Strike Against the Miners
Comfortable in their comradeship,
they marched to the pit-head baths,
faces shiny black, teeth gleaming through –
a minstrel show mid-melody.
Their smiles would be evident
in the Miners’ Club later –
some fizzy beer, a bingo game,
talk of blokey things.
No more. The pits are dead,
communities crushed, diffuse.
Secretly, many will rejoice
that she, too, has gone,
she who broke their backs.
How are we to greet the tributes –
oleaginous from friend and foe alike –
glaring from the TV screens?
Do we say good riddance, glad she’s gone?
Or will we sigh and say, “Oh, well,
she did what she believed in”?
Ah, yes. She did that.
© Andrew John
Andrew John has been writing poems on and off since the 1970s. He recently had the “Poem of the Week” on the Poetry Kit blog www.poetrykit.org and provided one here on Poetry24 in March.
Weather Change
Martin Marriott lives a stone's throw from Tottenham Police Station in North London, UK. He is a performance poet and visual artist.
Weather Change
Margaret Thatcher, milk-snatcher
the nice grim reaper at last did catch you
and me and mine all wish you well
in the fiery hell to which you now descend
Margaret Thatcher, global disaster
I smile because I did out-last you
you hated unions, loathed the poor
and supported every wretched war
Margaret Thatcher, vile and mean
porn-star whore of the bourgeois scene
you made the economy really lean
and killed my dad to fulfil your dreams
Margaret Thatcher, no more rhymes
far better fruit for this boy’s mind
I glance outside, it’s no longer snowing
nor cold as hell, which is where you’re going
The sun is out, bright flowers abound
and one evil bitch is underground
and I pray no child conceived today
will ever have to learn your name
Let boss and bureaucrat shed a tear
nature spoke, in the springing of the year.
© Martin Marriott
Martin Marriott lives a stone's throw from Tottenham Police Station in North London, UK. He is a performance poet and visual artist.
