General

Yellow Hammer — Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

 

Yellow Hammer document:

What we’ve always known,

Trucks stopped at the borders;

Absent medicine;

People losing lives or jobs

Who would be fine

With the right prescription drugs,

 

Yellow Hammer document;

What we’ve always known,

Soaring food prices –

Only so much can be grown

In time to feed us,

Who will face starvation;

When they can’t afford

To feed their children?

 

Yellow Hammer document;

What we’ve always known;

How many closed businesses;

How many lost homes

In broken communities

Full of lost hope?

 

Yellow Hammer document;

What we’ve always known;

The Leave Campaign lied to us;

No Deal leads to destruction;

Brexit was and is a farce,

We need a coded constitution

And to stop laying blame

On those who can’t be voters

Simply because they came

From other places to us,

They don’t deserve the shame

Of the Brexit circus,

 

Yellow Hammer document;

What we’ve always known

All those who felt voicelessness

Will feel more of the same,

Isolation, alienation

Injustice, people struggling

All the more common

When mass poverty is doubling

Amid deregulation –

Which leads only to troubling

Food contamination

And protections crumbling

For workers; for women;

For climate; for rights;

For trade; education –

All our past fights

In prorogation –

As if the picket lines

Never happened,

 

Yellow Hammer document;

What we’ve always known,

They’re going for it anyway –

The government alone,

Absent of morality;

Deceiving the throne

Breaking laws;

They, the institution

The hammer; the jaws

They say they save us from.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

via Yellow Hammer — Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

48% · Democracy · General

Piffle Pfeffel

Alexander Borris De Pfeffel Johnson

Would like us to believe

That he is a man of the people fighting

For our democracy –

Piffle Pfeffel!

 

His arguments brittle,

Hatred inciting, racism igniting,

Self-promotion his skill,

The man plotting to shut down our Parliament –

Tyrannical clown king

Piffle Pfeffel,

 

Pfeffel sounds so like

Piffle: nonsense; rubbish; gibberish; drivel;

Twaddle; claptrap; noise; tripe;

Baloney; Bunkum; Bunk; Balderdash; Babble;

And other words for lies,

Piffle Pfeffel,

 

Idiocy worn as the ultimate mask,

Behind Johnson’s hokum

The sly autocrat who utilises farce,

He’s the institution

He in vainest glory feigns to take to task –

Piffle Pfeffel,

 

School boy of Eton

Then Balliol, Oxford to read the classics

In which the elite learn

Too often customs of ‘soft supremist’

Via Caucasian curriculums

History thinned into white-centralist

Ideas and idioms,

He’ll style himself a modern Odysseus

Battling with Trojans,

 

That old Butcher Borris,

Our blood on his hands as he serves us the meat –

Our future the carcass,

Must each eat our bones at his merry conceit?

Yet, his role in office

Thus far historic in its early defeats –

Piffle Pfeffel,

 

Though he has a Queen’s ear and directs her pen,

The UK constitution

Must be codified to prevent such events;

Proroguing parliament,

In other words silencing all debate or dissent

To force, without consent,

Unthinkable ruin, such entitlement

Has scarred a continent,

A globe, a Northern Ireland Peace Agreement,

The UK itself rent;

Torn as he and his chase preferment,

His fibs don’t relent,

Piffle Pfeffel,

 

Alexander the Un-great, realm divider

Entitled Trump-like twin,

Dividing neighbours, dismantling traders,

Behold the sole sovereign

Who would silence discussion in both chambers

‘Til he, Count Despot wins,

No matter the costs, the losses, the dangers

As whiles wear paper thin,

Piffle Pfeffel,

 

That is what I call him,

The worst PM we’ve seen.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

48% · Democracy · General

For Sovereignty? A Zanze

 

They say it’s all for sovereignty;

For parliament’s authority,

But look how fast they turn the key

To shut up the democracy

 

They say it’s all for, so

Pardon our deep distrust,

Regardless of past votes

We see their power lust,

 

They say it’s all

For us; these fibs,

Fakes, phoneys, frauds

With voices glib,

 

They say

They disagree

With laws passed by MPs,

They say it’s all for sovereignty?

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

General

Citizen of Nowhere

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

I’m called ‘citizen of nowhere’

by Theresa May, who asserts

this as the British Prime Minister,

though this is the land of my birth,

I’m called ‘citizen Jew’;

the day after that vote

each racist chorus grew;

belonging then remote,

I’m called, city

answers for me

in a beat, see –

it knows my feet,

I’m called

‘not from round here’

as if I’ve walked through walls,

I’m called ‘citizen of nowhere’.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

N.B: This poem refers to the intensely alienating comments Theresa May made in a post Brexit 2016 speech. I also connect to other experiences, especially since Brexit that have made me feel unwelcome and unwanted in the country of my birth. Partly because of my surname and some of my mixed family heritage I have been viewed as ‘other’ by many since childhood. If I had my other parent’s surname, I would have been treated…

View original post 559 more words

General

The Great Mandate

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

They call this the greatest mandate ever;
even though the results split the UK
in half, more than one union near severed -
they call this the greatest mandate ever
when half the voters go unheard – inferred 
consent through barefaced lies, flagrantly
they call this the greatest mandate ever
even though the results split the UK

they call this the great mandate. “How?” I ask,
when it was founded on fears and deceits,
raising profiles of hate, giving them masks;
they call this the great mandate. How, I ask,
do they ignore the UK’s biggest march
by citing only half a crooked plebiscite* -
they call this the great mandate; “how”, I ask,
when this was founded on fears and deceits.


