Scrap Heap Austerity Blues

Austerity, you got me down, 

you got me on the floor:
no rainbows shining through my storms, 
no buds or flowers any more.
Not much money in my wallet;
I got little cause to smile;
got a lot of cause to worry though;
got debts that stretch for miles.
Got my children going hungry,
got my landlord getting mean;
got no way of moving forward;
got a bunch of broken dreams.
Got no man to rub my shoulders
or to wake me with a kiss;
got no faith in prayers or fairy tales;
seems life goes on and on like this:
buying cheap and counting coppers
so as not to break that ten pound note;
thinking always who needs uniform,
who’s outgrown their winter coat;
who has a birthday looming,
who has wrecked their good school shoes?
It’s no wonder how I cry at nights

when all I got to lose

is those going-downhill-and-run-down,

down-at-the-heel-and-can’t-feel,
kids-aint-having-no-fun-cos-there’s-eff-all-left-to-live-on,

can’t-stop-my-crying, feels-like-I’m-dying.

who-would-be-a-single-mother blues.

Austerity, you got me, too.

Just can’t seem to get ahead.

I’m young. I should be full of life.

but I am full of fear instead:

afraid they’ll stop my money

if I don’t go here or show up there;

afraid I’ll never find a job,

or get a flat, have cash to spare.

I did everything they told me:

went to college - and I tried my best;

but now it seems they lied to me;

my CV don’t impress.

Now they give me ‘work experience’

when what I need’s a chance:

a chance to work for proper pay,

a chance to play, a chance to dance.

Coz Mr C, you see, I’m young;

I got the legs, I got the shoes;

aint got no opportunity –

and me, well I don’t get to choose.

Coz, well, you guys get the choices

while the likes of us we lose.

We got those no-dough-oh-no

sanctioned-if-we-don’t-show,

hard-luck-mucked-up-isn’t-this-a-fuck-up,

what’s-the-point-of-growing-up blues.

And, Austerity, you’ve done for me.

I’ve got a disability.

My life’s been hard enough without

the extra stress you’ve given me.

I didn’t choose to be this way

and, whatever you might like to think,

your targets are unethical;

and your methods simply stink.

Austerity, you’ve dragged me down

so low some days I don’t get dressed.

I know I should; sometimes I try;

but, mostly, I am too depressed.

These days, you see, I can’t get out

(and I do so miss my little car)

my Care Plan doesn’t care at all

but they say that’s just the way things are.

Austerity, I’m on my knees

with precious little left to lose.

If I could walk a mile I’d say

you should walk a long mile in my shoes.

But, as things are, all I can say

is, when the Great Assessment’s made,

I hope you get what you deserve

and you are left alone, afraid,

to feel the utter hopelessness

that weighs like a monstrous stone

and to try to live as best you can

until the final trumpet’s blown.

Because, then you’ll see, Austerity,

what it is to have nothing to lose

except those low-down-don’t-forget-me,

please-let-me-live-and-let-me-be-as-happy-as-I-can-be-

scrap-heap, austerity blues.

Abigail Wyatt, May, 2015

Coming Soon

Late night TV on the BBC,

more scary than the latest horror movie:

three shiny presenters, glib, well-fed,

none of them much over thirty,

exchange smart remarks

and laugh and laugh

to think that people might die.

But wait. It's ok.

These are not real people.

They are only, after all, 'the elderly';

they are not, what is more,

the elderly well-off

but the sad and shambling poor.

'If they die,' so goes the argument,

'that's a good thing, isn't it?

It will help us solve the problem

of their pensions.'

'There are too many of them.'

More high-pitched laughter.

Laugh? I could have

laughed till I cried.

I did cry this morning.

It weighed all through the night,

this wondering what end might await me:

to be 'passed over', not to be treated

in favour of the young and the fit;

of course, lightly sedated,

I might simply slip away

just a kiss in the pale crook of my elbow.

No pain, perhaps, but not to be mourned,

no evil-smelling, difficult good-byes.

You are never old inside,

my grandmother said;

and she lived to be cosseted and wept for.

Surely, I have given as much

and yet  it's all such a laugh.

Abigail Wyatt

Conquest

In his Wolf Hall, Hugh d’Avranches is brooding,

Leaning upon his rough-hewn window sill.

From his tower, his stronghold, stranglehold,

He surveys his newly won domain.

The motte and bailey rear up proud

Out of the soft land like a fist.

The mound of bare earth is red as blood;

Ah, but this Welsh hill was won hard enough.

The peasant farmers spilled their guts in vain.

The magpies are still feeding, he notices.

Entrails smeared down the sides of the hill

Where the fair flowers of spring were trampled

By war horse and mailed feet.

