I shall not begin by asking you, dear reader, what you are doing for Christmas as I assume most of you are like us doing very little. We have reluctantly decided not to see our daughter and family this year as it’s not worth the risk and it’s heartening to see many people coming to the same conclusions. So a big cheer to all of you and hugs to those facing the season alone. I hope you can find someone to zoom with at least.
Big boos this week to Jacob Rees-Mogg (need I say why?) and Priti Patel (just for being herself but also for deporting people in the middle of the night and not understanding why people might care about this). But let’s forget about this pathetic excuse for a government for a little while and think for a moment about those who not only have no-one to see at Christmas but nowhere to be. Crisis at Christmas isn’t even happening this year so god only knows what it’ll be like for the homeless. There’s a woman I see in Loughborough selling the Big Issue: I don’t know her name but she appears Middle-Eastern. She has two children and lives in a caravan – and she’s one of the lucky ones. I’d better not think any more about this government or I’ll spend the whole post ranting. Anyway, for one night only (I’m going to take it down tomorrow as some publishers won’t accept posts published on your blog) I’m going to share with you a poem called Spike. This was written when I was Poet in Residence at Sound Cafe, a homeless project in Leicester, and was performed as part of a homeless mass at Leicester Cathedral. Here is is:
SPIKE
(first performed at a homeless concert in Leicester Cathedral, a response to anti-homeless spikes in doorways)
There’s a spike in the figures today
rough sleepers are up
in the early dawn
before the cleaners come
to clatter up the cans
and bin the burger-boxes
before the real people come:
the ones who count
the ones who work
the ones who earn
the ones who pay.
Pick up your bed and walk away.
There’s a spike in the figures today
poor people are up
in the early morning
before the bailiffs knock
to clear out the beds
and change the locks
before the real people come:
the ones who rent
the ones who work
the ones who earn
the ones who pay
Pack up your stuff and go away.
There’s a spike in the figures today:
the unemployed are up
in the late morning
to wait in line
for a face-to-face with a face behind glass;
the glass says, Go away:
these jobs are for the real people;
the ones who fit
the ones who work
the ones who earn
the ones who pay.
Fold up your forms and go away.
And the afternoon comes on
And the rain sets in
And the jobless go home
And time drips by
There are spikes in the doorway at dusk;
they have grown there all day
like silver bulbs pushing through concrete.
The bulbs say, Go away:
this space is for the real people,
the ones who count
the ones who work
the ones who earn
the ones who pay.
Pick up your feet and walk away.
And the evening comes on
and the rain sets in
and the clubbers come out
in their sleeveless shirts.
There’s a man on every doorway
and the man says, Go away.
This club is for the real people;
the ones who join
the ones who work
the ones who earn
the ones who spend.
Pick up your bags and walk away.
And the night comes on
and the rain sets in
and the clubbers go home
and the doorman
locks the door.
There’s a man on a bench tonight:
worn out by the world, he sleeps.
No-one wants this man
he is moved on from place to place
he is down and out in London
and everywhere.
And the real people,
the ones who count
and the ones who rent
and the ones who fit
and the ones who join
and the ones who work
and the ones who earn
and the ones who spend
and the ones who pay
and the ones who sing
and the ones who chant
and the ones who kneel
and the ones who pray:
they are all asleep
in the deep of night
but the son of man
has nowhere to lay his head.
(c) Sarada Gray, 2012
Kirk out
PS You’ll be relieved to know the car passed its MOT
Sarada Gray 