Antonia Sara Zenkevitch


*plebiscite = a synonym for 'referendum' 

(Alternative text for photo below, a large wooden mallet used to smash a boiled egg)

egg power fear hammer Photo by Pixabay on

View original post 1 more word

48% · Democracy · General

The Will

“The will of the people”, she says,

Though the UK is divided

As Brexit drills on, come what May,

Accords wrecked where lies decided

 

The will of the people;

But they do not serve us,

Pretending it feeble

As millions amass;

 

The will of the

Once Great Britain’s

Identity

March, London,

 

The will

Written in grey

Was never this oil spill,

“The will of the people,” she says.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

Petition to Revoke Article 50 (reached over 5.5 million, so far)

Countless people waving EU flags and anti-Brexit banners as they march in London
MyLondon.News People’s Vote March

(Alternative Text: Countless people waving EU flags and anti-Brexit banners as they march in London)

General · Personal

this has personal resonance- Brexit Could Have Real Effects for UK Rare Disease Patients, Experts Warn — Ehlers-Danlos News

Madeline Collin, a 24-year-old activist with Gaucher disease, worries that patients like her will suffer deeply if Britain leaves the European Union (EU), as scheduled, at the end of this month. Collin is an expert on the subject. For her University of Bathdissertation, she analyzed Brexit’s long-term impact on the 3.5 million people in England,…

via Brexit Could Have Real Effects for UK Rare Disease Patients, Experts Warn — Ehlers-Danlos News

General

Just Accords

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

Of course, now, justice for Bloody Sunday,
(or something near justice) for the grieved;
for civilians gunned down, killed in Derry.
Of course, now justice for Bloody Sunday
is recognised as a priority –
yet the timing questions the incentive,
of course. Now justice for Bloody Sunday
(or something near justice) for the grieved,
for there’s contested deals to be agreed
thus, I will not trust the current motives,
though for survivors and communities
of course, now. Justice for Bloody Sunday
sought since 1972, delays
and whitewashes have often been the creed,
so, I will not trust the current motives:
veiling tears in the vital peace treaty
that saw terrible troubles abated,
of course! Now justice for Bloody Sunday
must answer for the murders of that day
and to survivors who died in the wait,
but I will not trust the current motives
with threats of direct rule being replayed,

View original post 538 more words

Democracy · General · Peace

Broken Silence and Exit Lines

the peace agreement,

like two flags and people’s lives

flapping in the wind

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

Below is an account of my engagement, as a witness, in a ‘From the Rockface’ discussion in Northern Ireland. What I saw and heard makes it clear to me the very real threat Brexit poses to peace and security for people living across the Island of Ireland and all parts of the United Kingdom. This would especially be the case in a No Deal scenario.

This talk mainly included loyalists stories and so provides only partial context …

Broken Silence and Exit Lines

Link to original post

It has never felt more inappropriate to stand and walk from a room. A silence was being fractured and the question was being asked, again and again, “Who would want to hear us?” “Who would want to listen?” Do our voices count in the eyes of the world?” These questions are interspersed with my phone delivering other silent, urgent messages. The texts from a friend asking if I am ready to leave. I am going to miss my plane. I am in a room full of hope and anger, Loyalists trying to discover how to rekindle loyalty with each other, sitting two seats from the main speaker and a room away from the door. When, in this brave and open exchange acknowledging, amongst other things, a feeling of betrayal by mainland Britain, will the only English woman at the table, stand up and head for the door?

Words are overflowing, time over-running, after decades of communities ruled by a culture of silence; ruled by fear and the sense of betrayal.

These men, whose skin is painted deep with their identity; an inky testament to the stories etched upon them that words could not speak but only bodily destruction could erase.

“We have hurt each other,” they say, honesty ricocheting around the room to meet open, determined faces; paramilitary, prisoners, peace-builders, political leaders interspersed with lawyers, academics alert and armed with pens and inquisition. The untold stories unravel before me. The fierce organisation of the Nationalists and the Loyalist trust, initially, in the UK government and military to protect them. The growing confusion and betrayal, the disillusionment that they were protected, the disorganization birthing community to community violence, the killing of all budding leaders who could unify the Loyalists or speak of peaceful ways forward. The silencing. The reprisals and counter-reprisals and fears of reprisal. The loss. The help that was not helpful. The impossibility of decommissioning weapons in 60 days given the fact they were not united, that trans-community conflict meant communications took time and distrust of political will to protect their communities in any other way. The sense that for some politicians the Northern Ireland peace process was being used as a platform for career furtherment over and above the will to end the conflict. The politicians who would call for paramilitary disbandment but come to them for their services. The sense of being in shock, the fear of being perceived as an underclass, even of becoming one.