He shifts his gaze to the hazy horizon.

These are his lands. His.

Centuries of certain dominion unfurl before him,

Dominance built in stone and glass arise.

The coffers overflow, replenished by that lovely stream

Of taxes, levied upon the poor.

His kind will divide and rule,

Setting communities against each other,

Suspicious of the immigrant, the vagrant and the rebel.

Finally, as vanquished bow their knees and heads,

He sees how his superior race

Will lord over serfs, the sick, the poor.

But today there will be hunting a-plenty,

Crops in those fair fields already

Hoarded for his hall.

After all, the villages have less mouths to feed now.

Yet hungrier still is the heart of Hugh.

He knows what they call him,

“Hugh Le Gros”, grown fat on conquest.

His banner borne before him in procession

To cathedrals built to keep this land

Under the Norman heel,

Proclaiming God, Freedom and the Law,

Conserving the Rights of the noble ones.

The silver wolf, its mouth agape,

Is argent on azure.

He grins, seeing instead

A bloody Wolf’s Head, gore and gold.

© Lisa Rossetti 2015

Click here for more about Lisa Rossetti

Now I'm 64 (sing along, folks...)

(taken from David Cameron's got no heart club band)

Now I am older and done my fair share

Worked over forty years back from now

You still want to send me back to work again

Nil hours contract, from eight till ten.

I'll still be working past sixty three

Because you locked the door

I had no prevention, you took all my pension,

And you still want more.

You'll be older too

And in a few simple words

I blame it all on you

It would be better, employing the youth

They need things to do

I have worked for decades and you treat me like

I'm a pin, and out in a strike

It is so cold now, food is all gone now

And you still want more

I had no prevention, you took all my pension,

And you still want more.

Every day you stand and shout about austerity

Still you take from me

Who has scrimped and saved

I won't let you send me

To an early grave

You've had it all now, all but my pride

Though I am standing, still.

I will rise against you every single day

Despite your preference that I waste away

I wish you'd listen, and sad you are blind

I expected so much more

For you to hear me, for you to see me

And a million more

But NO!

Marie Antoinette, May, 2015

Staring at Austerity

I switch on my phone.

Youtube.

'The Black Triangle List',

a film by disabled

artist-campaigner,

Vince Laws,

and film-maker

Andrew Day,

comes up and I select.

On a black screen,

white words

begin to scroll down.

The film is silent.

A memorial,

that, I am warned,

may upset me.

I begin to read.

People who have died

within 6 weeks

of losing benefits:

10,200 . . .

I concentrate in horror.

Black Triangle’s

ongoing list

from media reports:

100 and rising . . .

Then the list.

Details of austerity-

related deaths.

A man, 53.

Blind and agoraphobic.

Atos found him

Fit for Work.

He took his own life.

A woman, 51.

Breast cancer.

Atos found her

Fit for Work.

She died a few weeks later.

The stories mount.

I feel anger rise.

Where the hell

was duty of care?

In my ears, each

life speaks in the deep

silence of the film.

I watch to the end.

The website addresses

for Black Triangle,

(the Disability

Anti-Defamation

Campaign)

and the Samaritans,

are the final frames.

Then a last paragraph,

beginning,

‘It doesn’t have to be like this . . .’

I repeat the words.

The whisper feels

like it’s gone

around the world;

when it comes back,

somebody has

challenged Austerity.

Cath Davies, May, 2015

Cath Davies lives and writes in North Wales. She has worked in social care for many years. Currently, she is currently studying creative writing at degree level at the Open College of the Arts where she has been a student since 2008. 

A Lullaby for Our Troubled Times

(originally written as a response to the riots in Greece, February, 2012)

Hush a bye baby,
in the cradle of democracy:
when the wind blows
the cradle will quake.
Hush a bye, hush a bye;
though Daddy croons a lullaby;
when the bough bends,
it’ll shake us awake.

Hush a bye baby,
we’re living with plutocracy:
capital is cool, and all
the rich are on the make.
Hush a bye, hush a bye:
we close our eyes and let it lie.
When the bough falls,
will we see our mistake?

Abigail Wyatt

Another World Is Possible

Another word is possible. 

This is what my heart insists.

It's possible to learn, to grow, 

to rediscover chances missed;

but it’s not by war or weaponry 

our future will be won:

a loving kindness serves us more

than missiles, armies, bombs and guns.

It’s suspicion undermines us; 

and our folly, and our greed;

our vices feed those fears that grow 

to shroud the light we need

to bud and bloom and show ourselves 

in all our lovely grace

and so live well, in harmony, 

in justice, and in peace.

