Jordan Florit’s Assembly Poem


You heard it this morning. Now here it is for you to read.

Hey.
With exams taking up much of January with many of us involved in one way or another, and now the period over, at least for most, for many of us in the upper sixth, a period of decision making about our future is upon us.

With offers in and choices to make, it’s a very potent realisation that soon I won’t live in Southampton and I won’t be in the house I’ve lived in throughout my time at KES. For me the two things that I find most challenging, is getting over not living in a HOME with family, but living in a HOUSE with strangers and the joys of living on a council estate.

Naturally, I wrote a poem.

House and Home & Suburban Jungle – J. Florit

There’s a fine line between
what used to be the house I lived in
and what used to be my home.

The house I lived in served a purpose,
but was unearthed and worthless;
pieces of brick and loam.

What used to be my home
was a more than functional,
store of the untouchable, memory foam.

So how do I decide
which recollection will preside;
when both of my ideas I have are unbeknown.

One protected me when the rain came down,
and the other reflected me when the pain came around.
One let me lock up and disappear
whilst the other let me cock up and caught every tear.

Both let me fall asleep at night,
and woke me at the morning light,
but which account is near?

When I think back
I remember either trips to the haberdashery
or a christmas full of blasphemy
when only ears to young to grasp were safe from all the travesty.

One captured moment of materialistic coherency
or a thousand stories that seem bliss to me.
One has warmth, one has a heater on the blink.
One drowns me in nostalgia where the other has a leaky kitchen sink.

There’s a fine line between the home and house,
a paradox is what amounts,
left with but a path to stride, that path itself the great divide.

But then, outside

A suburban jungle of concrete high rises where nothing surprises
Bare trees resembling carcasses, where youth roam in their disguises
A new language emerges and surges to the forefront of their vocabulary
And animalistic behaviour is the new mentality caged in the constabulary

Most roads become small gulfs and a postcode engulfs their thinking
With territory bringing fights for glory, guns are fired without blinking
Because these kids, are becoming desensitised and misrecognized as men
Cos’ we don’t want to admit the statistics are taking a hold of them

For every tree that falls in the forest another five are planted
But in this suburban jungle the mathematics are slightly slanted
Its more like, for every paper sold another life becomes a figure
In this self fulfilling prophecy of the blade against the trigger

This black and white, this colour spared account accurately depicts it
Where the government failed to do so, cos purely labelling wont fix it
It encourages retaliation to break every rule that’s ever written
And then the kids see it as praise when they earn the title Broken Britain

But it results in empty streets and packed flats of intimidated witnesses
That know they cannot speak a word out of fear of being hitlisted
So instead society becomes the outcast to the endless re-offender
As the wind blows white bags like white flags to signal that we surrender

Written by Jordan Florit, tweeting @JordanFlorit

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