The vocal ex-prisoner and combatant that now virtually lived in the Transitional Justice Institute with the same fighting determination, arms heavy with tattoo and muscle, eyes seeking something more. The sense of needing now to speak; to tell the stories untold, first to the world and, ultimately to one another. One woman’s voice discussing gender issues in the conflict. Many ears. I begin to make eyes wildly at the Chairman. Eventually, when the other voices in the room slow to draw breath in slightly bewildered air, the Chair states that as we are going far beyond time, anyone who needs to leave can. Only I stand, the English woman leaving. The main speaker apologizes for talking too long and I stop, ignoring the panicked text of the friend who will give me a lift to the airport and the determinedly ticking clock. I say something I repeat now in writing. I say thank-you for his words, I say to them all, thank-you for what they have said. I tell them I want to hear. I tell them sorry… and then I tell them I have to catch a plane.

 

Link to the original 2012 post

Democracy · General

Talking Theresa May, a feminist’s inner debate

I have written a number of poems about Theresa May and her policies over the years. This included when I was a women’s worker heavily involved in grassroots and party politics myself and she was Home Secretary. I have grappled with myself many times over my feelings towards her. I analyze and judge myself because she is a visible representation of women in power, still such a rarity in the UK. Two British Prime Ministers have been assigned the same sex at birth as I have, and I’ve not been a fan of either. But, do I, as a longterm equalist and feminist pull her down? My answer, as someone who has been involved in politics and been a women’s worker, is complex.

I have done and will criticize her policies and question her moral compass, often passionately. I have queried her actions and even at times her basic ethics. I get angry when her womanhood is attacked but I wonder if I do it too. I’ve been involved in helping make harassment of women recognized as a hate crime in my county but I wonder where the line is when criticizing someone whose ethos as well as their actions often seem abhorrent to me.  Is it different because I am a woman and a feminist? Is it unbiased because my poems question the acts, ethics, and judgments of other politicians across genders, including the leader of the opposition? Or, does the volume and nature of my criticism veil a different or concurrent story? In all the poems I have written there is one controversial line from 2014 I still now wrestle with, but I will come to that.

Poems like Shoes? and The Poisoned Cup and A gender very clearly and firmly explore my anger at criticisms of her as a woman rather than a politician, whilst still raging against her policies and political acts. Too many talk about female politicians’ appearance, which is irrelevant to their politics. This is a kind of bating and belittling no heterosexual man in politics has to contend with. It morphs into analogies of sticking high heels in and other suggestions that certain behaviour is ‘unwomanly’, whatever that is, or because we have no children, or because we do. I’ve lived this toxic bias myself. Told as the only woman on a panel that I was talking too much, asked if I have children or what my husband thinks. Told I should not be standing because I have a man in my life. I was stalked and verbally abused. All this rubbish no politician from any party should have to contend with but they do, and they have to deal with far worse too. A diabetic heavily pregnant woman having to postpone a cesarian to vote in one of the most important parliament ballots in a century. Another pregnant woman receiving death threats for being Jewish. A serving MP stabbed to death. Straight white abled males that make up most of our parliament don’t experience this type of abuse.

I left my own political party citing discrimination, having been involved to some extent at local, regional and national level voluntarily in the years I was a member. No, I didn’t receive death threats or anything so horrific, but I left shaken, unwell and soul-weary, treated as a pariah despite having got some of the party’s best results in the 2015 elections. I was not alone in leaving. The party concerned is not remotely unique in this, but I had ploughed in everything I had and expected fairness for myself and others. All parties have discrimination in their ranks, politics and human society generally is full of it, but it’s what they do about it that counts. I’m not convinced either of the main political parties or many if not all of the smaller ones have yet developed enough self-awareness to tackle the different forms of racism, ableism and, for the main part gender bias within their membership and leaders. Do I have the self-awareness to recognize bias in myself? Perhaps. Hopefully.

I have written a lot of poems about Theresa May; more than any other single politician except perhaps Tony Blair many years ago. I’ve asked myself why and I do sense a bias in me; I think I expect higher morals from her because we have so few visible female leaders and those who would chain us in homogenous misogyny blame her womanhood and so in a way all women for her failures. In this, I have internalized the sexism and must be careful of that.  Will it stop me being angry and speaking out against burning injustices. No. Very, very no.

Dear Ministers, Lies in Old Westminster, What the Dickens? and The Big Riot (a political satire) are all pretty scathing about a number of politicians from across the house. There are many others. Yet I am often provoked by my emotions to writing about Theresa May. A large part of this is because she is Prime Minister during a time of steeply rising inequity, homelessness, hunger, and insecurity where acts of terror and racist policies hold hands. She is the Brexit PM and I have strong feelings about Brexit and the lies that warped the referendum and what came after. In The Poisoned Cup  I talk about her inheriting an unanswerable problem, but I think she helped create that problem too, long before the rise of calls for Brexit.

I’ve become aware that for me it is personal.  When I was an interfaith women’s worker active in politics in squeezed spare time, I saw for myself some of the affects of her Home Office policies. Just one example of this was a wonderful Malawian nurse who had been in this country and active in her community for 14 years snatched off the streets and taken to Yarlswood, where all the guards are white and all those detained are black or minority ethnicity. It was an oppressive place to even visit and they took visitors fingerprints. She was not given vital medicine and was in hospital when we finally managed to get her out. Getting her legal help – even getting clean underwear to her, felt like a battle. This is one of many stories I know, including of a woman, who when 14, having lived in this country since infancy, had to fight to stay. I was and am angry at this.

