A Poem

Over the past few months I've been immersed at the intersection between protest, theatricality, and expressions of (what I termed) margin-culture.

It was an exceptionally interesting time to be considering these correlations, as I observed the academic strikes taking place around the anniversary of the 1968 evenements, and the 'carnival of resistance' which greeted Trump on his visit to Britain. I really want to write more about this, but I used much of what happened in my dissertation, so I'll wait a few months (at least until it's been marked!) to reproduce any of that online.

This quote was the catalyst for much of my dissertation

In the meantime, though...

A Poem
Beneath the cobblestones slept the beach
So we tore the stones to wake the sand

      but the sea, the relentless waves
      just washed the desiccated shells away

That sand, that struggle
Is simply the bones and souls of those who came before us
      who believed
Who broke themselves against the sea
Waves which ebb, but flow, and rise, and wash the sand away

There can be no resistance in the face of this
We, too, will crumble to dust

And they cover the cobblestones with asphalt
So we cannot even dream this dream of the sand.
And we lie, lying, dreaming
Listening to the waves
This noise, this sound, and fury and forever
Mutes the dream of sand

And the beach is buried by the sea
But beneath the waves, now, the sand still sleeps.


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