Sunday, 1 May 2016

Don't close the doors



Libraries all over the country are under threat of closure, or downscaling.  I was fortunate lately to be asked to read poetry at one of several benefit events for Newport Library in Pembrokeshire, which is being taken over and run by a group of very enthusiastic volunteers in the local community.

This is one of the poems I wrote for the event.
Libraries are not only about books, of course, many in rural areas such as ours are true centres of community.



Don’t close the doors

They are the most important places in town
and all over the country
they are closing them down.
 
All our tomorrows are behind those doors.
When they close them all forever,
they steal the future that is yours.

Each book is a door to a new world
an opening to imagination.

Trip through unexpected passages,
stumble over fresh ideas,
let stories open the gates
                to places
where you can escape into
                other spaces,

to find creative reflections,
a spur to new ideas,
the spark of further visions,

that show us the paths we need
to heal our divisions,
to begin to make things change.

They are the most important places in town
and all over the country
they are closing them down.

All our tomorrows are behind those doors.
When they close them all forever,
they steal the future that is yours.


Sunday, 27 March 2016

Mr President,



I wrote this poem for a reading at the start of March, just before Super Tuesday. I thought, then, that after that day the subject of ‘The Trump’ would no longer be relevant and a poem on these lines would be dead and buried. As we all know, he is still here, still winning, still scaring half the world, so, unfortunately, this poem still has a purpose

The poem was inspired, in part at least, by a portrait of George Washington, the First President of the USA, and designer of the American Constitution.

Mr President,
how proud would you be today
of your great American dream?
How proud would you be
to see your hand of power reaching out,
holding down, blowing up, seeking out,
all in the name of freedom.

Mr President,
you in your fine stockings
and shiny pointed shoes, your long black coat,
such a noble stature,
the great statesman,
let your stern eyes see what you started,
back then, in your greatest hour.

You made the constitution,
you were the first to win its power,
to embody new ideas of liberty.
You made the greatest nation.
Your hand reached out to all the world
to make a new kind of civilisation,
Mr President,

you created the freedom to kill, to torture,
to bomb and maim,
to gas, to napalm, to wage war
on all those you do not understand,
and all who do not accept your dominance,
wherever they may be in whatever foreign land.

You started with the Chicasaw and Choctaw wars.
You took your arms and soldiers to
Mexico and on to south America;
where you imposed your own new laws.
You fought the Spanish and Japanese,
you battled in China, Korea, the Congo and Cuba,
the Middle East, Lebanon, Libya,
Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan,
you fought the Taliban
and Daesh.

You back other regimes in their fight
to keep nations in subjection.
All the rest of the human race
must know its place.

So how is your dream today,
Mr President.
Now that your nation has taken its powers,
to build its great unassailable towers.

Is this what you wanted?
Is it what you imagined?
The freedom to kill, to damage
to do just what you wish?
Is your liberty not a humble dish?

How proud would you be of your vision today
when your American people dream
of giving your freedom and power away
to he whose name I dare not even say.

What would you do today,
Mr President,
with your grand ideas of the American dream?

If you could see the way your successors run wars
how they jump at the chance to thump
some other nation,
or to dump their bombs on hospitals and refugees,
how would you feel?

Would you be moved to make a new deal?


Wednesday, 24 February 2016

Hockey pitch blues











 

Twenty-two pairs of pink pubescent legs,
more blotchy than rancid meat
in a butcher’s shop window,
run in unison on a freezing field.

Panting girls stumble, slip and slither
over an acre of unkind mud,
while an icy north wind bites chunks
out of their flushed fusion of thighs,
which are topped with a frill of skirt
over a flash of darkest blue –

thick and coarse, baggy, fleece-lined,
voluminous and all covering,
causing catcalls and bawdy sniggers,
those hateful, hideous navy blue knickers.

(This poem was written as a result of the @52 prompt, sports week.)