I feel this, together with David Cameron’s capitulation to other pressures, put in place the foundations for many present ills. The farcical process of Brexit spurred on by, amongst other things, spreading lies about immigration as a smokescreen for the real reasons too many are struggling. The racist policy of exiling citizens of the Windrush generations. The attacks on the wellbeing and security of those whose ill health or disability prevents them from being able to work. The undermining of women’s rights through the disproportionate effects of austerity. The failure to act as pledged in their 2017 election manifesto to handle the burning injustices of our time, including those linked to seriously tackling domestic violence and the exploitation of tenants and workers.

My experiences as a witness in 2014 of Theresa May as Home Secretary has placed her as one of the main authors of our current climate of insecurity. Furthermore, watching her undemocratically limiting parliamentary debating the shape of Brexit for nearly three years while the flames of burning injustices rise across the nation has not gentled my ire. Brexit, to my mind, was always going to be a vicious beast, but her actions are among those that have potentially sharpened its teeth – if it happens. May’s bad deal, created after years of negotiations with the EU but near none with Westminster until the eleventh hour, has put us at greater risk of a disastrous no deal Brexit.

My thoughts on her approach to governance can be found in poems such as Democracy, GoatskinAlternative ArrangementsContempt and in the 2014-2015 poems Dear Theresa and Securing A Bitter Future. Of all of them, it is only the last and Madame Dictator in which I question whether I have projected internalized misogynistic undertones. In my heart of hearts, I am ultimately unhappy with only one line in which I suggest she should be hushed up. It is in the context of her pushing a piece of legislation in 2014 that effectively hushed up everyone who had widely different opinions to her own. Legislation that potentially left millions voiceless, including myself and the women in the organizations I was working with.  The idea of hushing an outspoken woman up is deeply problematic. Mary Beard, in ‘Women and Power’ draws our attention to the fact that silencing of women in public life has been normalized in art and politics from the times the Classics were written. In this, I am a bad feminist.

Yet, where does my moral compass point when I am talking about someone who was with the non-violent extremism act hushing up others? It is a difficult one. Writing it I was thinking only of her as a politician not as a woman. Yet we live in a gendered society where that will be misused and / or misinterpreted by others. In that particular phrase and that particular poem I used gender-neutral phrasing to help distant it from gender rhetoric but I’m not sure, when the person is such a prominent figure, that this unpicks millennia of ‘hush hate’.

Never-the-less, I counter myself in this internal debate, the mirrored context of the others she was hushing up raged in my mind, with the knowledge I was not about to expect less from her as a politician or not say things, just because of her – and my assigned gender. I think it is telling that I would not choose to reuse the phrase, ever.

I feel Theresa May does actually believe she is doing the best for Britain. I feel more strongly than I have felt most things in my entire life that she is very dangerously wrong and misguided by prejudice, her own or other people’s . I do not believe this is because she was assigned female sex at birth, or because of her clothing choice as a woman. Most certainly May will have had a much tougher journey getting where she is now than her male colleagues and contemporaries. I do recognise that this places pressure on a person but it is no excuse for policies and processes that alienate, disenfranchise and impoverish millions while curbing parliamentary debate until there is no other option.  I will not let any person or administration singe democracy for fear of being impartial but I must choose the words I use wisely. Perhaps at times, I think unfairly she should be more astute because so few women have gained her level of influence as well as because the stakes are so high in the present political, social and environmental climate.

My fear and experience of being arbitrarily judged as a woman against a person I feel little affinity with does tint my own assessment of their actions. One woman’s social crimes become, in the eyes of many, the crimes of all women, and so we are taught to judge fellow females more harshly than males.  Yes, I’ve written critically about male MPs, No Discrimination, Making Progress? and Johnson & Drones being prime examples. However, I think I’ve ingested some of the shame poured on myself and others assigned the same sex at birth, regardless of how they identify. It is the mechanisms of misogyny, not Theresa May I should be furious at for that. Even when I take this into account, there is plenty to be angry at Theresa May about, but I should be equally angry at others. I am.

Now, to turn that anger into fuel for justice and the only way I can do that is to link it back to the love I have for those people, including myself, that I feel have been put at risk.  I must choose my words with both care and fire.

Culture · Democracy · General · Remain

Get on with what?

“Get on with it!” say Brexiteers,
That phrase, gravel in my ears,
As one more factory shuts up shop 
A few more thousand lose their jobs 
Amid the lies that they would prosper
If immigration disappears, 
The truth is there, but they don’t hear 
As we tie ourselves up in knots 
“Get on with it!” 
They say; our nation’s auctioneers, 
But the way ahead is not clear
Except that we'll all be worse off 
And more of us won’t have enough;
Revisiting depression years, 
Get on with it?

“Get on with it!” the endless round,
As government debates confound
Both the best and the worst of us 
On every side of this circus,
As leaders’ arrogance astounds,
Our creaking democracy found 
Cold, abused, hungry, gagged and bound,
The response offered by leavers:
“Get on with it” 

The majority lost not found
In archaic schemes, rules for clowns 
That sway countries and media,
Though eyes are now on Westminster
It’s corporations that are crowned 
Get on with it?

