We live in strange times with the advent of the Covid-19 Coronavirus. I have not yet managed to write poetry on this subject. I am still processing my sense of grief and loss, for my own personal situation, those around me, and the global community I am powerless to help.
I was working on a series of poems to highlight the situation of the homeless in my home city, the subject now seems bizarre. I hear that the government has forced councils to house these people now that a pandemic casts its shadow on us. Although this is laudable and necessary, why did we not have the funds to do this before? Why as a society did the problem of homelessness and especially rough sleeping become so intractable and ignorable?
There is such an irony in the last line of this poem, now the streets of my city are so quiet, but I still feel it important to post this. I am sure I will be writing poems about Coranvavirus very soon.
The Angel on The Corner.
She came from nothing,
mud that walked,
a miracle brewed in
the core of stars and wombs.
When did wonder end,
the childish dreams, the spark
of love and life that pushed
her to this point?
Haloed with her blanket,
unassuming and pathetic,
begging for crumbs
from the banquet of life.
When did privilege end
and divide along a lineage
of poverty, stark with hate,
casting her aside?
Who hurt this angel,
scorned and kicked and bruised?
I can’t answer, can’t ignore,
can’t refuse these alms.
And tears can’t refuse this miracle
that came to the rattle of a tin,
starved of life and love
as strangers pass and pass and pass.