this poem is about silence

 

gaol

 

 

 

 

Today in Australia we have a stalemate with the issue of Asylum Seekers, Refugees. and Boat people. We have had incidents of horrible things happening because of powerlessness. Stitching lips together, burning themselves alive, riots and destroying things. When one has no hope one reacts how one can.

This poem was first published in Eureka Street, a Social Justice Journal. I hope this poem has a voice for anyone who reads it, for “evil thrives under silence” is a line towards the end of the poem and that calls each of us to be awake and to be prepared to stand up and be counted. It has been said “when good people do nothing evil triumphs” In the movie Milk , they quote Martin Luther King, “To ignore evil is to be accomplice to it”

At the Jewish Museum in Sydney my breath was taken away by a wall painted with the words:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out –
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out-
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out-
Because I wasn’t a Jew.

Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.”

this poem is about silence

words get in the way of silence
it needs a blank page
it needs space
in silence there can be longing
there can be anticipation
intimate or hostile

you can hear it
in the pin-drop moment
between bow and string

you can feel it between breaths

the inarticulate uses violence
for expression
is this silence?

can you say the sharp sickle moon
that glows on a dark winter sky is silent?

when one turns their back
silence is palpable
and what of silence imposed in fear?

silent protest is loud

when the powerless stitch their lips together
with needle and fishing line
is this silence
even as tears fall?

evil thrives under silence

a poem about silence
needs to be loud
to be heard

leased war

This poem is about a photo of a young child of about 10, who stares through the broken window of a shot out car. Two women were shot and died at a check point.

The sentiment is, what effect is this war having on the hearts of these young children?   And i wonder how do we stop war. When Iraq was pulverised into submission and photos kept coming in the days when I still bought newspapers, I found myself staring over and over at this photo. The women probably in full burka panicked and drove too fast near a roadblock and they were shot. Those shooting were suspicious and shot and yet two women in a car should be able to drive in their country. Then the next issue, it was not US or other soldiers but leased or hired guards so it was impossible to find anyone to blame.

 

 
leased war

in the photo
a child stares
into a blood-splattered car

in his heart . . .
what seeds are planted

what tangles and grows
in a harsh elegiac landscape
of desert sand and rubble

two women dead    the news said
Shot by hired security guards
answerable to none
they get the job done
with privatised weapons
privatised tanks   ammunition

no more mention of the child
growing up in his homeland
a privatised crucible of war

requiem for a suicide bomber

This poem is based on a true story. The wall built by Israeli goes through Palestinian  farms without  discretion and this woman who had to face the check points each day  to work on her Uncle’s farm faced this indignity, which a year later had her die in a markets, in her effort  to  kill.

Is it revenge.? Is it as a result of powerlessness. I believe terrorism is a vicious cycle and we have a lot of work to do to change this world wide way.

 

 

 

Palestinian workers salvage building materials near Erez Crossing at the northern border between Gaza and Israel, Beit Hanoun, February 18, 2014. A remote-controlled sniper gun is mounted on a nearby Israeli military watchtower in the border wall. Human rights organizations have documented dozens of cases of Israeli army gunfire at persons who posed no threat and were well outside the 300-meter so-called "no-go zone" imposed by the Israeli military inside Gaza's borders. In many cases, no warning was given before soldiers opened fire.

 

 

 

requiem for a suicide bomber

twice each day
she passes through the check point
the eye of a needle
portal of a war-torn heart
to work on the other side
the concrete wall cuts
a vandal’s knife
through her uncle’s farm

on this day
shuffling through eyes lowered
she shows her work pass

well polished black boots
feet planted squarely apart
block her way

she looks up
his eyes
malevolent intent
blinding as the light off the barrel of his gun
her fear
his turn on

he taunts
pulls her hard against his uniformed body
like an inflatable sex doll
laughs at her impotent disgust
and his power

a year later
with posture of defeat
a heavy belt around her waist
steadfast
she walks into a busy market-place
her body
a weapon

desert gaol

The following poem was actually written in 2007. It was in response to a black and white photo in the SMH that captured my heart.  It said so much about the war at the time and  I was so anti the Iraq War when it began in 2003 with Bush-Blair-Howard Shock and Awe Campaign.

I included this poem in my collection as it was Highly Commended in the Gum Blossom Poetry Competition at the time.

