Small change

I wrote this on a recent visit to London. It's published on the website I am not a silent poet, along with much other poetry about issues of abuse of all kinds. See link below.

Small change

When you give a beggar a coin,

a pound dropped into

a ragged cardboard coffee cup,

do you feel good?

When the guy looks at you,

nods unkempt gratefulness

for your little gift,

your small change,

does it make you feel better?

When you sit with your

fat £3 a go Americano

and carrot cake on a china plate

do you wonder how he came to be

a beggar on the ground

outside the underground station?

See his tent, there,

just under the bridge.

You think, at least he has a tent,

it looks sound.

He’s better off than those

who lie on cardboard sheets

in parks and shabby doorways.

And as you eat salmon and avocado

in a restaurant by the theatre

before going to see a drama on the stage

do you wonder how

he’ll spend your pound?

Tea, coffee, cider?

You give small change,

does it make you feel better?

And there’s another,

wrapped in a wornout blanket

on the bridge, cup in hand.

You give another £1.

And as you tuck into dessert,

your favourite strawberry tart,

you think of

a woman on the bridge

holding out her empty palm

no cup

skin brown with streetlife.

You put two fifties into her hand.

And you pay £15 to see

an exhibition of photos

by Don McCullin of 50 years

of war and poverty around the world

where you see pictures of

homeless men in 1970s England

asleep, standing up, capped heads lolling,

because there was nowhere to lie down.

And here’s another today,

along the side of Southbank centre,

in a doorway.

You drop the rest of your silver coins

on his sleeping bag,

before you go into the warm concert hall.

Big problem.

 


https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/

Tears run down

This is the latest from me after seeing more news from the Calais camps in the last couple of days. I also have a poem on 'I am not a silent poet', one of many responses on there to the attacks in Paris. See that here: https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2015/11/14/words-in-blood-by-jackie-biggs/ >



You don’t need tear gas to make them cry in the jungle
 

They bulldoze tents,

bury identities in mud,

people sleep out in the rain,

tears run down.

They load up rubber bullets,

fire the water cannon,

gas the refugees,

 

tears run down.

They came to find peace,

but now they know the only way out may kill them,

as tears run down

(Calais, November 13^th, 2015)                               

Autism

This is all true. It’s an account of an ‘interview’ experienced recently by a friend of mine. First published online by I am not a silent poet.

 

Autism

or: how the psychologist ‘interviewed’ the mother of an autistic teenager,

who after years of trying finally got an appointment with Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services (or CAMSH – Can’t Actually Manage to be Supportive of Humans)

You may as well talk to one of these.

“Did he have problems when he was younger?

…

Ah, I see,

he had a few issues at nursery –

well, that’s just children for you isn’t it?

…

When did he attend referrals?

…

Oh come on, do think now,

can’t you be more specific?

…

Well, how often and where?

…

Ah. You must know these things,

let’s get it all down straight shall we?

I do need to know all the facts.

…

You seem very muddled about this,

do you have problems with your memory?

…

haha, it may have been ten years ago Mrs M,

but most people would certainly remember those details.

It’ll be your age, of course.

…

Oh no, your memory isn’t good compared to others.

I expect it’s your hormones,

you’ll be going through the change by now.

…

Well, that’ll be all for today,

time’s up.

Take this medicine for him

and come back next week, same time.

Will you remember that?”

*First published here: https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com ,

an online magazine for poetry and artwork protesting against abuse in any of its forms.