Nightlife
When there's too much to say
Image: Zivah Avraham
On the one a.m. night bus rain droplets on glass streets fussing and jumping eyeballing the asses the unashamed flash of the girls on a night out who tease the pissed street lout mocking the raiment of his best pavement suit chucking him some coins (two quid at best) showing him the loot “Get some rest, love!” they sing-song and stagger running loose London drawl with kaleidoscope swagger he gives them the finger, stands ramrod erect proud as a peacock at the life that he’s chosen the world is his plaything though he’s mostly frozen by winter winds howling the alleys and nooks he lives out his life, reading his books turning those pages, filling his head they don’t feed his stomach but they make okay padding for his desultory bed cobbled from pallets and last night’s Evening Standard his petty cash hidden, dignity stranded on his island of empathy in the busy city streets they don’t know him from Adam these people he meets on his days and his nights watching people pass by him he’s seen worse, and done more than they’ll know, dead or dying HM Forces took him far away lower than Hades, darker than Hell a street life, a meek life, with the odd burst of shouting surpasses a squaddie sticking the knife in the guts of someone he’s not sure he’d be hating if he were propped up at the bar with the girls and the guys he fell for the shilling and deliberate lies of the government he died for, a thousand times in his mind the top brass that dropped him as soon as he told of the shit that went down in a town far away of the people he protected who turned tail to state that deniability was plausible and the ops were deep black no pension for you, we’ve not got your back you got no more than deserved Justice is s(w)erved On the one a.m. night bus streets fussing he’s jumping off the bridge down to nowhere it’s better that way when there’s too much to say
My wife is ex-military, and I know (from watching her struggle and often being unable to help her in any meaningful way) that adjusting to civilian life is unimaginably difficult. Those of us who didn’t serve in the armed forces can’t truly appreciate the challenges ‘normality’ throws at veterans.
This poem is a concoction of my imagination. However, it is informed by this experience with my partner, devastating news stories of ex-military personnel who have taken their own lives and encounters I’ve had over the years with homeless people, many of whom are, you guessed it, ex-military.
Not enough is done to support them once they leave — this has always been the case since the armed forces in the UK became organs of the state. There are charities, but they shouldn’t be left to support people who have served their country. Our governments should be shouldering the burden.
If you enjoyed this, you can buy me a coffee - fair warning, I’ll buy books! Or notebooks. Or stationery.
And.. Or… you can do this!
This is so important. Thank you, Zivah. I felt every note you hit here was pitch perfect.
Have you heard of Dr. Jonathan Shay? He worked with veterans, particularly from the Vietnam War, who suffered moral injury. His books Odysseus in America and Achilles in Vietnam are profoundly moving. I give them ny highest recommendation.
He discusses how soldiers are expected to simply return and reintegrate themselves, and how this does not work for so many.
Amazing writing, Zivah. I was really moved by this piece--and will go in for a second read. Deep sensitivity, awareness, and pain from your pen. I appreciated the focus on this topic. Such a nightmare.