“Get on with it!” say Brexiteers,
But no workable deal appears,
Meanwhile, vital services rot,
People, made homeless, later robbed
Of any chance of a future
As we betray our teenagers
Steal children’s potential careers
And up the climate chaos odds. 

“Get on with it!” 
Say those scared, yet still unaware 
They’re selling our protections off,
Imperfect though they were, to bluff
Self-governance that never was,
Nebulous words as deadlines near,
“Get on with it!”

“Get on with it”, get on with what?
With the Brexit of the lynch mob
Or the one that mimics Norway?
The ‘hurry-up’ crowd never say
Though they are so rarely quiet,
There is no wand to whisk away
The social ills of the U.K,
Or falsely recalled yesterdays,
Brexiteers scapegoated Europe,
Get on with it?

Get on with what? National decay?
Alienating minorities?
We've no constitution to cope
With destitution beyond scope
Of those four words of mockery:
"Get on with it!"

Not "How?" or, ever, "What comes after?"
Nor "What is it?" "What's wrong with it?" 
Not, it seems, "What's wrong with us?"
Never "What's stopping this?"
No truth in Brexit
For Brexiteers;
No real plans
At all;
None. 


Antonia Sara Zenkevitch
General

Hope

Should I be hopeful

with talk of a People’s Vote

now resurfacing,

up for discussion again

while lies are still circling?

 

hope, like early spring,

blooms and shivers, in each turn

clings between downpours.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

General

No Discrimination

There’s no discrimination here,

they’re all on perfect behaviour,

equality sits at their core

as they block someone’s access door

leaving no space for their scooter,

 

There he is, playing our savior,

marking this moment to savor

as if accepting his reward,

there’s no discrimination,

 

At least he has stopped looking bored,

in fact, they all stand quite assured

captured by news photographers,

unnoticed by the broadcasters;

A human’s safety needs are ignored;

there is no discrimination.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

 

N.B if you haven’t read my other posts, I’m not a fan of our present government, or of Brexit. But I don’t trust Corbyn and the leadership of the opposition either. UK politics is a shambles. Beyond politics of left or right, leave or remain (I hope remain) there is the issue that no one should be blocking the essential access of a person with mobility needs by holding a rally outside their access door when a sign clearly requests this area be kept clear.

 

Democracy · General

Madame Dictator

 

Madame Dictator, have you not heard

Your deal was voted down historically

And yet you resurrect the interred

Proposal repeatedly, delay after delay

Burning our security & democracy away,

 

Your office not conferred

By any political majority,

You do not listen to a word

From any, except, perhaps, the ERG

Who need an ECG

To find out if they have a heart

Because they seem intent

Only on ripping us apart,

 

But you, Madame Dictator,

Like a modern Bonaparte

Say you hear

But you do not!

Stirring up terror

By running down the clock,

 

Perhaps it’s said best by Andy Serkis;

Your attitude to this rambling failure

Akin to Gollum’s with his ‘precious’;

A gold that deserved the fires of Mordor

But instead you throw our futures in

To that furnace, knowing it will make this nation so much poorer

As the homeless line the streets and food bank ques get longer,

And the extremists get stronger

And injustices reign – those you said you’d bring to order

Yet you disengage to build walls of fire at our borders

And, as for climate change …

 

You focus only on Brexit

But do so without debate

Hushing up all the elected

Tying nation states up in red tape

 

More than

Two years!

Two years

And more!

 

In a cabal of your own

Prescribed parameters,

Your negotiations

In closed door deliberations

And perambulations

As you ignite more tensions

With another deadline gone,

I have literally lost count!

Every time you tell the Commons

There will be later debate

Then roll the calendar on;

The dates for meaningful votes

Eternally postponed,

Except that historic one

Where the deal was trodden on,

The same deal you resuscitate,

 

 

All the while that lie ‘secure and stable’

When there’s nothing on the table

And security service cutbacks

Coincide with terror attacks

And there is legislation against

Generations told to go back

To the commonwealth after decades of life and work in the UK,

So, just because they are black

You citizens to go away,

And now, will more Europeans face the same?

 

I visited Yalswood, while you were Home Secretary,

Children and women fearing their fate,

Caucasian guards, all black and ethnic minority

Detainees – I thought, mine is a racist state,

My friend was denied vital medicine

They took my prints before I could go in

The package of essentials I left

Was only passed on after five days,

She had to fight for legal representation,

Hers not an uncommon story,

I’ve known others, one girl just fourteen,

Britishness part of her identity –

Her humanity you refused to see,

 

How dare you, in self-righteous glory

Proclaim you understand democracy

If you can’t see their lives matter!

 

 

Now,

Your promises in tatters;

When you said you’d listen,

See how skilfully you didn’t,

Your cabinet found in contempt

Of our disjointed constitution,

 

This is wrong! The is so very wrong!

This is becoming authoritarian

And very, very, very dark!

