Violence to the Blind & A Poem
http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/may/12/victimised-blind-body-worn-cameras-abused
It was supposed to be the start of a new life, but after moving to Stevenage Old Town in Hertfordshire last November, I found myself a target of haters and abusers in public. I still don't know why.
It began with a group of young lads attempting to guide me in to a lamppost before laughing and running away. Not long afterwards, the situation grew worse, with groups of mainly younger males circling me, swearing, and in one harrowing case, telling me they were filming for YouTube as they urged me to "trip over the curb you blind b@!%#" and "f@$% off back to blind land".Tom Waits sings in his song "God's Away on Business":
There's a leak, there's a leak in the boiler roomThe poor, the lame, the blindWho are the ones that we kept in charge?Killers, thieves, and lawyers!
This is an older poem I wrote about the violence of men.
The Crone
“Crone” is the mythological name for the old woman who has knowledge,
in whose body the blood that once escaped as monthly flow
has turned into shrewdness, culture, wisdom, second sight.
1
The old woman sat tight-lipped
tight-lidded
In prayer.
Warned of Phoenix--
that half-burnt old bird who eats our elders,
slowly, with pills and distance--
She packed a bag of memories
and fled into the woods
never to be seen again.
Until today.
2
I am thirty-three
and my brother, Alex, is thirty.
We are barely teens
in our overgrown shells.
We have never seen wisdom.
3
She wore skins
and had a feather strapped
upon her crown.
My brother nudged me forward
and I thought mystery
would swallow me whole.
I saw a red-winged crow
in the reflection of her
blue eyes.
And like a bullet
my question exploded my brain
breaking ice in my chest.
“AM I A WOLF?”
4
Not the great symbol of all things wild
But a killer in a pack
engorged with the small and weak.
5
An axe blow to the sacred king—
patriarchy—
meant to kill all Power
but only split it a million ways.
6
I taste women and children in my teeth.
Displaced people and whole worlds
when I cough my fathers blood.
Woe to the children of the nineteenth century
Woe to me the grandchild with hindsight and guilt.
7
The crone leaned forward
and from a pouch upon her waist
took three mullberries.
She broke them open
and painted my forehead and cheeks
saying Kyre Eleison over me as she did.
Then with a hammer
she broke out one of my teeth
And told me to plant it in
ground I call my home.
She told me to be faithful
and sent me away.
8
That was twenty years ago,
and my heart recalls Sophia
as my grandchild sings Kyre Eleision
while drawing the circles
of crayon flowers.
9
My tooth never bore fruit,
but the taste of my own blood
taught me what I needed to know.
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