure is the way to redemption they say.
Closure pits man against man and steely resolve hidden under a disguise.
No future. No forgiveness for heartless actions.
What, sympathy for the masses?
We shall remember this,
Corona has us all,
like no other enemy,
chained with invisible chains
like slaves
But walking chin up,
With a pride. Pretending,
There’s a croissant for my breakfast
Spaghetti bolognaise for lunch
A Hungarian tart for teatime
Danish pastries for my brunch
Let’s distract from all those stories of manipulating the press
And replace them with the headline “Woman Wears A Dress!”
Don’t dare display a shoulder, it looks common and cheap,
But it’s OK to use the front bench, to catch up on your sleep.
I live in anger, in hatred, I was born into
shouting, vile insults and outbursts,
and when I step out into the world
the world spits back just as worse.
The grass is only greener on the planet
where confusion, ammunition, panic,
murder, explosions, execution,
are non-existent,
A cherished childhood spent cocooned in my inward-looking community,
Protected me from the indoctrination of a white-privileged history.
But when I stepped into a world where brown was under-represented
My identity…Was molested.
My speech, skin, hair and dress, seemed to cause the white man stress.
And brown was a tan on the white man’s skin,
by Jem Tovey
This poem was a written as a parody of Gil Scott Heron’s “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” (itself a satire of how the broadcast media controls and subjugates Black America) and re-imagines it from a white, middle-class perspective:
You will not be able to turn on, log in and shop online at Waitrose, brother.
You will not be able to order that Little Black Number from ASOS, for your mother.
You will not be able to browse Laithwaites for vintage Bordeaux by the case,
Honestly, the broadband here’s an absolute disgrace.
You can’t post photos on Instagram, Facebook or Twitter,
Download speeds are glacial, it’s hard not to be bitter.
You can’t watch clips of Trump waxing braggadocious,
I swear this broadband connection’s simply atrocious.
There will be no mpegs of amusing RTAs,
No footage of Woodstock – Hendrix playing Purple Haze.
No GIFs, no Vines, YouTube’s always buffering,
This broadband’s providing a whole new level of suffering.
The revolution will not be on iPlayer, my connection’s too unstable.
This is the 21st century, where’s my fibre optic cable?
I’ve asked Virgin for an installation date, but they just keep on stalling.
We barely reach two megabits, this broadband is appalling.
I come from pain, from happiness,
From right and wrong and in between,
I come from the persecuted, the hated,
The shunned, not allowed to be seen