Take a child, 9.
Nurture through 6 school years,
add sprinkling of jobs
1 generous tbsp. of love
one dozen rented homes (sequential)
2 daughters, grandchildren
friends to taste.
Allow to mature for 5 decades or more.
Move into hostile environment.
Discard love, jobs, generosity.
Cut all visible benefits from bone.
Apply as often as required
and leave to simmer.
In case of burned fingers
offer 1 mealy-mouthed apology.
And fail to serve.
© Steve Pottinger
'I feel disgusted': how Windrush scandal shattered two brothers' lives
Steve Pottinger writes and performs poetry whenever and wherever he can. He can be found on twitter at @BigStevePoet
Showing posts with label Steve Pottinger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Steve Pottinger. Show all posts
Tuesday, 24 April 2018
Thursday, 11 December 2014
the ostentatious breast-feeder
Drinking in my local
last dullday afternoon
soft drizzle outside
nothing much happening
usual 21st c. sense of ennui
when the door burst open
and a woman danced in
spinning wheeling pirouetting
across the floor
up on to a table
scattering drinkers before her
eyes flashing devilment and untamed fire
the shimmer of her dress was scarlet,
silver, purple, maybe green -
when we talked about it later
none of us agreed -
and as the trumpets kicked in
with something latin
I paused, mouth open
pint in hand.
Since when had we had a brass section
in the toilets?
What did this mean?
Then I saw the infant at her breast
and I understood
this was what Nigel
had been rambling on about
the old soak.
Ostentatious? By god, he wasn’t joking.
As the music swelled to a crescendo
she sprang onto the bar
stamping her heels the length of it,
one arm held aloft, defiant
head thrown back in a piercing banshee scream
a howling wail that lifted the hair on my neck
and as the child suckled, contented,
and fireworks burst along the line of optics
and confetti cannon spewed
a blizzard of paper
into the room
I was on my feet
with all the others
whooping cheering punching the air
Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! HELL YEAH!!
That night
I dreamed of gurgling babies
fat as Buddhas
and woke smiling.
Steve Pottinger
biog: Steve has gigged the length and breadth of the UK, in pubs and clubs, at poetry nights and festivals. But that doesn't really tell you anything.
Thursday, 17 April 2014
'the knock'
should have been your boy
back from the game
bag of fish and chips
grin as wide as the Mersey
drunk on youth and sunshine
still living every pass shot tackle
as he settles down in front of the box
him and the old man each with a can
to watch it all over on Match Of The Day.
Instead, it was coppers
neighbours, friends, the sad-eyed priest
it was sorry for your loss
it was the space at the table
the silence, the empty room
it was the doctor giving pills to kill the pain
knowing nothing would ever bring him back again
it was your husband fallen in on himself
it was grief you thought would end you.
And it was reporters hunting headlines
papers printing tales they knew were lies
it was official cover-ups and smears
it was the start of twenty-five years
of banging on the gates of justice
demanding the truth, an apology
for what they did to your boy
and the other boys and the girls and the men
it was learning to walk on
knocking on the gates of justice
with the families knocking with you
and the clubs knocking with you
and a city knocking with you
and hope in your broken heart.
Steve loves words, loves people more, and enjoys poetry which makes him smile, or think, or want to man the barricades. When not standing behind a microphone or in front of an audience, he can often be found down the pub. He hopes you enjoy his work. If you do, check out his website. http://stevepottinger.co.u
http://stevepottinger.co.uk twitter: @BigStevePoet
Monday, 10 March 2014
You could have had kids by now
Teenagers,
chips off the old block,
leaving school,
marching out into the world.
Watching their dad getting by
getting on
maybe struggling
to making ends meet
like we all are.
Watching the news on the TV
reading about an inquiry
into the police
spying on an inquiry
into the police
letting young men get
away with murder
because of the colour of their skin.
Watching an old man
who looks like granddad
telling everyone - again -
how he loved you
and how his trust has gone forever.
