Poem: Permission

An International Women’s Day Poem. Cross-posted from my web-publishing site The Whippersnapper Press.

Permission

This is for the women who don’t ask permission
To be themselves.
This is for the women who are done with working on their contentment
And started working on their lot.

This is for the women whose posture says
“Fuck you, punk. I got this covered.”
This is for the women who’ve come too damn far
To waste time worrying whether you approve.
This is for the women who wear what they want, swear how they want,
Drink and fuck and love and fight and wring every ounce like it’s only their business.
Because it is.
And they’ve realised.

This is for the girl in class who’s done with playing dumb-
Yes, she knows the answer-
Yes no one else has put their hand up for the last ten minutes-
Yes the teacher is looking past her raised hand asking-
“Does anyone know the answer? Anyone… else?”
But she’ll be damned if she’s gonna hide her own light.

This is for the gaybar barmaids who know their regulars inside and out
And wear those memories proud, like diamonds.
This is for the sweet little old lady
With the dirtiest laugh in the nursing home.
This is for my Godmother Sara: terminal, regal, naughty,
And educating her doctors about the munchies.

This is for the liberated women who worked past violence and ridicule
To ensure their daughters never needed to be liberated-
Their daughters were never enslaved.

This is for the tough old birds and the earnest youngsters
Who know that life is too personal, too precious, too Goddamn important
To let the magazines take a slice.

This is for the women who’ve stopped counting calories
And started counting stars.

This is for Dorothy Parker’s forked tongue
Patti Smith’s horses
Boudicca’s chariots
And Rosa Parks’ tired feet.
This is for the women we could be, can be, will be
Just as soon as we stop asking permission
To be.

© Hannah Chutzpah 2013

Poem: Raise You

I generally veer away from letting my poetry get too explicitly political, just because I’ve seen it done really badly, but.. this one escaped. I’ve performed this a few times and it’s always gone down a storm, but I’m not sure about the performance-to-page transition (or, frankly, the punctuation) – all feedback appreciated.

All instances named in this poem are from real life (though they didn’t all happen to me.)

Raise You (2nd Draft)

We say “the owners of this shop have dodged six billion in tax – almost exactly the same amount which is currently being cut from disability benefits and people are dying as a result. These guys should pay their tax. It would actually save lives if these guys paid their tax.”
You say we’re intimidating shoppers.

We say “stop the arms trade! In this building right here, right now, people are making deals to sell arms to corrupt regimes who will use those weapons on civilians.”
You say we’re causing a breach of the peace.

I say “that’s my bike chain. See my bike helmet? See my bike? That’s my sodding bike chain.”
You say I’m carrying a weapon.

But we’ll see your bullshit
And we’ll raise you.

We’ll raise our voices, we’ll raise our fists
We’ll raise teams of legal observers to march in our midsts
We’ll raise awkward questions and what’s more as well
We’ll see your bullshit

We’ll call your bullshit
And we’ll raise hell.

Of course you’ll see this and you’ll raise us
But we knew you would: it doesn’t phase us
It’s a challenge that we’ll gladly take
‘Cause there’s more than your inconvenience at stake:
You only do this ’cause you’re paid by the hour
While it’s justice that calls us to speak truth to power.

And we’ll raise petitions, we’ll raise court cases
We’ll raise placards and tents and occupy your spaces
And more than that we’ll raise our sights
‘Cause you only want us to go away;
We want justice, fairness and human rights.

And you’ll see what we do and again you’ll raise us
And it’s a pain in the arse but it doesn’t phase us
Because of stop and search we won’t carry ID
But our words and our message and our feet will run free
And you’ll use whatever you can to shut us up
- because that’s just what you do -
But we’ll see your bullshit
We’ll call your bullshit,
And believe us: we will raise you.

Dedicated to Commanders Mick Johnson and Bob Broadhurst of the Metropolitan Police.

Double-Barrel

I feel that poetry has a reputation for being a bit stuck up, a bit whiny and middle-class, and I want to break through that prejudice with this deeply personal account of how difficult my life has been growing up with a double-barrelled surname. Read it and weep.
        /sarcasm

        Double-Barrel

       Every time I have to sign my name
       I takes too long, I feel the prickling shame
       That I can never fit within the frame,
              With my double-barrel.

       Because I carry both my parents’ names with me
       It’s large, clumsy, and unwieldy
       Every time someone has to spell it they’ll look up at me–
       And I can see–
              They’re staring down a double-barrel.

       There’s no family seat, lawns or cream teas
       Just this unspellable verbal legacy
       From two young folkies with songs in their hearts,
       Who for their new family, for their new start–
       (They didn’t understand, they weren’t from ‘round these parts)
              They forged a double-barrel.

       Now there’s no escape, no anonymity
       Every time my mother (hi, Mum) Googles me.
       ‘Cause there’s only four people with this clunker the whole wide world,
       And the one mouthing off online is probably her girl;
       The apple of her eye, whose drunken bitching years ago
       Is now preserved on the long-forgotten account with Bebo.
       You really should be more careful, don’tcha know,
               Where you point that double-barrel.

       But I will always carry this one around
       No matter whether love throws me ups or downs
       Because I can’t imagine sinking sans bizarre compound
       Into being just another Hannah.
       And just to compound it all I’ll remain a Ms
       ‘Cause actually my marital status is none of your goddamn biznezz
       It’s just the way I was raised. This is me:
       My fault too now, but I’ll always be:
              Firing from a double-barrel.