Of course now the war that made a vacuum  in Iraq  has spread and disturbed the world and we have become  desensitised about photos like this.
desert gaol

i’m haunted by a photo scene
a makeshift desert gaol
with barbed wire as a barricade
men with bare feet
wearing simple garb white djellaba
hands tied behind their backs
over their heads plain black sacks
crowded and cowering they sit

near one a tiny child leans
toes digging into the sand
the man unable to reach out a hand
to comfort or reassure

often in my dreams
i wonder what became of them.

street madonna

The following poem was inspired by our time in Barcelona. For several days we walked in Gaudi and Picasso’s footsteps, fascinated by the birth of the cubism movement and both of us having favourite Picasso works to search for. We walked the small lanes, and cobbled roads,pass a unique Spanish Church, pass restaurents especially Els Quatre Gats taverns, the world renowned Picasso Museum, and sat sipping red wine and eating Paella on La Rambla observing the people, as our daughter Bernadine recommended.
It is surprising to me this is the poem from those days. The Roma woman sitting on the cold steps of the Church, was there for the two days I walked that way and the shock on the second day when I visited the Church, to find a baby hidden under her mantel and less cared for then the statue of the Madonna and Child inside the church . The paradox and pathos are hard to capture. I hope I have captured the moment for you.

street madonna

she was there yesterday
quiet as a fresco
sunlit olive skin eyes lowered
a shawl and joyful skirt

i felt a jolt
passed quickly by

walk picasso’s footsteps
barcelona’s gothic quarter
marvel at ancient roman walls
sip coffee in the bohemian-quarter kats
inhale the vibe of past artists writers poets

she is there again today
on the cold stone steps
near the ornately carved doors
her presence loud

I was warned
walk on
but a voice inside says
this is different

in the cathedral the rose window
plays its colours
mother and baby statue
glows in candle light

on my way out
a fumble in my heart
makes me halt
i scan her face

she looks up eyes hook me
draw me she smiles
the cup in her hand
rattles

under her mantle
a baby cradled in her lap
reaches out

morning lament

The following poem morning lament was written after one morning waking up to more depressing news on the radio news. This is the first poem in the Social Justice section called Between the Wings of the Crow of my poetry book A Call to Listen. There are seven poems for you to enjoy in this section.

It is like the leaders keep us overwhelmed by bad news so we become apathetic and complacent. It is when this happens that power is wielded . Like the saying when good people remain silent bad things happen. Many readers will relate to this morning lament.

c_southerly_buster1-1

morning lament

the morning begins with the crow
its articulated screech
takes me back to my fourth grade teacher
and world of long division
incomprehensible

the digital radio lights up
the dark of night is past
secret fears
scuttling crabs of the heart
dart into hiding

morning news like canned laughter
mocks me
as leaders in a world of illusion
seize loop holes
to button me down with their spin

between the wings of the crow
is stored anguish
and the mourning women’s lament
under dark skies lit by destructive fire

dawn becomes glare
stares me down
blindingly

and the crow mocks
as it flies away
beyond consciousness

war on terror

war on terror

its coming
through a hole in the air

we breathe its fiery breath
hear its dark-beating heart
coming at you and you
stalks every hourly news

terror is real
ask one blinded
by the black spot of fear
a culture of fear

but it’s not there

you can’t bomb the intangible
drones can’t destroy terror
yet can a war on terror be an act of terror

all we have is a voice
to say resist
violence does not work

if the shadow we chase
is caught
it will be our own

guantanamo bay

gaol

 

 

guantanamo bay

This is a new section of the poetry book A Call to Listen. The section is called The Shadows We Chase. It consists of three poems which are a little dated now, as the few years have passed but still very real. I am proud I wrote them at the time and those that read them in the writers groups and in the journals where they were published at the time reflected on the shadow we all carried close with us.

 

guantanamo bay
this is a poem not to be read aloud
for it speaks of solitary confinement
torture and words like water boarding
it speaks of men
now aliens of this planet
with no where to call home
and no legal system
to try them

these men
have shackles
wear orange overalls
live in barbed wire cages

off shore

this is all we know
we don’t hear their cries
we don’t even know names

moments in our garden

The following reflections are short six line poems all under the one heading moments in our garden. I am still learning to grasp the Japanese form of poetry called Tanka. These are not tanka but in future i will work at using that form to give short reflections extra power.

winter walk

moments in our garden

 

* * * *

camellia

* * * *

with bright red flowers
like pinned on brooches
decorating a drag-queen’s gown
the camellia
flamboyantly
brightens the low winter sky

 

* * * *

waiting

 

* * * *

magnolia branches
stark in a moody sky
their bristly twigs
dressed barely
in tight furry buds
waiting to capitulate

 

* * * *

star magnolia

 

* * * *

one capricious bud
peeps
from its furry coat
too curious to await
the season
for its unfolding

 

* * * *

the blue gum

 

* * * *

the sagacious eucalypt
sheds sienna-singed
motley
smile-shaped leaves
yet still shares
its dappled shade

 

* * * *

a return

 

* * * *

ah what joy
chortle of the magpies
and their foray into the garden
means they have returned to nest
and I am still here
to welcome their offspring