“ I am invisible,
understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you
see sometimes in a circus sideshow, it is as though I have been surrounded by
mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings,
themselves, or figments of their imagination- indeed, everything and anything
except me.”
INVISIBLE
Invisible they are,
the have-me-not’s
the underclass squashed flat
beneath the piles of what-we-have.
Poverty is hard to find,
almost invisible
unless you care to look for
it.
Look hard behind the eyes
of that dirt smudged child
with half-empty belly and
vacant stare.
Judge easy, fear his
progeny,
another stain of dumbing
down,
the underclass that never
try.
If only you lived inside
his belly,
felt his gnawing hunger,
brain starved of the
ability to learn.
Would you feel for him?
Would you?
Perhaps for a moment
(conscience pricked)
you lay pennies in a
begging hat
of that waste-of-space that apparent
poor.
Is he really poor or merely
a wise
street entrepreneur speculating
on our moments need to put
things right?
You can’t trust the
poor.
Well can you?
Why don’t they get a job
instead
of leeching us who earn each
and every penny?
Hard graft we do to fill
our bellies
with each and every
trinket, consumables.
How long does an iPhone
last
before you need another?
Not long. Not long.
How can we understand
poverty unless
we have lived through it ourselves?
And if we do, how we long
to remain invisible, the
shame of it,
hide in darkened rooms when
bailiffs call,
shudder at our
situation.
Of bread, there is two
slices left
after eking out a single
loaf
for one never-ending week.
How do I feed my children?
Anna :o]
The above was inspired by
Susan’s prompt of Invisibility at Poets United.
Cheers Susan!
The last two stanzas are
accurate to a situation my family found ourselves in many many moons ago. Until I wrote the poem and perhaps of being
now (and for a long time) relatively ‘comfortable,’ I had forgotten about it
and I am ashamed of myself.
I can remember pretending
not to be in when the milkman called for his money each Friday night. I can
remember handing over the last money in my purse to the insurance man as I was
too embarrassed to say I couldn’t afford it.
I can remember borrowing the bus fare for my son to go school from my
next-door neighbour because I couldn’t even scrape that together. I only did this once, so mortified I was. I can remember the fear of the postman
dropping debt letters through the letter box.
I can remember the bailiff calling, him finding there was nothing of
value to take away to solve the debts.
I remember most the two
slices of bread. My hubs and children
had had the last of cereals for their breakfast and I knew there was two slices
of bread left in the breadbin, so looking forward to toast I was. When I pulled them out of the packet, they
were turning green with mould. I had
never felt such helplessness such despair such utter disappointment in my life and haven’t since.
Also shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN. Cheers Grace!
Also shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN. Cheers Grace!
Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