©Steve Pottinger
Steve loves words, loves people more, and enjoys poetry which makes him smile, or think, or want to man the barricades. When not standing behind a microphone or in front of an audience, he can often be found down the pub. He hopes you enjoy his work. If you do, check out his website. http://stevepottinger.co.uk
twitter: @BigStevePoet
Monday, 7 October 2013
Lampedusa
This is where they come from:
villages eaten up by sand
river beds run dry
lands of red earth stained with blood
where there are mobs, bombs, bullets,
crops that fail.
This is who they are:
the young, the desperate, the brave,
fathers with daughters, motherless sons,
whose sin was to be born poor
worship the wrong body
bow before the wrong god.
This is what they carry:
hope. Crumpled dollars, memories of home,
slips of paper with the number of a phone
for an uncle in Milan, a cousin
swallowed in the cities of the north
who has work, who sends back pittances
and letters rare as desert rain.
This is where they place their fate:
in the hands of men with guns and easy smiles
who speak only the cold esperanto of money
who wait, patient and sure
promises tumbling from the wet caves of their mouths
smooth and soft as water.
This is where they lie:
washed up in their scores
on the shores of Lampedusa
their souls slipping the leash
back to Africa
their dreams and their names
known only to the sea.
© Steve Pottinger
Italy sinking: Bad weather hampers search for migrants
Steve loves words, loves people more, and enjoys poetry which makes him smile, or think, or want to man the barricades. When not standing behind a microphone or in front of an audience, he can often be found down the pub. He hopes you enjoy his work. His twitter is: @oneangrypoet
villages eaten up by sand
river beds run dry
lands of red earth stained with blood
where there are mobs, bombs, bullets,
crops that fail.
This is who they are:
the young, the desperate, the brave,
fathers with daughters, motherless sons,
whose sin was to be born poor
worship the wrong body
bow before the wrong god.
This is what they carry:
hope. Crumpled dollars, memories of home,
slips of paper with the number of a phone
for an uncle in Milan, a cousin
swallowed in the cities of the north
who has work, who sends back pittances
and letters rare as desert rain.
This is where they place their fate:
in the hands of men with guns and easy smiles
who speak only the cold esperanto of money
who wait, patient and sure
promises tumbling from the wet caves of their mouths
smooth and soft as water.
This is where they lie:
washed up in their scores
on the shores of Lampedusa
their souls slipping the leash
back to Africa
their dreams and their names
known only to the sea.
© Steve Pottinger
Italy sinking: Bad weather hampers search for migrants
Steve loves words, loves people more, and enjoys poetry which makes him smile, or think, or want to man the barricades. When not standing behind a microphone or in front of an audience, he can often be found down the pub. He hopes you enjoy his work. His twitter is: @oneangrypoet
Thursday, 8 August 2013
Bongo Bongo bad
When you’ve spilt your red wine and just burnt your dinner
the bills keep turning up fat and your pay’s getting thinner
your boyfriend said he was blonde and it turns out he’s ginger
who’s to blame? The Bongo Bongos.
The neighbourhood sucks and your house is a slum
you were hammering a nail and you battered your thumb
your dad’s had a sex change and now he’s your mum
whose fault is that? The Bongo Bongos.
They’re lazy and selfish (and probably black)
they take what we send and they give nothing back
say they need it for food but they spend it on crack
a pal of a mate of a friend saw them do it once. The Bongo Bongos.
They’re a mythical race who don’t really exist
but they’re someone to shoulder the blame when you’re pissed
and you’re bitter and angry you’ve never been kissed
and it’s simply not fair. Those bloody Bongo Bongos.
But don’t ever think to begin to ask why
the rich get ever richer while the poor can’t get by
could it be something to do with dividing the pie?
Don’t bother your head with that. Blame the Bongo Bongos.
It’s irrational hate that defies explanation.
Aid isn’t the problem, but greed. Exploitation
means food banks for many who live in this nation
but when you’re pointing the finger in despair and frustration
and you think that it offers some consolation
to blame the Bongo Bongos...
you’re wrong, in summation.
