Monday, April 18, 2011

The Eyes of Gaza - Heathcote Williams



Ariel Sharon’s
Body’s been in a coma
Lasting for five years.

Hell’s gates are narrow.
Until he can fit through them,
He must wait his turn.

Here are some haiku
For an old war criminal
With no IQ left.

If they’re read loudly,
At a million decibels,
He may register

The hatred that all
Killers attract – however
Right they think they’ve been.

The sonic blast could
Open hell so his huge corpse
May squeeze through at last.

The Palestinians
Killed by Ariel Sharon
In the Sabra camp

And in Shatila,
While he floodlit their dwellings,
Could watch him shoved in.

Two thousand could watch,
With those killed in Quibiya –
Forty-eight mowed down

By Sharon’s death squads –
They could peer from a distance
To see his trapped soul,

Squirming and heaving,
Snarled up in tubes. Then others,
Who lived in Gaza

And had their houses
Knocked down by him, burying
Them alive, could watch.

His ‘Operation
Peace In Galilee’ would kill
Eighteen thousand more.

They too might be drawn
To study their tormentor’s
Final solution:

He breathes without help,
But otherwise it’s clear that
There is no one there.

There has to be a price
When you’ve turned someone into
No-one so often.

Like the wall he built
To divide a Semitic
People – he’s cut off.

Like the olive trees
On others’ land he uprooted,
He is now barren –

He can’t produce fruit.
After years without listening,
He no longer speaks.

He ordered triggers
To be pulled in targeted
Assassinations

In the Gaza Strip.
Now he’s unable to move
A single digit.

Having caged people
In Gaza’s ghetto, he lies
In a living tomb.

Opened my e mails this morning and was delighted to find that Heathcote Williams had sent me the above and even more delighted when he agreed to allow it as a guest post!

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Memorial












Scarecrows crowd my dreams,
Not in ones and twos, but
In long, shambling, shuffling queues,
Moving to the rhythm of a distant drum,
Clad in red, white and blue they come,
Heads held high, arms out wide,
Scattering the black flocks on every side.

I watch them disappear into the night
And long after they have passed from sight,
I hear their voices, thunder, roar
Until the sullen silence reigns once more.
I scan the horizon, the summit of the hill,
Knowing they must return and when they will,
The good and worthy come line the sorry streets,
Scattering dead flowers at their feet.

Just read ‘Grey Souls’ by Phillipe Claudel. Beautifully written with powerful descriptions of troops leaving for and returning from the trenches. Such images resonate throughout our lifetime.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Summerhouse














I’m lying in the company of goldfinches.
Soon, they’ll build a nest in my hair.
For now, their laughter enfolds me,
Filling the valley’s pure air
With colour and movement
I’d almost forgotten was there.
Tomorrow, when these same skies are daubed grey
And cold winds penetrate everywhere,
I’ll rise to the memory of birdsong
And pick out a rainbow to wear.