To All The Young Warriors (edited)

How say you, young men and women surging to fight,
Fleeing countries that may have bullied you
Or may have not,
Countries that might have invaded or at the least
Benefited by it — countries full
Of men and women and children who do not
Guide those that choose to do
What they do to Lands far from home
For oil or gold or out of fear or in The Name of their God
Who is not your God?

How say you, young men and women thinking you
Are the first? That this Righteous Fight has never been
Fought. That your blood-lust is precious and original.
That the words you hear have never been heard.
That the swelling inside your chest fit to burst
Has never been felt before, has never bloomed
And you now think it does for you alone?

Do you truly believe that your blood
Taking other blood will quench a thirst?

How say you, as you stand there with your weapons
Praying to deliver a victory by killing innocents?
And what of the terrorized women who are raped,
For we know they will be, they always are,
And have no say in this? And the children who will be
Maimed and killed and sent homeless and orphaned
Into the smouldering ruins of an uncaring world?

You think you are the first, but you are not.
Not even close.

Think of those warriors who gathered before the walls of Troy
With their shining armour, the lustre
As bright as the souls you claim are yours, their swords
Catching the sun as you think you catch
The eyes of Your God.
Think of the littered dead of Alamein, those broken bodies
On both sides, soldiers poor or ignorant or seeking glory
Or thinking they had only one life to give for God and Country;
Did they not heed the call as you now do?

Think of the Dixie greys running towards a slaughter
Or the Zulu warriors running against the bayonets.

Each young man and woman, each warrior or farmer or son
Or daughter or lost one, thought they had found the cause
And fought the fight that was Just, fought the fight as it must be fought.

And what did they gain…these young men and women who flocked
As you now do,
To lands scattered as far as any bird has ever flown?

Death to themselves and to those they fought.
Peace sometimes but never for long.
Pain to those they loved and to those they didn’t.

And their Gods —
Did they rejoice in the death? Do you truly believe that?

Who profited from all those deaths? God?
He or She that has had many names and many forms
But has always found Themselves as a banner
For those that go to war, is that what They would want?

Or for those who say they fought for their Homelands
Desert or Forest, Farmland or Savannah? Do you think
A Country needs so much blood, that it needs a generation
To fall like leaves and sink without a trace for Its cause?

Or might it be those who have always profited on the dead
And have always fed the minds of young men who chase the shadows
Led along by the cruel whispers of the hiding men,
The lurkers in shaded corners, the bean counters, the greedy weapon makers,
The givers of orders, the heedless of consequences,
Might not they be the ones you are really fighting for?

Reach down and grasp a handful of sand,
Count the grains, each one a warrior such as yourself
Turned to dust, with those dreams that match yours —
And while we may remember Achilles, remember
He knows nought
But blows across the ruins of Troy, mingling himself
With Hector and the bones of others who also died.

And think on this, young warriors wanting to fight,
Think of all those others who stood upon or beneath
Those mammoth walls and thought they too fought
The Good Fight that would change everything

And found, or died before they could, that it did not.

To All The Young Warriors

How say you, young men and women surging to fight,

Fleeing countries that may have bullied you

Or may have not,

Countries that might have invaded or at the least

Benefited by it — but countries full

Of men and women and children who do not

Guide those that choose to do

What they do to Lands far from home

For oil or gold or out of fear or in The Name of their God

Who is not your God?

How say you, young men and women thinking you

Are the first, that this Righteous Fight has never been

Fought, that your bloodlust is precious and original,

That the words you hear have never been heard,

That the swelling inside your chest fit to burst

Has never been felt before, has never bloomed

And you now think it does for you alone?

Do you truly believe that your blood

Taking other blood will quench a thirst?

How say you, as you stand there with your weapons

Praying to deliver a victory by killing innocents?

And what of the terrorized women who are raped,

For we know they will be, they always are,

And have no say in this? And the children who will be

Maimed and killed and sent homeless and orphaned

Into the smouldering ruins of an uncaring world?

You think you are the first, but you are not.

Not even close.

Think of those warriors who gathered before the walls of Troy

With their shining armour, the lustre

As bright as the souls you claim are yours, their swords

Catching the sun as you think you catch

The eyes of Your God.

Think of the littered dead of Alamein, those broken bodies

On both sides, soldiers poor or ignorant or seeking glory

Or thinking they had only one life to give for God and Country;

Did they not, heed the call as you now do?

Think of the Dixie greys running towards a slaughter

Or the Zulu warriors running against the bayonets.

Each young man and woman, each warrior or farmer or son

Or daughter or lost one, thought they had found the cause

And fought the fight that was Just, fought the fight as it must be fought.

And what did they gain…these young men and women who flocked

As you now do,

To lands scattered as far as any bird has ever flown?

Death to themselves and to those they fought.

Peace sometimes but never for long.

Pain to those they loved and to those they didn’t.

And their Gods

Did they rejoice in the death? Do you truly believe that?

Who profited from all those deaths? God?