© Steve Pottinger
Unrepentant 'bongo bongo land’ Ukip MEP says he'll 'apologise to country's ambassador
Steve Pottinger writes and performs poetry whenever and wherever he can. He has a website at stevepottinger.co.uk and can be found on twitter at @oneangrypoet
the bills keep turning up fat and your pay’s getting thinner
your boyfriend said he was blonde and it turns out he’s ginger
who’s to blame? The Bongo Bongos.
The neighbourhood sucks and your house is a slum
you were hammering a nail and you battered your thumb
your dad’s had a sex change and now he’s your mum
whose fault is that? The Bongo Bongos.
They’re lazy and selfish (and probably black)
they take what we send and they give nothing back
say they need it for food but they spend it on crack
a pal of a mate of a friend saw them do it once. The Bongo Bongos.
They’re a mythical race who don’t really exist
but they’re someone to shoulder the blame when you’re pissed
and you’re bitter and angry you’ve never been kissed
and it’s simply not fair. Those bloody Bongo Bongos.
But don’t ever think to begin to ask why
the rich get ever richer while the poor can’t get by
could it be something to do with dividing the pie?
Don’t bother your head with that. Blame the Bongo Bongos.
It’s irrational hate that defies explanation.
Aid isn’t the problem, but greed. Exploitation
means food banks for many who live in this nation
but when you’re pointing the finger in despair and frustration
and you think that it offers some consolation
to blame the Bongo Bongos...
you’re wrong, in summation.
© Steve Pottinger
Unrepentant 'bongo bongo land’ Ukip MEP says he'll 'apologise to country's ambassador
Steve Pottinger writes and performs poetry whenever and wherever he can. He has a website at stevepottinger.co.uk and can be found on twitter at @oneangrypoet
Thursday, 25 July 2013
369,000
Here is a poem
for the others
who are born on mud floors
marshland and high plain
in homes of plastic and flattened tin
in spat-out estates in lands
whose time has gone
in the mewling sprawling cities
of the south and east and rising world
who tumble down out of shanty towns
looking for work and hope and food
who doss down in shop doorways
on park benches in abandoned cars
who snatch sleep on night buses and on tubes
amid the echo of gunfire
who ride the long trains north in the night
running the gauntlet of gangs, police, La Migra
who slip across borders soft as water
on blistered feet
and take their calloused hands
to the sweatshop, the factory, the scramble
for work at the corner of the street
who live in fear of being
denounced, detained, deported,
who will be trafficked, who will be sold
who will die before they are one year old
who will deal drugs in the barrio, the favela
who will get by, whatever
whose crops will fail
whose names will be known to no-one
but themselves and the hot dry wind
who dream, as we do
who are coming now,
an unstoppable future.
© Steve Pottinger
Royal baby: What does the future hold for the Cambridge prince?
Steve Pottinger writes and performs poetry whenever and wherever he can. He has a website at stevepottinger.co.uk and can be found on twitter at @oneangrypoet
for the others
who are born on mud floors
marshland and high plain
in homes of plastic and flattened tin
in spat-out estates in lands
whose time has gone
in the mewling sprawling cities
of the south and east and rising world
who tumble down out of shanty towns
looking for work and hope and food
who doss down in shop doorways
on park benches in abandoned cars
who snatch sleep on night buses and on tubes
amid the echo of gunfire
who ride the long trains north in the night
running the gauntlet of gangs, police, La Migra
who slip across borders soft as water
on blistered feet
and take their calloused hands
to the sweatshop, the factory, the scramble
for work at the corner of the street
who live in fear of being
denounced, detained, deported,
who will be trafficked, who will be sold
who will die before they are one year old
who will deal drugs in the barrio, the favela
who will get by, whatever
whose crops will fail
whose names will be known to no-one
but themselves and the hot dry wind
who dream, as we do
who are coming now,
an unstoppable future.
© Steve Pottinger
Royal baby: What does the future hold for the Cambridge prince?
Steve Pottinger writes and performs poetry whenever and wherever he can. He has a website at stevepottinger.co.uk and can be found on twitter at @oneangrypoet
Tuesday, 16 July 2013
Lesson
These gated communities
cicadas chirring
calm, empty streets
are not for you.