 

You have polluted

“Safe and Secure”

“Meaningful”

“Democracy”

“Listening”

“Vote” –

 

All convoluted

By you

Until the words stick in my throat –

 

And you call this your mission;

To re- enforce your indecent proposition

After the worst historical democratic defeat in the entire history of any Westminster government!

All you are reinforcing are the fault lines of division,

 

And, for the record, I’m not impressed by Corbyn

So, please don’t read this as propaganda

For a weakly lead, anti-Semitic opposition,

Though I will state I’m firmly left of centre

This is less about sides and more concerned

With the slide towards totalitarianism,

 

Only idiots will say it is because you’re a woman,

Though they do, pouring on scorn

For all the agelessly wrong reasons,

As they try to make you dance,

Or comment on your complexion,

In this alone I come to your defence

Yet my complaints could fill a lexicon

From your term feeding hate in the Home Office

Displaying a personal distaste towards migration

To this cutting off of deliberation in Parliament,

It’s not gender defining each subverted action

So, I will not hold back because I’m a feminist;

 

I will call you Madame Dictator,

A title not up for discussion

Unless you decide to govern better

And return the dignities you’ve taken.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

 

General · Personal

Risks

 

Brexit No deal risks medical supplies,
a direct threat to millions whose lives,
like mine, navigate chronic illnesses
like asthma, heart-disease, diabetes …

Is human well-being to be denied
at the expense of our security
and our health? How will families survive?
At length, how can our economies thrive
this hazard to our nations’ existence?
Let’s dispense with political pretence;
Brexit. No deal.

Are we to be undone by misplaced pride?
For such high costs there are no alibis.   
Crohns, fibromyalgia, anxiety,
myalgic encephalomyelitis,
depression amongst crises that arise.
Brexit? No deal!

From cancer to endometriosis
dementia to ehlers-danlos syndromes,
like so many, I battle some of these
and all affect our whole society;
United Kingdom needs her medicines.

Brexit No deal
threatens the core of civilization;
our dignities, our life-expectancies,
our capabilities. My conclusion;
Brexit? No! Deal.   


Antonia Sara Zenkevitch
Culture · General · Personal

Gone

Gone are the days of princesses
and nights in shining armor;
My love, this is England now
In the daze of fares selling fair ethics,
Where knights slaughter sacred cows
Amid rued lives, dignities and businesses
In rude awakenings, fresh grievances
And very little honour towards neighbours,
In a winter that does not seem to pause
A dog sleeping in a doorway chews his paws;
The mighty say we choose this,
A lax hypothesis for half choices based on lies,
Lack breeds homelessness in familiar lanes;
A city’s slow demise in the ice where lives have lain.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

 

The first two lines of this poem were a prompt from poet Sonya Annita Song which in turn reminded me of the haunting Sinead O’Connor song ‘Black Boys on Mopeds’. The content is inspired by things I have recently seen.

48% · Democracy · General

Post-Factual Democracy

In this post-factual democracy

we are seen collectively;

the world forgets

that, in 2016

48 % voted

‘Remain’,

 

But most of us don’t remember that,

For we are drip fed again and again, again

The idea that Britain is united behind Brexit,

The PM tells repeatedly how, in the general election

80 percent of us chose parties with a Brexit manifesto

But, there was little choice, in this undemocratic system

Seeking a divorce from its own scapegoat, our status quo is

Weighed irrefutably in favour of one of two parties ever getting in,

Citizens have a muted voice and restricted representation that does not go

With an idea that we agree, comply with or know. We’ve been told our decision.

To disagree, it seems, is to be undemocratic as we are taught to follow

A yellow brick road, but we can’t click our heels to return home

And it’s only the Brexiters who are shown on television,

European neighbours regard at us now with fury,

Confusion, frustration, ridicule, disdain, pity

“Only eating biscuits and drinking tea”

In Coordinator Verhofstadt’s eyes

The UK described as ‘disorderly’

‘Crashing’, feeble of mind

Into self-made injury

Upon which we

Cannot stand.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

General

Post-Factual Democracy

 

 

In this post-factual democracy

we are seen collectively;

the world forgets

that, in 2016

48 % voted

‘Remain’,

 

But most of us don’t remember that,

For we are drip fed again and again, again

The idea that Britain is united behind Brexit,

The PM tells repeatedly how, in the last election

80 percent of us chose parties with a Brexit manifesto

But, there was little choice, in this undemocratic system

Seeking a divorce from its own scapegoat, our status quo is

Weighed irrefutably in favour of one of two parties ever getting in,

Citizens have a muted voice and restricted representation that does not go

With an idea that we agree, comply with or know. We’ve been told our decision.

To disagree, it seems, is to be undemocratic as we are taught to follow

A yellow brick road, but we can’t click our heels to return home

And it’s only the Brexiters who are shown on television,

European neighbours regard us now with fury,

Confusion, frustration, ridicule, distain, pity

“Only eating biscuits and drinking tea”

In Coordinator Verhofstadt’s eyes

The UK described as ‘disorderly’

‘Crashing’, feeble of mind

Into self-made injury

Upon which we

Cannot stand.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

48% · Democracy · General

Making Progress?