He or She that has had many names and many forms

But has always found Themselves as a banner

For those that go to war, is that what They want?

Or for those who say they fought for their Homelands ‑

Desert or Forest, Farmland or Savannah? Do you think

A Country needs so much blood, that it needs a generation

To fall like leaves and sink without a trace for Its cause?

Or might it be those who have always profited on the dead

And have always fed the minds of young men who chase shadows

Led by the cruel whispers of the hiding men,

The lurkers in corners, the bean counters, the greedy weapon makers,

The givers of orders, the heedless of consequences,

Might not they be the ones you are really fighting for?

Reach down and clasp a handful of sand,

Count the grains, each one a warrior such as yourself

Turned to dust, with those dreams that match yours —

And while we may remember Achilles, remember

He knows nought

But blows across the ruins of Troy, mingling himself

With Hector and the bones of others who also died

And think on this, young warriors wanting to fight,

Think of all those others who stood upon or beneath

Those mammoth walls and thought they too fought

The Good Fight that would change everything

And found, or died before they could, that it did not.

For Gough (humbly...awkwardly)

The great Bran died today (21/11/2014)

Beware satisfied dwellers of the otherworld,

beware you daisy-chewers, you bare-foot wanderers,

you locals who roam the green fields at leisure

slowly forgetting the time you held sway ‑

beware I tell you, for great Bran comes your way.

He shaped this country. He gave it a dream,

even though His own head was severed,

he brought arts into the light ‑ and for the young

gave out visions of a life to lead, of stories to tell,

tales of ink and canvas, of stage and film as well.

Oh, he was a great man who stirred the sleepers

of this Old Land; A Land so long asleep the people

thought it was all new and sparkling, and I think not

that he has passed for his words can still be heard

and if we take time to listen he will protect us yet.

A great man has taken his last breath in this world

and we behind who breathe and dream will remember him,

the young giant who called us out as he strode the landscape,

daring us to have aspirations, to battle with ourselves, to take

up the challenge and become the glorious beings we might be.

Jen taking the salad out of the refrigerator (an edit)

 

So, right hand holding the door’s handle, she bends

at the knees and leans into the open fridge
as she talks to me about events of the day —
her hair falls to the left side, her face

faces me even as her left hand reaches into…

the refrigerator’s light
catches her perfectly

and this frozen moment reminds me
of all the reasons why— and isn’t it

just like the mind
that it takes a shard to capture the whole.

All the years…all the minutes…
blend and are forgotten until a moment

such as this when she leans into a fridge

and I remember everything

but not everything…

just the essence — the way a smell

can capture the entire
when in reality it is but a part.

Limbus

 

— Like a trumpet waiting for lips to set the dreams free,
the shape wrought, the deeds done and now the act must come
that allows the liberated music to ascend me

— Or a space between a pretense and the mercy
that forgiveness brings
and allows a life to continue in its fashion

I have written and signed and now wait
for the novel to emerge
but the days drag on like the fearful feet of ancient Britons
having marched to the south only to learn
the Vikings attacked the north
and so must hurriedly return.

I linger for the sharp review,
weep even to bleed, loitering, as I am,
for the moment someone smiles and says,
‘I have read your book.’

— And in this tedium, nothing can be done,
or only halfheartedly, and so
the house grows dirtier by the hour,
the dishes gather like rats in the sewer,
and words become the liquid contents of the chamber pots
emptied in shadowed lane ways on the unsuspecting heads
of anyway who passes me by

Fishing with my Son

Beside a river, my son and I dived (after a witch who changed
into a fish) to escape the meanderings we shared as we sat beside
the flowing water and tried to connect — but my son’s words are not
my words, not framed in my picture of history. The witch,
bloated as she was with understanding, did not wish to let
us understand each other. She fled the scene of that catatonic afternoon
when we stopped by the river’s bank, cast words with fishing lines
and found the snags and tangles too much: The words did not bite

so we two took up the chase instead for that shimmer of salmon gold,
went after the tail, fin and the legend that a salmon caught would
make the two of us wise enough be back again at that moment when
my son’s eyes looked up at me when I smiled, his smell still bright
as sunshine and my hand had only ever caressed him for I had
not snapped nor had we shared the least moment of difficulty.

Fish with my son

 

My son, and I, dived for that witch changed into a fish

to escape the meanderings we shared as we sat beside

the river and tried to connect — but my son’s words are not

my words, not framed in my picture of history and the witch,

bloated as she was with understanding, did not wish to let 

us understand each other. She fled the scene of that idyllic afternoon

when we stopped by the river’s bank, cast words with fishing lines

and found the snags and tangles too much: The fish did not bite

so we two took up the chase instead for that shimmer of salmon gold,

went after the tail, fin and the legend that a salmon caught would

make the two of us wise enough be back again at that moment when

my son’s eyes looked up at me and I smiled, his smell still bright

as sunshine and my hand had only ever caressed him for I had

not said nor had we shared the least moment of difficulty.