These fucking punks are all the same
hooded tops, iced tea and Skittles
not a care in the world.
Unarmed. And dangerous.
Dead kids tell no tales
and the suburbs know that
the poor and black and young
are up to no good anyway.
Know your place.
You, and uppity Rosa,
and White House Obama
it’s the back seat of the bus, boy,
in the land of the gun and the free.
© Steve Pottinger. 14 July 2013
Steve Pottinger writes and performs poetry whenever and wherever he can. He has a website at stevepottinger.co.uk and can be found on twitter at @oneangrypoet
Saturday, 18 May 2013
Angelina
Gary
never known for his subtlety
three pints in at The Anchor
half an eye still on the game
orders another lager
swigs
stands tall at the bar
and tells us all
this changes nothing
he wouldn’t kick her out of bed
hilarity
he’s no oil painting himself
never has been never will
shouts of he should be so lucky
in another life in his dreams
burst
of the old anglo-saxon
to put us in our place
and then the surprise
he takes a sip and asks us
imagine
the quacks went at your jewels
with a knife
to save your life
could you would you tell the world?
Gary
never known for his subtlety
three pints in at The Anchor
drinks the silence
nods and tells us
courage
looks and more balls
than all of us together that Lara
and then Gary orders another lager
half an eye still on the game.
© Steve Pottinger
Angelina Jolie has double mastectomy due to cancer gene
Steve Pottinger writes and performs poetry whenever and wherever he can. He has a website at stevepottinger.co.uk and can be found on twitter at @oneangrypoet
never known for his subtlety
three pints in at The Anchor
half an eye still on the game
orders another lager
swigs
stands tall at the bar
and tells us all
this changes nothing
he wouldn’t kick her out of bed
hilarity
he’s no oil painting himself
never has been never will
shouts of he should be so lucky
in another life in his dreams
burst
of the old anglo-saxon
to put us in our place
and then the surprise
he takes a sip and asks us
imagine
the quacks went at your jewels
with a knife
to save your life
could you would you tell the world?
Gary
never known for his subtlety
three pints in at The Anchor
drinks the silence
nods and tells us
courage
looks and more balls
than all of us together that Lara
and then Gary orders another lager
half an eye still on the game.
© Steve Pottinger
Angelina Jolie has double mastectomy due to cancer gene
Steve Pottinger writes and performs poetry whenever and wherever he can. He has a website at stevepottinger.co.uk and can be found on twitter at @oneangrypoet
Saturday, 2 February 2013
The day we elected...
... Wilko Johnson president
the sun shone.
Which was a start.
He walked into Parliament with a heart
full of honest intentions
and a Telecaster in his arms
and we were one nation under a groove
under a riff. A distinctive, choppy, furious,
down-and-dirty-and-your-momma-wouldn’t-like-it riff.
The day we elected Wilko Johnson president
the Commons rocked out in a way
it hadn’t since Pitt the Younger’s solo
on a harpsichord he’d smuggled into the chamber
during the Poor Law debate
stilled the shouting
knocked the discord dead
and became the stuff of legend.
But now we had amplification
and a lot more soul.
The day we elected Wilko Johnson president
we ditched the old national anthem
for the new. Some bloke from Canvey Island saying
Well, shit happens
80 000 people roared along at Wembley
the 5 Live commentator was still chuckling
when San Marino scored their second
England lost 3-1. No-one cared.
The day we elected Wilko Johnson president
the sun shone.
Or it may have rained.
I don’t know, I was drunk for a week
singing our three-word anthem
with friends, strangers, countrymen
watching borders become meaningless
wealth become worthless
his simple words
I don’t wanna be greedy
echoing through my mind
like a Telecaster, riffing on sustain.
© Steve Pottinger
This poem was inspired by Wilko Johnson's comment - on receiving the news he has terminal cancer - that he'd had a good life, and didn't want to be greedy.
http://stevepottinger.co.uk
twitter: @oneangrypoet
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