 

“I’m making progress, Mr. Speaker,”
We hear Jeremy Corbyn state,
I watch the opposition leader,
As he ignores all calls for debate,
Undeterred, unheard, on with his task;
“I’m making progress, Mr. Speaker,”
“Yes, but towards what?” our silence asks
Cracking delicate glass, their mirror
In each other; a work of Dada
Where masked surrealism prevails,
“I’m making progress, Mr. Speaker,”
Just before each amendment fails,
Falls, and there is no leader I trust;
He cannot overcast Theresa
Who, nebulous, calls out from the dust
“I’m making progress, Mr. Speaker.”

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

48% · Democracy · General

Alternative Arrangements

Arcane these halls, wherein these walls

the pomp and thrills

shroud the lack of clarity;

where the right to a voice

and the order of bills

denotes a lack of legal parity.

 

2019, the 29th of January,

each motion falls, well, almost all;

one strange one is given charity.

 

Hopes of extension are lost;

no  breathing space

to find out what is real

or to replace 600 or more laws

leaving Europe will displace.

 

The promised date of another meaningful

Parliamentary ballot,

or the sequence of the day’s amendments

defines how those amendments fall.

 

The backstop;

which, after over two years

writing between red lines

we’re promised,

against all past assurances

will be redefined;

 

the nebulousness called ‘alternative arrangements’ this time.

 

Not for the first time

we all ask what just happened;

to what are we consigned?

 

In these arcane processes

can you hear

nations unite

around the cruxes

as common sense cries out

and people turn from left to right

to ask the question of 2019;

what does ‘alternative arrangements’ mean?

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

question mark

General

Shit-Sock Sonnet (a political satire)

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

“Roll up! Hear the latest reports from our government,”
A homeless man on a park bench gleefully shouts,
“Woman in wheelchair throws shit-socks at parliament!”

“She said it was for the country’s good,
She’d ensured the more decent MPs weren’t about,
Roll up! Hear the latest reports from our government,

“No one believed her; she said she would
Make sure Lammy and Lucas each had nice days out;
Woman in wheelchair throws shit-socks at parliament!

“She did what few really thought she could,
She’d counted all the laws she intended to flout;
Roll up! Hear the latest reports from our government,

“MPs serve us shit like it was food
And nothing we say or do seems to have much clout,
Woman in wheelchair throws shit-socks at parliament

“Her dream of this suits a public mood,
A dream featuring headlines; a front-page layout;
Roll up! Hear the latest reports from our…

View original post 146 more words

48% · Democracy · General

Dear Ministers

Dear Ministers,
Oh, dear ministers,
Oh dear, ministers,

I have listened, ministers,
To the speeches you gave,
I have seen you, leaders,
How some choose to behave,

I offer up broken couplets
Too messy to make the grade,
Like the Eton Mess you serve us;

Dominic Raab
You’ve had a fair stab
At getting the Brexit you craved,
As quill-master in Cabinet,
Aren’t you part of the mess that’s been made?
But no one’s got a sane plan yet,
How can your vision be saved?
We’ll lose our voice, increase our debt,
Can we not end the whole Brexit crusade?

Andrea Leadsom
I can’t fathom your reasons
For taking a lead upon
Leaving,
It’s not buying us freedom
Just Isolation
More homelessness,
And alienation
That will leave most of us
Grieving,

Borris Johnson
Tone down your ambition
When it estranges our nation,
Where you get facts from
I cannot imagine
But few of them have any traction,

Oh Michael Gove
I don’t mean to scold
But there isn’t much else I can say,
As we’re forced down a road
Which will see us implode –
You were warned Brexit would be this way,

Please, Jacob Rees-Mogg,
Could you stop playing God –
Draining dregs of Britain’s Great,
The Brexiters will no longer applaud
When they examine the state of our state,
You campaigned for something we cannot afford
That’s encouraging extremist hate,
Which will undermine the rule of law,
And you don’t quite have the mandate,

Liam Fox
We’re on the rocks,
Could you rise to our defence?
Brexit has hit expected roadblocks,
Your euro-scepticism makes little sense,

Jeremy Corbyn,
Please curb your boredom,
We need a real opposition,
You’ve been sat there for months
Letting them play the trumps
Not challenging many decisions,
Please don’t stay in the dumps
Between scuffles and bumps,
Wake up, and get with the mission,
You look like your waiting for Godo to come,
Seeming apathy enlarges division
And that’s not a thing we can build on,

Theresa May,
You campaigned to remain
But the deal offered
Is no sort of plan;
Neither here nor there,
Can you tell, I’m not a big fan?
But I have to be fair,
Making Brexit happen
would make any despair,
So, could we start agreeing
That this is demeaning
And Brexit can’t get anywhere?

