There are plenty of things in this poem I am still pleased with but none the less it is now history. I guess you have to strike while the pen is still hot. What I am trying to do with poems like "The Eve of the Summit of Nations" is put down how I feel that makes the point but is written is such a way that there are language features that repay further readings that are not necessarily to do with the main point of the poem. I like the imagery amongst others in the section about the food bank where strong women are described as having the roaring pride of lions, and of course, later in the poem they swallow their pride that takes the form of food from the food bank.
The only way in which poetry like this can survive beyond a brief time is for it to have aspects of something that could be described as universal. Those of us who campaign against Global Warming talk about starting 'global' and going 'local'. In a sense poems like this- perhaps indeed all poems - so that we can relate to them, work the other way round, start local and go global. Ultimately the real test is the "message" of a poem like this, if the reader can relate to it and interact with it. I don’t think that I have to spell out what the message of this poem is. You only have to walk the streets of any city, or look around as you leave the supermarket. The question is "Why?" and maybe that’s a silly question.
The Eve of the Summit of Nations
(After Shakespeare’s Henry V, Act 1V Scene 1)
In the Grand Hotel, on the eve of the summit of nations
before our leaders slide into the luxury of sleep,
after fine wine and a seven course meal,
they are roused by the moon, borrow the garb of lesser folk,
don drab disguise and wander the city to listen
to the voices that linger in the midnight streets.
It smells like piss and tastes like piss.
Don’t be fooled by the Costa coffee cup. It is piss.
And if the cup overflows they’ll piss on you.
We are stubbed out in the streets like fag ends.
We huddle to keep warm in cardboard duvets.
We lie on the pavement one step away from the gutter,
the unemployed, the mentally ill, army veterans, self-abusers and more.
There are thousands of us in each and every county.
We are the dregs of society and if our leaders were here,
we would tell them. We would say,
“How can you sleep at night when you know we are homeless?”
At the food bank we queue in silence.
Don’t be fooled by our blank faces. Inside we are seething.
At the counter we trade our dignity for bread.
We have angry tongues that burn with scorn.
We have the roaring pride of lions.
We have worked while others have got rich at our expense.
The zero hours contract workers, the below the living waged and more.
There are thousands of us in each and every county.
We have swallowed our pride and if our leaders were here,
we would tell them. We would say,
“How can you sleep at night when you know we are hungry?”
Back in the Grand Hotel the leaders mumble vague promises,
drink whiskey nightcaps, pray and retire to bed.
When morning comes they eat a full and hearty breakfast.
Then cloaked in power and the great ermine robes of state,
our strong and stable leaders attend the summit of nations
to sing the praises of our country and the unity of our people.
But the homeless and the hungry have no desire to sing.
Thanks for reading, Bill Allison Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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