In Defence of Life and Love
IN DEFENCE OF LIFE
AND LOVE. A CONTEMPLATION
WRITTEN IN HAIKU
Morning I leave and
wildflower meadow grounds me:
cornflower, sainfoin.
This is why I go.
I will march for this beauty;
this wildness roots me.
The London-bound train,
my curly-headed daughter
writes in her journal.
She challenged me and
it’s because of her I’m here:
‘We have to do more.’
Tube to NR5:
two kind strangers and their cats
our hosts for the week.
A blue dawn greets us,
slipping groggily, quietly
through London streets till
this is it, we’re here
and birds flutter nervous wings
deep in my belly.
I take a deep breath
and when the lights go green we
walk into the road.
We are an island
of unity, of orange
high-vis vests, banners.
The blast of car horns.
‘Get a job! Fucking tossers!’
I can hear these words
but I also hear
the ‘Thank you for doing this!’
the raised fists, the cheers.
This isn’t easy.
The disruption. The anger.
I’m conflict averse,
a person who will
flinch at the ricochet of
harsh, crossed words. Even
London is too much
for my sensibilities;
the noise, the clamour.
But still, I am here.
I have chosen to be here.
And I’ll keep marching.
A car pushes through
aggressively, engine revved
while another man
tears banners from us
again and again until
he loses steam and
dumps them on the side.
But a man on the pavement
gathers them all up,
steps into the road
and hands them all back to us.
Such a simple act
yet I am so moved
that it takes my breath away;
makes me want to weep.
Day two. Slow marching
I’m handed a megaphone
and words start to pour
out of my mouth like
water tumbling over stones.
My heart hammers hard
but these words, they know
what they want to say, for they’ve
been waiting in me.
The heat is rising,
both temperature and fury
as sun glints off the
yellow police coats.
They stand in a line, arms crossed:
intimidation.
Then they swarm like wasps
among us, threatening arrest,
telling us to move,
that we can’t be here,
that we’re causing disruption.
Who wants to disrupt?
We all have lives. Jobs.
Families. People we love.
But that’s why we’re here,
to protect all this:
to protect all we hold dear
while our government
is betraying us
and future generations
and keeps increasing
Met Police powers
so we can be hoovered up
like dirt, arrested.
But what they don’t know
is that the more we’re repressed,
the more we will grow,
spreading beautiful,
strong mycorrhizal networks
rooted underground
that cannot be stopped,
that cannot just be ignored:
People have power.
Day three. My daughter
turns seventeen and my pride
in her scales mountains
as her courage grows.
She offers people leaflets,
asks ‘Want to know more?’
Today is scary.
We spread across a 3-lane
exhaust-filled A road.
The shouting, swearing,
snatching, hand-on-the-horn rage
seeps into my bones.
It may not seem so
but my heart goes out to them.
They are trapped, like us.
All of them duped by
corporate greed, wealth-lust.
But on a dead planet
there will be no wealth.
No hospital appointments,
No jobs to get to.
And my soul cracks like
drought-parched land when I think of
all that we will lose.
If my own children
one day have kids of their own
(which I sometimes hope
they will opt out of)
and they ask ‘What did you do?
How did you act, Nan,
when you were aware
of how bad it really was?’
I will put my hand
on my heart and say,
I tried. I did what I could.
I stepped into a
busy road and stopped
as I sent out silent prayers
that those in their cars,
once their anger dulled,
thought Why are these people here?
Will this affect me?
After we have marched,
the police trail us on the
tube, in parks, down streets.
That night, I lie down,
think Can I keep doing this?
I am tired, so tired.
Day four. We block the
Hangar Lane Gyratory,
at one stage spanning
eight lanes, hands clasped,
arms stretched as taut as iron.
It’s terrifying.
We walk for some time,
far longer than I had thought
possible given
that we are bringing
a main London thoroughfare
to such a standstill.
Constable Farooq
asks me to leave the road now;
asks me three times more
then tells me I am
under arrest for causing
wilful disruption,
breaching Section 12.
It’s the first time that I’ve felt
cold steel that closes
firm around my wrists.
Farooq says he’s sorry, that
he understands our
motives and I find
I’m surprised how kind he is.
I tell him about
my three kids and my
dreams and fears I have for them.
And he talks about
his five-month-old son
and he smiles, thinking of him.
There are eight of us
in two police vans.
I am wedged beside a girl
of just nineteen years,
all big eyes and grins,
her third arrest in a year.
All of these people
were unknown to me
just a few short days ago,
but this is a strange
and intimate time,
and the love I feel for them
catches in my throat.
While we are waiting,
the Chief Inspector tells us
that he knows Norfolk;
that he’s recently
cycled around its flat lands
and he also says –
word for word, I swear –
‘Keep doing what you’re doing.’
Not what I expect.
For people realise
that we have a huge problem
that will not vanish
but they do not know
what can be done about it.
And I understand,
it’s painful even
to travel to these places,
let alone stay there.
And yes, it’s true that
we must consume less, think more
about our lifestyles.
