Poetry Blogs (Margaret Thatcher)

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The day you died all I felt was disappointment

I cursed the day that you were born.

I waited, breath baited, for your last to be drawn.

 

I’d always imagined that when the day came.

I’d celebrate your demise with the finest champagne.

 

That on the day you laid down and died.

There’d be joy in my heart and a spring in my stride.

 

I’d throw my hands high in the air and wave.

I’d skip through the streets to dance o...

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deathIron LadyMargaret Thatcher

Not so Bohemian now

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In the 1980s there was anger in the air

Thatcher’s children breathing fire with bile-fuelled despair

And thick, treacly green gel bound my spiky hair

The Mary Chain’s screeches echoed in my ears

Morrissey’s tortured words fuelled my every angst and fear

A bedroom rebel hiding from the day-glo Tory cheers

Oh how I felt so Bohemian then

 

Wham’s false jollity was d...

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BohemianEcho and the BunnymenFairytale of New YorkGeorge MichaelGlastonburyIggy PopJohn LydonJohn PeelMargaret ThatcherMark E SmithMorrisseyPete ShelleySex PistolsShakin; StevensshamenThe FallThe Jesus and Mary ChainThe Smiths

We have become a dead grandmother

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We are a dead steelworks

We are a dead pit

We are a dead community

We have become a dead grandmother

 

We are a dead altruism

We are a dead society

We are a morally-dead nation

We have become a dead grandmother

 

We are a friend to Suharto

We are a friend to Pinochet

We are a friend to apartheid

We have become a dead grandmother

 

The ...

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Margaret Thatcher

Margaret Thatcher: how I missed my moment

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My first and only, indirect encounter with Margaret Thatcher was in 1971, at a demo outside a private girls’ school in Leamington. The “milk snatcher, union basher” – the then-education secretary had introduced some legislation about student unions, but I can’t remember the significance of it now -  was handing out the prizes at speech day. Protesters gathered outside the school gates. I was ne...

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Margaret Thatcher

You can't Streep poverty under the carpet... - NaPoWriMo Day 9

A silence fell upon the city,

contorted shadows twisting moonlight.

Stuttering in a speakeasy seemed so misplaced

bottles rattled flickering like Fedora feathers

in an unforgiving wind.

 

The wretched odour of deprivation

a stench that sticks and degrades ones existence.

Even by day this city remains a lifeless sap

and by night the vampires feast on thei...

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1930s1980s2013AmericaBankstersbattleBritaincelebrationclassClass WarcohesioncooperationdivisionexploitationFilmFilm NoirGlobalhateHumanityinequalityMaggie ThatcherMargaret ThatcherMobstersNaPoWriMoNoirpoliticiansPoliticspovertyProhibitionstruggleThatcheruniversalvictoryWar

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