by Ella D. Gajic
I wonder why I see a girl half my years being torn away from life:
wounds open, arms twisted, body intoxicated.
She was only ever exposed to strife.
Playing with a rattle when the first bomb dropped,
her fingers clung tightly to the panels of her cot;
cries left her mouth, always muffled.
A couple of weeks on, no longer was she so shocked.
Now, I watch as tear drops fall on her eye lashes,
her brows smouldered from the blaze.
I sit on my suede sofa, sip a tea, watch flat screen tv
and feel so separated, so agitated and deflated.
Because I am told:
money for our health is dried out,
our education, dried out.
Homes for our poor, dry, dry, dry.
But when ammunitions are involved, money starts falling from the sky?
We look up, and see clean cushions for clouds,
we are told to worry about that ‘slight chance of rain’.
Never have we known how it feels to see clouds that spell blood;
clouds laced with terror, destruction and pain.
Clouds so ridden with filth that you can’t even remember how the sun
Apparently there’s no safer way to protect our english days
than to drop bombs on those who pray to be saved.
Send to their clouds our weapons fuelled with hate
to fight their weapons fuelled with hate,
that if you trace back, we only helped to create
and sold for profit, so that our ‘great’ nation can piss it all away
on bankers’ bonuses and increasing MPs’ pay,
on the oil that keeps these terror clocks turning.
But at least the books are balancing up, hey!
At least the clouds are clean for just one more day,
before they suck up all the hate and turn grey as ash,
and we are all one, stuck in a man made tray.
Soon the clouds won’t be able to carry our weight
and the rain will return again.
But this time, not British summer time drizzle, park picnic rain,
not soggy trainer, dry your hair off rain.
Not even hail, thunder, lightning rain.
Once we thought the Gods were punishing us
now we’re clever enough to do it ourselves.
If I know one thing for sure: I will not spill blood
to fuel your hate, just to dance in your rain.
Because we will kill the sun
if all we create is pain.
Ella is a spoken word poet, theatre maker and actor from Brighton. Last year, she won an award from The Pebble Trust Talent Grant to put on her one-woman spoken word show ‘Did I Choose These Shoes?’ at the Brighton Fringe. This had a sold out house and went on to be performed in London. During this time, Ella self-published her debut poetry pamphlet titled ‘Girl’. She is a winner of Brighton’s Hammer and Tongue poetry slam and is part of a collective called Poets vs MCs, who she performed with at the Edinburgh Fringe and Together The People Festival. Last year, Ella was one of New Writing South’s Theatre Royal young writers and was later awarded their ‘Finish Lines’ bursary. She writes and performs spoken word with a band named The Electric Youth Ensemble and is currently studying scriptwriting and performance at University of East Anglia.
Through the characters and concepts she tackles, her writing expresses political and social messages which reflect the lives and struggles of real people growing up today.