WHEN I started performing poetry on stage as Attila the Stockbroker 37 years ago, I took as my manifesto a quote from the legendary radical poet Adrian Mitchell, “Most people ignore most poetry because most poetry ignores most people.”

Mitchell got it spot on. At its best, poetry can lift your spirit, inspire you to action, fill your heart with anger, sadness, empathy and love.

At its worst, sadly, it is a ghastly exercise in pseudo-intellectual word-wanking completely divorced from everyday reality and, so often, that kind of poetry is what has been imposed upon reluctant school students, especially those of my generation, leaving them cold, bored and determined to spend the rest of their lives avoiding poetry like the plague.

Poetry is at its best when it tackles the great subjects of our lives and does so in a way which touches a chord with people who would normally say: “I don’t like poetry, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

Poems for Grenfell Tower published by The Onslaught Press does exactly that. It is a huge, empathetic, raging monument both to the victims and to the sadness, passion and anger and humanity of those left behind, fighting for justice from a council and a government which doesn’t give a shit about people like them. It is one of the best books of poetry I have ever read.

I must declare an interest here — I have a poem included and have been privy to the endless discussion and soul-searching which took place as the project, put together by the indefatigable and totally committed Rip Bulkeley, took shape. Its 60-odd contributors, from all walks of life and of many different nationalities, have approached their oh-so difficult task, one which should of course never have even needed to be contemplated, in a multitude of ways. The result is incredibly powerful.

Almost inevitably, for me at least, it is the voices of those closest to the abomination which strike home the hardest. The Firefighter is by Ricky Nuttall, from Red Watch in Battersea, who fought the fire and must have seen the unspeakable.

“The stairs were too many/My breaths were too few/My body exhausted/Now mentally too/The silence of death/My smoke-stained hair/A hole in my soul/That will never repair...”

Words fail me, Ricky, to describe the heroism of you and your comrades that day and your poem is a stirring tribute.

In The Voices of Grenfell Tower by Alemu Tebeje, the dying screams of friends and neighbours sit there, stark, on the page.

“Marco calling, calling/Zainab calling, calling/Bernard calling, calling.../...we shared this ground/now I bear witness to their disappearance/oh! burning souls have burning voices
let me be their guarantee of truth!”

There's so much more. There's Minimising Disruption by reggae-loving West London-based Scouser Nick Moss, with memories of Ladbroke Grove and of Linton Kwesi Johnson’s New Crass Massakeh poem — another deadly fire, another cover-up. And High Rise by Al McClimens, using the Trainspotting theme.

“Apply online. Get shortlisted. Buy into the lie that the arms-length management organisation you are now local manager for is not a job creation scheme for cowboy builders. Take your first bribe. To reconcile your conscience, buy a seat on the council…”

It is an incredibly powerful book. Please buy it. All proceeds go to the Grenfell Foundation and will be used to help those affected. It costs a tenner. I have already bought a load of copies to sell at gigs and online and you can get one from me at shows or via paypal, price £11.50, including postage from [email protected].

Otherwise please visit publisher Mathew Staunton’s site onslaughtpress.com — thanks for all your help, Mathew — and search Poems for Grenfell Tower.

JUSTICE FOR GRENFELL!