Now our madness overtakes us;

we are beggars, we are thieves;

and, powerful or powerless, 

we share the same disease:

a corporate greed oppresses us 

and woos us with its honeyed lies.

Another world is possible – 

so wake, and shine – and rise.

Abigail Wyatt

Austerity

Get out of the red and into the black.

Black? The dead minds of those who will not listen to the voice of those who have given everything.

Red? The blood of those who gave everything for the dead minds to destroy.

Marie Antoinette

Poor Tom’s A-cold

Where do you sleep at night?I asked him.

He looked so tired. With his

Blond beard, blue eyes (good teeth),

He could have been a young crusader

In his stony niche,

Huddled in a sleeping bag cloak.

His boots were in good shape.

In the Roodee car park mostly, he said

It’s drier under the cars.

What happened to you, Tom?

He talks of a break-up with his girlfriend,

Loss of his job and flat.

I had a car once, he tells me.

Four months sanction means

He will be living rough through the bitter winter months.

“Regrettably there are reduced places for the homeless due to cuts.”

I fetch him a pastry from the Tesco Express.

Come Christmas though, the Hospice will give me a hot meal,

And a shower; I do want my dignity.

I told him, I’ll come back.

But he was gone, moved on

By the police with new instructions:

“No homeless to be seen in the city centre.”

We are proud of our historical city, and

Its many tourist attractions:

Our wonderful heritage.

Lisa Rossetti

May 2015

Click here for more about Lisa Rossetti

'Song of the Food Bank'

Pasta. Always pasta.
Nothing wrong
with it, of course,
especially the brown stuff -
a nice bit of sauce
and it's always tasty.
(Someone else can put in
the mix-in tomato sauce.)
It's good for the gut,
filling for the kids;
and you only need one ring
and a saucepan.
That's what makes it
a good choice, you see -
because, well, you don't know
the exact kind of places
where some of these
people have to live.

But, then, what about
the little luxuries, you might say:
a decent cup of coffee
for those bleak and chilly mornings,
hot chocolate, coco pops,
a nice a bit of
iced chocolate cake?
By and large, you won't see
much of these -
expect perhaps at Easter,
and at Christmas.
The cycles of the year
are marked by our giving
just that eensy weensy
little bit more.

Next time you pass by
a food bank collection point
have a look and see
what we're offering.
What are we saying
about what we think
our neighbours deserve?
I am ashamed now to think
that there are women wearing rags,
as my grandmother did
and her mother.
What kind of kingdom
have we made
where mothers bleed
to feed their children
while the incoming kings
drink champagne?

Abigail Wyatt

http://www.eveningtimes.co.uk/mobile/news/glasgow-women-having-to-go-without-sanitary-products-foodbank-warns-206201n.125162605

‘The Clean-Up Stage’

(a response to some remarks made recently on Facebook)

The 'clean-up stage' was how she described it.
She could not know how my mouth had fallen open.
I saw again the cattle trucks pull in at the station,
anxious fingers groping towards freedom,
heard, renewed and re-doubled, the desperate pleas
of those people left to swelter in the sunshine
or else to hack at icicles for water even as they waited to freeze.
She did not deny that some sick people had suffered
but she knew it would be 'ironed out' in the long run.
She believed, she told me, that the government
wanted to 'make things better for us all';
their policies were not only well-intended
but bound to prove successful in the end.
She went on to say that ‘healthy people’
should be ‘helped’ to ‘get out to work’.
At the risk of being seen to ‘moan’, I said I didn’t agree.
What of those people who have already died,
and those whose lives were blighted by ATOS?
When she turns her gaze on the one percent,
I wonder what kind of social justice she sees, or thinks she sees.
And then again I wonder: what is their true objective?
Should I look forwards, or backwards through history
to pick out the outline of the smoke-stacks of their dreams?
Isn’t what she calls the 'clean-up stage' only
the start of an ongoing process
by which they will lead us by the nose
and then crush by slow degrees?

And am I now an 'agitator’ as some have lately suggested,
part of ‘the scum’, the ‘skivers’ and ‘dregs’,
those who have chosen not to work?
So, must I make my bed among the ‘rioters’ and ‘rabble rousers’.
those who are now deemed ‘disgusting’,
the ‘benefit fraudsters’ whom ‘we’ have been ‘feeding’,
and now, or so I have heard it said, like rats
‘come creeping’ from their ‘holes’?
Though I was not with them, I would have been with them;
my heart went with them most freely;
now, as the dust begins to settle,
just as freely I choose my ground:

I stand up for freedom, right thinking, and right feeling;
for justice duly tempered by compassion;
I side with the poor, who must remember they are many,
against the rich and the greedy, who are few.