Cupid of the Underworld

And now for something completely different. This is a poem from the vaults: a poem about the redemptive power of suffering, with an anti-war counterpoint. Then again, maybe it's just about a rather fetching lady with a bow and arrow. Whichever you prefer:

Redeemer - my killer, my victim - pale Archeress

Cupid of the Underworld

Draw taut the silken sinews of your hand.

Could drops of pity foil perfection's aim?

Your bow smiles to see its prey unmanned -

an arrow flies - the killer bears no blame.

Somewhere in a desert stands a man,

about to move his finger. Blood tastes the same

in every clime - from London to Afghanistan -

a bullet flies - the killer bears no blame.

Like Zeno's arrow spinning in eternal flight,

my mind retraces time to whence it came:

You live in darkness, hunt by moonlit night

and guiltlessly you smile but bear the blame

for every cruel cut this world endures,

for which injustice there is one redress:

the poisoned barb that breaks my skin is yours;

redeemer - my killer, my victim - pale Archeress.

Anarchy in the USA

Even the mainstream media is now aware that there is something approaching an uprising going on in New York and other US cities right now. At least, if it were happening in an Arab country, our media would certainly be calling it an uprising, albeit a fairly peaceful one, if we overlook the copious violence coming from the police, as is usually the case, regardless of where in the world you are. I'm not going to offer any detailed analysis of this phenomenon. Instead, I leave you with a poem, the first version of which was written on the inauguration of President Obama in 2008. The basic message is in tune with those protesters occupying Wall Street today; that power must belong again to the people and that no leader can ever be trusted to deliver the people's will:

Occupy Wall Street

Anarchy in the USA

I woke up to a dream of hope:
the silent hordes who’d been asleep,
possessed for one ecstatic moment
of love before that love is spent.
For now, instead of begging bowls,
they raise their cups and think of schools,
clean water, liberty and rice,
in place of war and pestilence.
Who is the man who’d be a god,
and slake our thirst for more than blood?
But we have gorged ourselves on gods
and soaked our claws in sunny words,
and now we’re sick, too sick to swallow
the honeycomb promises of kings who borrow
magic from the myriad-headed hydra
(serpent slayer of the ancient Maya).

While Fear and Faith stand by the throne,
the world still wears a golden chain –
now will some god-king give the command
to throw all idols to the ground?
No. Hail the one, who would be chief –
he is you, and me, and a turning leaf.

Colours: A Poem

British newspapers have themselves been in the news spotlight of late, much to their discomfort, as allegations of phone hacking, bribery and possibly even perverting the course of justice, have forced the closure of the News of the World and look likely to bring down the whole News Corporation empire. This update isn’t about that case. Instead I want to make some related points, which are true about the mainstream media in general – and war in particular – that will remain true long after the Murdoch empire has crumbled to dust.

The media has a primary role to play in maintaining public support for overseas wars, as well as internal repression at home, all justified in the name of the War on Terror. They appeal to patriotism and the cult of blind sacrifice. Every now and then, this backfires, as the reality of war comes home, wrapped in a flag, wrapped in the colours: wrapped in a newspaper. One of those newspapers was caught hacking into the mobile phones of the relatives of dead soldiers, which should be enough to show that the corporate media cares for nothing except money. 

Photo: AP

Despite that, I found this Daily Mail report of a young widow’s grief particularly sad and moving.
I cannot read it or look at the picture of Mrs Kirkpatrick, dressed unusually in pink, placing a rose upon the hearse bearing the body of her husband, without crying. These images have haunted me for over a year. The pink dress seems like a defiant expression of love in a world governed – literally – by hate. I had to write a poem about it, in Sapphic stanzas; the form associated with Sappho, one of the very first love poets. Why? How else does one defeat war, but with love? How to stand out against black, but with pink? It’s all about the colours …


Colours

Wearing pink, she places a rose upon the
coffin of her former defender; so the
lines would claim. He died not for nothing, words cry,
draped in the colours.

Red and white and blue are the colours; shrouding
dead and dying soldiers of Empire, shrouding
too the things of love, which were broken, long lost
covenants buried:

Sacrificed and sold for a well of black gold.
Keep the wheels in motion and don’t ask why, or
who or where your enemies really are – just
follow the colours.

---

By coincidence, the Daily Mail story is dated on the anniversary of the 7/7 bombings in London, which claimed 56 lives and which was used by the Blair government to shore up support for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan which have in their turn destroyed many thousands of lives and continue to claim victims today: mostly innocent civilians including many children. US troops are finally due to begin withdrawal from Afghanistan this month. I would like someone to explain to me exactly why it was all worthwhile and why all those people had to die. Mrs Kirkpatrick is also owed an explanation.

