To Theresa May
Not so long ago you said, Theresa,
that it was the voices of evil and hate
which drove us apart – but no offence
we may have a different answer to that,
for the roots of this stalemate
go bone-deeper than you can sense.
It's the written plea of the homeless
whose utter misery is being silenced –
even their voice was taken away, yes.
It's the omniabsence of the
wheelchaired,
for their home is an island-horst
outside of which each-and-every road
is fraught with bureaucratic caltrops.
It's the little one
out-of-the-blue-asking
her mom why her dad won't be home
and her, clenching to the kitchen sink,
and her head bowed in shame,
in-vain-dispelling the visions of
flames,
as she can't explain a four-year-old
why
her daddy died trying to save
passers-by.
It's the gut-punching pictures in the
papers
of people who could have been us,
praying a God who could have been ours,
who wince at the hand raised in succour
– it being so similar to that which
cursed them
which, you know, could well have been
ours –
trying to regain some dignity in the
slums.
It's the 'apart' that in part drives
us,
the further we are the better,
for the taking-parter is a meddler:
one's better off apart on the bus.
It's those who look at death in the eye
for a scrap of information, a picture
to show the world what it chose to
disregard.
It's those who look at death in the eye
to mend, heal, soothe the injured,
to show the world what to choose to
guard,
those who chose which world for which
to die.
It's those who buckle up against
insults
the coons, tramps, dems, tards and
sluts,
It's those who curl up because they
stood up.
It's those who step down for having
stood up.
It's those who are spurned for another,
limelighting the concept of 'brother'.
It's all these bent-backs whose voice
was choked in the clangorous quotidian
because they were left with no choice,
they needed a loud-speaker to devoice,
to paint, to word, to picture oblivion.
Even then, sometimes, it's all in vain.
It's the little hurts which slip
unnoticed,
the not-so-invisible indigence,
the eyes averting a raised fist,
the self-exonerated carelessness.
It's the vindicated right to be left
alone.
So we choose to take cover behind our
phone,
we step away, blame someone else,
we come home to check our pulse,
our children, our sundries, our
affairs.
Until death strikes us unawares.
Of course, Theresa, we don't blame
you alone, for we share in this shame.
We were already worlds apart
when tragedies hit us so hard:
that which unites fails to bond
if nobody wants to go beyond
the barricades of their heart.
When I remembered the war in Bosnia
watching the ashen-haggard faces of
Syria,
it's Richter's Sarajevo's voice I heard
which dug up the pictures, the words,
the agony watching the telly, the
insomnias
when I was thirteen and yes, Prime
Minister,
even twenty-five years later
I still cry when I think of Sarajevo,
because it's just a new shame starting
de novo.
What drove us apart
is ourselves,
Theresa May. We
forget what makes,
who makes our
lives, and we delve,
hurtle headlong
without brakes.
Sure, we've grown
used to unfair
– blood-and-tears
the new wear-and-tear –
sure our life isn't
so bad after all,
but we forget how
much better it can be –
life isn't just
so-be-it shawl-and-pall
or
work-hard-play-hard philosophy,
it's also caring
for people
and by people I
mean any,
people-in-general
any,
not just family
nor the polls
or albocracy
because unless we
start
showing our real
heart
unless we stop
looking
and start
scrutinizing
unless we stave off
ignorance
and start
world-educating
unless we dispel
the rants
and start accepting
unless we sit down
and start
listening,
yes, Theresa, we will be
driven
further apart.
