Racism Pool Poem by David Whittingham

I am the White, the minority, all alone. My life is poor, knocked about, bashed around, hit painfully, by uncaring hands. Beaten with sticks, bleeding blue blood.

So I strike out at others, it doesn’t matter what colour. It’s their fault. If they weren’t there, I wouldn’t need to be hit; over and over by uncaring hands. I could rest. Happy. But those in charge don’t care. Do I want to? What choice do I have?

I am the Yellow. One of the majorities. I huddle with my fellows, pressed against both my friends and enemies in my triangular prison. At last the bars are removed. At last freedom, but what is freedom to us? Eternal competition against the despised Red. The White hits us, abuses us, again and again until none of us are left. Sent into darkest exile, to wait for the games to begin again. How we hate the White, how we fear the Red. But the game must continue. It’s the only thing.

I am the Red, one of the majorities. The only right colour. That is why we fight the Yellow. That is why the White beats us. They’re both jealous. Forced into a triangular prison with the ignoble, cowardly Yellows. Fighting the eternal war, victories and losses competing. But the Red will be triumphant.

I am the Black. The game ends with me. Existence snuffed out when I fall. Waiting for the masters to return.

“Another game, mate? ”
“Oh yeah, just rack them up”