#poetscorner is a feature in which PTL Editors ask writers to share a poem of theirs with the internet. We also ask them to divulge on how they started writing poetry, what inspired the poem in question and why it remains a personal favourite. The idea being to bask in the glory of the written and/or spoken word. Oh dear…
I was having an essay crisis in late November. I felt trapped, unable to get my thoughts across properly; I was berating myself and berating the university lifestyle.
It was during an extended, annoyed procrastination session that the news that the shooter of Michael Brown, Darren Wilson, would not be indicted, broke like a tsunami wave over Ferguson and the Internet. My self-absorbed stress immediately felt petty. Any frustration paled into insignificance in comparison to the anger I felt at the prejudiced injustice being all too obviously played out on the world stage. The educational requirements I was railing against, the very ability to feel frustrated at my University education, suddenly struck me as the privileges they are.
I am a middle class girl, brought up in Oxford. I go to a Russell group University. I easily define myself as white British. The ‘prison industrial complex’ might be something I think about, read about and discuss, but it is definitely not something I have to confront in anything but an academic, theoretical way. I do not feel afraid of, or threatened by police. Even though I have been witness to racism, I have never been the victim. In my daily life, I am wrapped in a privileged, protective bubble-wrap against the visceral knowledge of racism, institutional or otherwise.
The events in Ferguson, and the riots that followed, struck me, as they struck many others, because they brought crashing down any kind of rose-tinted sense that such blatant and endemic racism is increasingly a thing of the past.
Then the police officer, clearly seen on video choking Eric Garner to the point of unconsciousness and eventual death, was cleared of charges. The promise that body-cameras would help to solve the ‘ambivalences’ in police shooting cases was dirtied. The repeated final words of Garner, spoken 11 times before the chokehold he was in suffocated him, rang in my mind. As for many others who flocked to the streets holding placards or wearing t-shirts bearing the words ‘I Can’t Breathe’, the words seemed to hold a horribly poignant, grave significance.
I may not be able to express myself exactly, I may not be able to speak my mind clearly, let alone speak for others, but I am given airtime. I am given the space and the opportunity to voice my thoughts and opinions. I am frequently listened to. I am not personally stifled or suffocated by the system. When will everyone, regardless of race or class, be able to take breath and say the same?
Choking
Foreheads pressed to pavements
Nose to the grindstone
Barricades and broken homes
Another mother is crying at the curb
Cut the cord and bite the hand that feeds
I CAN’T BREATHE
Wombs spilling umbilical nooses
Same old story
Same lines drawn in the sand
Drawing swords and blood
Stay within the lines
I CAN’T BREATHE
Behind the rope or behind bars
Show your hand
Hold them high
Salute the white flag
Raised like a fist
I CAN’T BREATHE
Take off those hoods
The war on terror ran away from home
To fight dragons under others’ bed
But there be monsters
Don’t look under the sheets
I CAN’T BREATHE
On your knees
Palm to palm, no evil seen
Maybe this was all a dream
Love of country and of King
Declare freedom and free money
One nation under God
Stand up and be counted
Get your head in the game
And may the best team win
The starting block is sinking
Concrete ankle bracelets
And crowns of thorns
Fit to kill a King
And set fires in Queens
I CAN’T BREATHE
White houses
White picket fences
White wash
I think I was dreaming
But I’m awake now.
I can’t breathe.
Eloise Hendy
Ella is the Deputy Editor of LITERATURE at PTL. She owns a dog but suspects she is probably more of a cat person. The shame. Ella tries to be a green tea drinking, yoga practicing, artsy kid of girl but often her love for caffeine, white wine, tequila and dodgy mash-ups (Snoog Dogg/Grease anyone?) makes this difficult. But hey, a girl can dream.
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(Image sourced from: here)