Lessons in Weariness
LESSONS IN WEARINESS
As I lie on my back
at the edge of Parliament Square,
I stare up at the canopy of
plane tree leaves above me
and the clouds grazing the sky,
and I don’t feel fear or anger
or any of those things
I’ve felt before.
This time I just feel
weary of it all.
Weary that no matter what we do,
those in their ivory towers will
keep ripping up the rule book of
morality and decency and
carelessly tossing it
into the fire.
Weary of the slow marching.
Weary of the knowledge that
our courage could light
every candle that burns
but our bodies are too few.
Weary of the apathy,
the lack of integrity, the
You’re so brave but I could never do that,
the passive-aggressive commentary,
the averted gaze and
swift change of subject.
Weary of the way my country
helps to fuel wars, waving hands
that drip with blood
whilst simultaneously strutting
proud as a peacock to show how
civilised we are,
how democratic,
a beacon for the rest of the world.
Bone weary of the lies.
Of the harm.
There are several officers surrounding me,
urging me to get up and
walk to the van.
You could be injured, you know,
if we try to carry you.
But how do I tell them I’m weary of their complicity
and they’re already hurting me
without laying a finger on me;
that they have a role to play
and this could be a beautiful
opportunity if they’d only mine
their moral courage.
So I just shake my head and
say I’m not moving.
I’m lugged into a van like a
ten kilo sack of potatoes and
later I lie on a thin plastic mattress
beneath a blue blanket for the
third time this year,
blinking up at a sign stamped onto
the ceiling, stating ‘Criminals Beware.’
And the weariness that I am
being locked in a police cell
for wanting to protect my
children threatens to engulf me,
while somewhere in the same city,
the real criminals sit
cloistered with their
canapes and champagne.
Two hours in and I
haul my weariness up
from the mattress to place
my call. And the kindness
of the words from this woman
from back office I’ve never met
and probably never will
floors me, shakes me out
like a tree shedding her leaves.
Thank you for your courage,
she says.
Thank you for what you’re doing.
But I don’t feel brave,
and when I leave the call,
the tears come and I weep
for those in Palestine,
for those whose homes and lives are lost
to flood and wildfire,
for the creatures of the
earth, sky and sea
whose numbers plummet,
for the uncertain terrain
today’s children inherit.
But most of all, I cry
for the surprising, disarming
nature of kindness
and I wonder, how can we
turn this into a revolution?
How can we infiltrate the
draughty corridors of
Whitehall with the
warmth of kindness?
How can we infuse the
bones of those who grow
heavy with the weight of their
own, glowing importance with
tenderness and care?
How can we get them to lie on
their backs in Parliament Square
or any patch of land generous
enough to hold them and gaze
up at each tree, each bird and
each leaf printed like miracles
against the sky as they did when
they were children?
How can we get them to feel,
to know,
to understand,
to truly breathe in
how much we will lose?
The flap opens.
Are you ok? The station officer asks.
Perhaps he can see I’ve been crying.
He brings me a coffee
and asks what I’m writing
in my notebook, if it’s
going to be a best seller.
I’m writing about you, I say.
No, really?
I nod.
But why? he asks.
I pause, hear the steady hum
of the room and wonder about
all the people who have sat
on this narrow blue mattress
before me and how no doubt
kindness has eluded them
again and again.
I’m writing about my sadness,
I finally say.
And I’m writing about kindness.
About you being kind.
And now it’s his turn to be
disarmed, his face
suddenly naked and
confused before he smiles
uncertainly, closes the flap.
I sit on the bed,
watch the light from
outside grow dim, sip black coffee
and think that perhaps this is all
we have left; that we must disarm
the world and all those who seek to stamp
it down with kindness,
that we must pass this
chain of compassion like prayer beads
from one to another,
whispers from the future
that enclose us in their embrace,
that say
I know you are weary.
I know this is hard.
But you cannot see what we are looking at.
So I catch these whispers,
hold my fist tight around them,
and when I am released
from my cell, I fling
these voices to the
darkness and watch as
the night receives them one by one,
lighting up the sky in
a beautiful, blazing rebellion
seeded from weariness,
from tears,
and from the courage of a multitude of
tender, beating hearts.


How to Write the Land

A Life in Orange

Interview with Ruth Jenkins, Spoken Word Poet & Textiles Artist

In Defence of Life and Love

An Interview with Poet Caroline Mellor
