Old Poems Die Hard #1: RACIST

by Luke Otley

As the years drain away from all of us, poems too pass into the past. Sometimes you just have to grab them by the scruff of the neck and drag them back into the limelight. Welcome to my new weekly bit, ‘Old Poems Die Hard’ – reblogging a forgotten poem. Enjoy.


RACIST

I hear it start, feed off itself and tumble
into something gross- I seen it coming
miles off and God
I’m tired,
straining with my silence,
moulding it like potter’ clay-
take me,
I need a hand to hold in all this hate-

memory of rain,
thoughts of my stroller-

no, this is the world:
heat, crack, ice-
ink, blood, war-
pig iron, tanks, japs-
a finger in my face
like a spear-tip and
IT IS POLITE TO RESPOND-
I was brought up right
but reason washed away last winter,
and I’m old enough
to stare right into the eyes of the beast
and say nothing,
nothing at all.