Culture Matters is proud to commemorate Black History Month 2023 and mark National Poetry Day with the first of four new poems by the award-winning writer Jenny Mitchell, under the heading British History is Black. This work examines the legacies of British transatlantic enslavement, looking at the impact on shared identities, ambition, personal safety and home.

Why four poems? Because Black History Month can often seem like a tick box exercise, and Culture Matters is committed to publishing work all year round that aims to challenge outmoded notions of ‘race’ and equity.

These poems have been written to stimulate new thoughts and lead to new questions. Culture Matters will post one poem a week during October; feedback from readers is welcome on Twitter/X at #Culturematters and on Facebook at Culturematters2019.

Great British Voice

by Jenny Mitchell

When mother sails to England – 1958 –
chin higher than a ship’s carved figurehead –
she’s followed by a huddled mob, white

faces coming close as if a dozen moons have
dropped, fists clenched, breath thick with beer,
each spit-stained curse shadowing the hospital

where she works at night, sun rising like a coin,
earning measly pay to be sent home, as she called
Jamaica then – aging mouths to feed. The mob

tears at her clothes, grabbing for the pay, coins
spinning on the road, but she stands her ground.
I is a British citizen. Me passport have a stamp.

You want to see me cry eye water? Never.
Not for you. Me farder fight in World War One.
Two bruder fight in World War Two. What medals

do you have? Men kick her to the ground, shout
above her screams, Listen to the monkey grunt!
They cough up phlegm, shower her with thick

contempt, running as she stands, limping to the
small bedsit shared with all those mice, crying
as she bathes the wounds, thinking it’s her voice

that has to change as skin cannot be white.
She puts Jamaica in a box, accent jailed for life,
no more haitches dropped. Adding them

to oranges doesn’t really help, still a victim
of attack walking down the streets, even when
she cries for help, using her Queen’s English.

Ward 72, Room 21

by Jim Aitken

Through the large hospital window
there are mountains of grey cloud
which resemble the state of my lungs.

Though happy enough to be in here
considering the condition I am in,
I decide to make the best of it.

And engage with the multicultural staff
given the task of aiding my recovery
and sending me back home again.

Nurse Agatha from Nigeria came in
to infuse my arm with antibiotics
and we spoke of Chinua Achebe.

Teresa from Porto came in with tea
and biscuits and we spoke about
Pessoa, Saramago and Paula Rego,

There were Irish and Asian doctors,
cleaners from Poland and China
and plenty of Scots all caring for me.

It seemed the workers of the world
were coming together in my name
and this was an infusion of pride.

But they were understaffed and tired
and carried on regardless of demands
filling me with a deep admiration

That was tinged with anger at those
deliberately cutting back public services
and raising racist calls to Stop the Boats.

Take those not born here out of the NHS
and it collapses like a castle of cards
as it would surely deserve to do.

Being here confirmed all I have held true –
that we are all one, that united we stand
and divided we will all definitely fall.