Invisible

“ 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.” 

― Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

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!

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: For 4the children