Love From England
Jan. 20th, 2017 06:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lokifanMy heart has been hurting all day. Tomorrow is the London Women’s March, in solidarity with my American sisters (and everyone else). In the meantime here’s a sonnet for America, from England. Or possibly for all my American siblings in the struggle from me.
Love From England
America is a long-distance friend.
Across Atlantic, you speak to America by IM
When it's late and you need an ear to bend
When birthdays, when death, when art – when when when.
You don't always like them. Self-satisfied
And bossy. (And this is you saying that.)
But optimism, energy, obnoxious pride
You admire it; it's how you thought they'd beat him back.
From here you can't stop them from self-harming
Can't block their hand from knife or bottle,
Or turn off the TV with the charming
Demagogue who runs at cliff-edge, full throttle.
So you stay on the line. Bear witness
Promise to stay with them until the finish.
Roz Kaveney, poet & author & activist, wrote a sequence called The Poet To Her Young Comrades a few years ago. I was rereading them today (here's the original post) and beg her indulgence in reposting this angry one, because I think you might find it helpful too.
These are the worst of times that I have known.
I'd like to say they'll pass, yet fear to lie.
It's probable that some of you will die
before all this is done. Will die alone
in exile or in prison, slowly starve
die from diseases we know how to cure
be left to die from them because too poor.
Worse yet, know while you live your every breath
is stolen from those poorer. Make them count
each angry moment, live write fuck and dance.
You cannot choose your time. So take each chance
to live. Remember me. Give good account
of who I was. And make the bastards pay
who kill our world, our lives, our brief lost day.
Love From England
America is a long-distance friend.
Across Atlantic, you speak to America by IM
When it's late and you need an ear to bend
When birthdays, when death, when art – when when when.
You don't always like them. Self-satisfied
And bossy. (And this is you saying that.)
But optimism, energy, obnoxious pride
You admire it; it's how you thought they'd beat him back.
From here you can't stop them from self-harming
Can't block their hand from knife or bottle,
Or turn off the TV with the charming
Demagogue who runs at cliff-edge, full throttle.
So you stay on the line. Bear witness
Promise to stay with them until the finish.
Roz Kaveney, poet & author & activist, wrote a sequence called The Poet To Her Young Comrades a few years ago. I was rereading them today (here's the original post) and beg her indulgence in reposting this angry one, because I think you might find it helpful too.
These are the worst of times that I have known.
I'd like to say they'll pass, yet fear to lie.
It's probable that some of you will die
before all this is done. Will die alone
in exile or in prison, slowly starve
die from diseases we know how to cure
be left to die from them because too poor.
Worse yet, know while you live your every breath
is stolen from those poorer. Make them count
each angry moment, live write fuck and dance.
You cannot choose your time. So take each chance
to live. Remember me. Give good account
of who I was. And make the bastards pay
who kill our world, our lives, our brief lost day.
no subject
Date: 2017-01-21 02:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-02-09 09:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-02-12 04:54 pm (UTC)Hope your life is going well?
no subject
Date: 2017-01-22 01:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-02-09 09:16 pm (UTC)