Frank Field
Please yield,
The foodbank ques
Are already too long,
Think what we’ll lose
If no-deal rules
And our bargaining power
Is all gone,
I honour your ardour
But you’re plain wrong,
And, let me make it clear;
Immigrants belong,
When you raise fear
It resonates on, on, on,
We’re better inside
Making change
Than outside when everything’s gone,
Shouting in
With nothing but our rage
To live on,
You’ll only succeed in limiting
How any of us engage –
Best abort the mistaken vision
At this last sand-grain stage,

Kate Hoey,
What are you doing?
You won’t end the single market
This exit will just lead to our ruin –
And guess who’ll be hit the hardest
If borders are closed, no food getting in?
The working class would die the fastest.
If we’ve hope of any solution
We have to take stock and move past this;
We need a codified constitution
But breaking union won’t help this,
And Brexit won’t offer social justice
But more hunger and less protections,

Ester McVey,
This is far from OK;
Brexiteering
Cripples the UK,
Throwback ideas stirring
Our fears,
And nostalgia for Empire days
In faraway years,
But when ballots say Brexit
It was ever going to be
A state of disarray
As a third-party country,
This was a foundation
Not to vote leave,
We break more than one
Precious unity,
But, for diverse reasons,
On one thing we agree;
This deal won’t work for our nation –
It will mean more poverty
And give near zero security
Or peace,
But Brexit could be no other way –
As most legal advisors agree,
Now our nation has to pay
But have no protection or say
In EU policies,

I could go on with my anti-Brexit song
But would any of you really listen?
You’ve been ignoring each other for so long
As we’re forced to endure such division.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

General

Join in a Collaborative Poem on Absence

An invite to all poets, writers, ranters and philosophers:

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

I have joined in with several great poems challenges on other bloggers’ sites, so I thought I’d reach out and invite poets, philosophers, and wordsmiths to join in with one myself.

The idea is for everyone who wants to, to contribute a 3 to 6 line verse and create something amazing together. We’ll create a collective/collaborative poem from our individual voices. So, here are the guidelines:

  • one verse per person only please, of between 3 and 8 lines each
  • the first line must include the phrase ‘the weight of absence’
  • the last word must be ‘absence’
  • the rhyme scheme can be either ababa… aababa or abcabca or a variation
  • use as many or few syllables as you like per line (within reason, obviously)
  • be true to your own voice while listening to other voices
  • post your verse in the comment section, I’ll add it to the main text later…

View original post 67 more words

General

Indices

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

I write of lives in indices,

Scenes sketched within margins

Of halts for breath in sentences,

Of freedom in parenthesis

In our secret garden,

I write of lives in ink;

Hers inscribed in water

In quiet apocalypse

Others would call order,

I write of lives,

Their curve in words

At boundary lines

To disinter,

“I”, write

I, not to please,

But for all interred I’s

I write of lives in indices,

Those only angels heard.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

View original post

General · Personal

Inspiration Porn

This is a zanze I wrote, posted on my old blog. It’s about certain views on disability, chronic illness and women:

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

I’m not your inspiration porn

For you to sensationalize

As your source of motivation

For your more abled-bodied lives,

Not your inspiration

Or measure of your skill,

A Paralympian

Nor life uncured to kill,

I’m not your porn,

Objectified

For you to own

Or criticize,

Not your

Provocation

Your stimulus or spur;

I’m not your inspiration porn.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

View original post

Democracy · General

Unlock

Unlock

This deadlock

Of flailing democracy

Before we’re locked inside

A falling fortress time forgot

Half our number failing to perceive

We are becoming what we are not

A thing our future won’t believe

Warped by horrors of austerity

Fragmented by painful pride

Becoming dark histories

The public outcries

No alibis

For lies

Unmet

Needs

Breed

Crimes

Lines

                           At foodbanks to feed

Lives

                         Identities redefined

     Maligned

                                This is oppression’s seed

                               Partition and hypocrisy

                              Please heed and unlock

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

Democracy · General

Those Who Build Walls; a Rondeau

 

“Those who build walls are their own prisoners.”

So Ursula K. Le Guin would tell us,

When I look at the world I see this truth

Where-ever our sense of freedom is skewed,

When our prejudice becomes our jailer,

 

Ramparts and barriers have hidden us;

We, captive creatures in a crazed circus

Slowly becoming that old spectacle;

Those who build walls,

 

We can, in large part, blame corrupt leaders

But, for their own power, they must heed us,

We’re our own saviours when we’ve got the gall

But we’re often both guards and criminals

Turning ourselves into the invaders;

Those who build walls.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

Culture · Democracy · General

Truths in the Rough

Exit?

Exit what?

Exit our co-creation?

Exit equals mass confusion;

Exit means shut,

Exit Brexit;

Exit

This closing;

This sealing up;

This opening to chauvinism

This echoed forgetfulness,

This separatism,

This

Whispered fascism;

Whispered near borders,

Whispered corners of reason,

Whispered desolation over

Whispered orders,

Whispered

Truths emerge,

Truths are heard,

Truths are complex things,

Truths beyond words;

Truths examine

Truths.

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

Culture · General · Personal

Once

I shared a Britain Europeans could call home

In the four decades my skin was called my own,

One day I’ll tell our Islands’ descendants

I shared a Britain Europeans could call home,

Before the dice of jeopardy was thrown

And all that amity was gone and done

In the four decades my skin was called my own,

I shared a Britain Europeans could call home.

 

Antonia Sara Zenkevitch

 

This is the second Triolet I’ve written in as many days, inspired by a challenge set by a wonderful poet whose diverse work can be seen at https://reowr.com/ . My first triolet was 48 Percent Life, which is perhaps a better poem structurally than my second attempt at this form, but I’m enjoying this particular type of poem.