Windrush Squared
Trains, planes, and automobiles.
Transformers and transporters of livestock.
First, they were ships but then they took flight.
So fast and so far, that we barely felt the Windrush.
Decept-icons, those appear as human in disguise.
Or beings of light.
Tungsten lamps that keep us dim and cheapen the rays of Ra.
“Rah”, we’re still traumatised about setting sail,
On calms seas with turbulent masters.
Canny and unruly,
Black, brown, and pale ghosts on white horses.
From the motherland to the British Isles, then back to the motherland again.
We packed our bags, then had them a backed back up again.
Used to be WASPs but now they are snakes,
Continuously shedding their skin.
But this time they weren’t on the plane.
They were sitting in a grand-old house on the shores of the Thames,
The banks of which could barely drown the hiss from Parliament.
Crawled on their bellies ‘til we lifted them up.
And now they wish to caste us out again.
No respecters of men,
Unless you are rich, straight, and English, (except if you are working class).
The Good Disciple
And God said, “It was good”,
But what if it was too good?
With no way to know how,
I would know that I knew I was,
Too good to know?
I’ve been told I’m,
Too ‘hood’ to be good in a suit and a tie,
Too ‘coon’ to be a good n***a,
Too liberal to be a good bigot,
Too bourgeois to be good at being ‘woke’,
Too obscene to be a good man and,
Too worldly to be that good sheep,
To follow that good shepherd.
A devotee of racial slurs,
Sexual sin and apathy.
A vacuum of emotions,
And vacuous prayers.
Living vicariously through,
The good times of another.
Generational Curses
Momma used to say,
“If you can’t hear, you must feel” or was it,
“Hear” before I “feel”,
Or do feel after I fear?
Passed on through generations of,
Great uncles, aunties, grandmothers, and cotton-pickers.
‘Obey’ was the price to pay for love,
Where silence was golden.
Broken by a short, sharp shot.
From the palm to the side of the head,
Like the crack of a whip.
No hard feelings when those jitters become hugs.
For a time until our scars are truly healed.
Reconciliation between our colours,
Like reconciling with all our mothers,
Recognising of all our past and present traumas.
Where our voice is heard,
Our feelings are known,
And our dreams are made real.
A Taste of Discrimination
Perish the thought that I cherish this moment.
Staked on shelves, in glossy packs, sold two for the price of one.
Pre-packaged, preconceived, and pre-destined to fail.
Cut-off as cut offs of offal and gristle,
For cheap consumption and excretion.
This is the method of my oppression.
And here is the recipe:
1. Expose all the flaws in my tone and my grammar, but ignore the substance, and the zest of my words.
2. Whip out my desires and ambitions, whilst exploiting my virtues and merits.
3. Reduce and reject our protests, whilst roasting our voice into silence.
4. Season liberally with the salt of your aggressions, whilst raping us of our possessions.
5. Simmer gently with the heat of your hate, marinating in the ruins of our descendants.
All to endure the foreboding, and repugnant taste.
Of a bigoted and oppressive nation.
The Cookout
Just because I eat chicken wings, doesn’t mean I can fly on the court.
Just because I like jerk doesn’t mean I’m your fool.
Just because I eat ribs doesn’t mean I’m satisfied.
Ribs showing, starving, and craving for a space to placate a set of safe space in between.
“Who”, “what”, “where”, “when” and “how am I”?
Shall I raise a glass to Oshun to answer my prayers?
Or should I drink the blood of White Jesus and get drunk on the spirit?
And sacrifice myself upon the alter of misconceptions, stereotypes and hood culture?
How many libations must I drink before I lose my sobriety?
An aperitif before you pull up,
In a black car, in a black suit to revoke my ‘black card’.
Just because my appetite for knowledge exceeds my appetite for provisions,
And my appetite for eating beats my appetite for women.
I’d rather have some chicken legs than a pair of thick thighs,
And a medium rare steak,
Half-cooked but not half-baked.
Yet you’d rather say I’ve changed,
Or you’ll say that I’m the exception to the rule,
All I’ll say, “Who made the rules that you’ve defined”?
As a mythical, urban unicorn or that ‘token’ coconut brother,
When all I’m saying is that simply done the work.
Integrating a proud culture, with a chequered yet glorious past.
Free-thinking and soul searching,
And accepting all of the pieces of myself.
So, if my position offends you,
Caucasian, black, asian or other,
Then you should probably reevaluate yourself.
As I decline your invitation to the cookout.
The Cost of a (United) Kingdom
Go back to where you came from,
From where your kind were taken.
Whichever country claims you,
A stranger to our nation.
The invasion of a people from a country that was conquered, by nations of these strangers that don’t look or sound like us.
First it was no blacks, no Irish and no dogs. Then if you were brown then you could stick around. But now if you’re brown you are an enemy of the state, screaming “Peace be upon you”.
A people in a country that likes curry with their chips, and special fried rice on Friday nights. And loose-leaf Tea that was ‘gifted’ from the Commonwealth.
Am I supposed to eat my own words? If so, let the ones with the hunger fill their bellies, satisfy themselves, and be devoured by the excess of their conquests.
For no man is an island except if he be set apart, English Channel be damned. Self-imposed exile from his brethren and his cousins, boasting in vain that he never needed them.
He used to worship gods who were carved by the Norse, a messiah who was born in Palestine, and a religion based on Papal liturgies- written in Greek and then translated into Latin.
Guess King James would have something to say, and the Normans would explain that our vocabulary’s changed.
Guess the UK is just the sum of all its races, Great Britain being great because of those who immigrated. Not to take away from those who helped rebuild the country, fight world wars, and build a public health service.
Great Britain, where the White Cliffs meet the Windrush; and where reggae went rocksteady with her lovers rock, made love and settled down in Garden Cities.
A pie and mash-up of West Indian grandmothers who came over as your nurses, West African grandfathers who drove your London Buses, and black and brown uncles who opened up their own businesses – Minding their own business, whilst being persecuted.
Bio:
Nathaniel, also known as @the_philosophers_poet on Instagram, is a poet and former Christian turned mystic. Who writes introspective pieces of work, focussing on the human experience, philosophy, inequality, discrimination, racism, empathy, trauma, spirituality, and existential matters. Through his writing Nathaniel is keen to expand the human conscience and provide a mirror in which we can look at ourselves in a non-judgemental fashion.