But at the same time,
the main problem isn’t us,
ordinary folk.
No. It’s Big Oil
and corrupt politicians
in bed together.
We must call them out.
We must not keep sleepwalking
and staying silent.
Once we have arrived,
I’m searched and fingerprinted,
questioned and then I’m
put into a cell
with a striplight, no window
and a small toilet.
I am given a
trashy thriller which I read
and I eat baked beans
with a paper fork
(no metal ones for safety)
and make my one call.
I keep asking if
I can have paper and pen
but I’m told the Sarge
says no (pens are not
allowed, also for safety).
But I don’t give up.
Metal hatch opens
and I feel like kissing this
simple memo pad.
In between star jumps,
eating beans and my thriller,
I count syllables,
think of my daughter
and my seven friends, all in
identical cells.
Eleven hours pass
and outside we’re greeted with
food, hugs, compassion.
It’s late. I am tired.
This definitely is not
my average Thursday.
Day five. We’re spat at,
told to get a job, losers,
tossers, wankers, cunts.
But the thing is that
this barely registers now,
but the support does.
I focus on that
as we all want the same thing:
food, safety, healthcare,
a chance for our kids
to thrive. Frankly? To survive.
We’re more similar
than you think, you who
spits at me out of the bus
and screams in my face.
It’s hard, this last march
and I am so exhausted
and pretty much walk
asleep on my feet,
my nervous system rattling
like a box of nails.
But we’re united.
We’ve all come with our stories
and we all feel it:
this old, deep wisdom
that courage is contagious
and what we do now
matters. It matters,
each fraction of a degree
and every life saved.
In the park after,
we share tales and tears and hopes
as the sun beats down.
Yes, I still have hope,
for hope is not a feeling,
hope is an action.
Hope is stepping in
to a road, stopping traffic
and walking proudly.
Hope is linking arms,
clasping hands, holding banners
and fixing our eyes
on the horizon
as we grow roots in the road,
scattering seeds of
courage as we go.
I will not apologise
for my defence of
life, for we must choose
to allow love to save us.
As we keep walking,
I look up at the
London rooftops, the June sky.
And I release a
flock of birds from my
soul and watch as they soar high
up above the city
and the slow marchers
as their wings beat in time to
my bruised, hopeful heart.
I am at the far end in blue trousers and cap. This was the morning of my arrest.
Thank you for reading this blog post. Please click here to find out more about Just Stop Oil and how you can get involved. You don’t have to slow march, there are so many ways you can help.
Thank you so much for the haiku. It is so beautiful and moving. And thank you for slow marching, Barbara
Hi Barbara, thank you so much for reading my poem and for taking the time to comment, it is so appreciated. Best wishes to you, Rebecca
A fantastic poem, adventure and mission Bex
Hey Bex, thanks so much for reading this 💚 It means a lot. Would love to speak soon, it’s been a long old time. Much love Xxxx
Hey Bex, Bernie here from day one of last week (dark brown hair). I will be using your poem as the basis for a workshop here in Turkey today. I’m running climate action workshops and I know you won’t mind. I’ll feed back to you. Huge love to you xxxx
Hi Bernie, yes I remember you and actually was thinking about you today funnily enough as was reading one of Audre Lorde’s quotes 🙂 I am so honoured to hear that. Thank you. Would love to know how it goes and see you in Norwich I hope Xx
It went very well. The theme for this workshop was Poems for Courage, Love and Action. They all wrote Haikus and my colleague is collating them and I’ll send them to you. Much love xxx
Ooooh yes PLEASE do, I would love to see them 💚 You can use the contact form on my website to send them over X
I take my hat off to you for your courage, honesty and poetry. Thank you and may many more follow in your slow footsteps until Big Oil is vanquished by the small people.
Thank you so much Stephanie for reading this 💚 I too hope that this will be the case
A beautiful and moving poem. What you and your daughter did was courageous and humbling. Thank you for sharing your experience in such a touching way.
Thanks so much David for reading this poem and for taking the time to comment on it, that means a lot. It was an intense week for both of us! But so worth it. Best wishes
This has helped me hope and courage return. Thank you
Hi Leiza, thank you for telling me that 💚 – it makes me so, so happy to hear that.
Thanks for the poem. XR Bournemouth loved it. 😍
Ah that is so good to hear ❤️ Thank you for reading it and sharing it with XR Bournemouth X
A beautiful and powerful piece, Rebecca. Well done ♡
Thank you Caroline. Love to you Xx
This expresses so well my feelings and hopes and fears and commitment, and I am sure of many others. I will be on the roads taking your place next week with others from the North. Your words give me extra determination and calm. Thank you. And thank you to your daughter too.
Thank you so much for reading my poem and for reaching out Ludi. We are all in this together, and all power to you on the roads next week 💚
Childminding a toddler sleepyhead in his pram
Reading this propells me into awareness of our
All permeating tragedy
Remembering cheerful Catherine
Chatting in the hallowed halls of the Royal Courts
“I can’t be bothered to get gloomy”