Black History Minute is upon us and I've agreed to (indirectly) acknowledge it via a poem about me'old man.
He arrived in England, 1950s;
He arrived in England, 1950s;
tore knuckle on Teddy Boys that pelted him in streets
with bananas and rocks. Small town kids nudged him and ran off;
they called it luck to touch the black man.
Squared up in pubs with the Irish, drunk in arms afterwards.
A father five times to three women because man is meant to multiply
but my dad has expectations of me that look like sensible versions of him.
They wear suits, they’re sober, they have day jobs,
they are novelists not poets.
they are novelists not poets.
I was born in England, 86,
I live in this night and day London,
the black and white boy who can blend into anything.
the black and white boy who can blend into anything.
i love that Teddy boys line/image, and the 'squared up in pubs' line also. but, and this may just be me, but it feels like this could be more - like you're holding back in it somehow.
ReplyDeleteWell, it doesn't need to be more. It was a much longer poem but I chopped it in half feeling like less is more...Also I felt it is less indulgent if its shorter.
ReplyDeletei hear you, just chipping in my thoughts (though wasn't thinking so much about length)
ReplyDeleteI appreciate your thoughts, definitely. May revisit and expand if it calls in the future.
ReplyDelete