Note on form: Sapphic stanzas were originally written in patterns of long and short syllables in ancient Greek. The English Sapphic form translates this pattern into a regular metre based on stress. The predominant foot is the trochee, although each line incorporates a dactyl. The effect in English is to induce a sombre and solemn mood, reminiscent of a funeral cortège, but injected with a note of urgency thanks to those dactyls.

The War is (Not Really) Over

This post is about pessimism; the pessimism which descends upon most of us at one time or another, when we consider the ignorance and sheer stupidity which engulfs this piss-stain of a planet. I'm talking about those times when you're watching a news report about civil war in Libya, where we see Western bombs destroying tanks and guns supplied by Western companies to a 'brutal dictator' who was our 'ally' last month, then it cuts to a report of Saudi troops 'bringing order' to Bahrain, riding in on British-built APCs. Then maybe there's a report about record bonuses for top bankers at Goldman Sachs; a bank found guilty of fraud by the SEC, but whose chief economist has been appointed to the Bank of England's monetary policy committee, which decides UK interest rates. This story is juxtaposed with tales of cuts to incapacity benefit and housing benefit for people who never caused a single recession, ever. That sort of thing.

Then, just to cap it all, the ad break comes, but there's no relief, because all you get is the grinning face of a leathery old rock star who used to be your hero but whose balls are now firmly in the grip of The Man, as he's reduced to advertising car insurance. What do you do at that point? When you just don't feel able to fight the power any more? Because if humanity were worth saving, it wouldn't need your help. I'll tell you: you get drunk and write a bitter poem about it. Then you get a grip again:

The War is Over

Don’t try to tell me it would be more fun
to rock and rail and scream a rebel yell –
the war is over, and the bastards won.

It’s not the Devil or Attila the Hun
who wants to know you’ve got a soul to sell.
Don’t try to tell me it would be more fun.

I saw it on TV, read it in the bastard Sun;
now Iggy’s selling insurance. Fuckin’ ‘ell,
the war is over, and the bastards won.

To shoot the world with my high-calibre love gun,
or sit and swivel on a high-explosive shell?
Don’t try to tell me it would be more fun.

My brain’s in the laundry basket – better run
before they invent the pills to make me well.
The war is over, and the bastards won.

I’ll be a monk, and you can be a nun,
when they take me to my padded cell.
Don’t try to tell me it would be more fun,
the war is over, and the bastards won.

***

Notes: Sharp-eyed poetry nerds will recognise this as being a villanelle; a surprisingly versatile form, particularly good for ranting and raving with.

Postcard from Nassau

Sorry it's been a while since my last article and I feel it's time for a poem. I wrote this one a little while ago, as I was mulling over the detritus of the recent global financial crisis and also wondering how it related to the other events of the past decade. I tried to write something which succinctly illustrated how the threads of various themes have intertwined to create a coherent tapestry of the years from 2001 to the present day. I think I almost succeeded! This is about as close as I ever get to writing free verse, by the way:

Postcard from Nassau

Here am I 

hanging dollar bills out
in the sun to dry.
George and Tony send their love.
George says “Stop! It’s hammock time.”
“That guy kills me”, says Osama,
laughing like an AK47.
He’s playing Risk with Tony, who just smiles:
“How many virgins do you get in heaven?” 

We all love Osama –
more than virgins, more than beer,
more than liberals love Barack Obama.
If there’s a bond more powerful than love,
it’s fear.

Give my love to Lehman Brothers,
AIG and Goldman Sachs.
Praise be to Dick, and Paul - and Dick.
God bless Rupert and his hacks.
My golden parachute opened like an orchid,
petals stitched by tiny hands
chained in darkness in Shenzhen.
I can even hear the silkworms singing
“Here we go round the mulberry tree”,
in happy voices, thinking they are free.

They all love Osama –
more than virgins, more than beer,
more than buddhists love the Dalai Lama.
If there’s a bond more powerful than love,
it’s fear.

***

Notes: Nassau is the capital of the Bahamas, which is a tax haven, as well as being a tropical holiday isle. It also used to be a major centre for money laundering, drug running, gun running and tax evasion, until the Cayman Islands overtook it in the more dubious respects. Shenzhen is a free economic zone in Southern China, famous for its sweatshops, corruption and lack of workers' rights. I doubt silkworms stop to think much on the nature of freedom and their relationship to it, but I hope that the rest of us do. Dick and Paul and Dick are Cheney, Wolfowitz and Perle. Oh, and Tony Blair is mainly famous for smiling ... and starting wars ... never play Risk with Tony.