Inspired by an article on Stuff today… I’ve decided to post my poem.
BBC on frosty mornings
If only we’d had Twitter
to combat history’s fictions
multiple sources of fake news
instead of just the BBC
when the fire was lit, the
coal bucket set back on
the hearth, Big Ben crackled
through on short wave
and we believed from
our beds, our father
donning his balaclava
ready to bike to work
we knew that Kennedy
called Khrushchev’s bluff
that annihilation was
averted, we believed
because we were Catholic
that Kennedy was the
good man and Khrushchev
the bad man, it was
of course, all in black
and white and plain
for all to see, coming
as it did from the BBC
Never mind that we lived
at the bottom end of the
earth near the South Pole
possibly safely nuclear free
should someone blink
press the both metaphorical
and real button, Armageddon
loomed rather large
making it seemed, all the
sacrifices of our war heroes
perhaps a little pointless
if this was indeed ‘it’
Now we see all sides of
the binary spectrum
fake news depending
on our political leanings
and thus, it probably
always was, but back then
in our Commonwealth
bubble of post war bliss
we believed the BBC
through the Bakelite radio
on the shelf above the fridge
news was often cataclysmic
I now roam from tweet
to tweet, sipping my coffee
taking a bite or two to eat
digesting all sides of the story
hoping Kim and Donald
are really friends, that
the peace train will
leave the station
shake my head at kids in
cages, but double check
the photo on the front of
TIME, the ensuing by-line
scoff at Trump’s ridiculously
long ties, small hands, awful,
awful hair and this means of
course, that I really do care
cheer and yet also despair
when the Saudi King allows
women to drive but jails
the activists who fought for it
I rage against the dying of
the journalistic light but I’m
more informed than ever …
or so I tell myself
Now and then, I’d like to be
(briefly) safe in my bed, on a
frosty morning, believing still
truth was all, from the BBC
Loved that. So true. Life was simpler when there was only one narrative. Ah, the Bakelite radio on the fridge.
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“Now I roam from tweet to tweet…” Yes. A poem for our times. Here I am roaming from blog to blog
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Great to read a forthright gutsy political poem Maggie
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Thank you, dear Fiona – how lovely of you to stop by and read my poem! X
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