POETRY

THE ENEMY WITHIN

‘But they will not dream of us poor lads,
    Left in the ground.’

MINERS, Wilfred Owen

 

Of course she would win: Snatcher Thatcher; The Iron

Lady; She of the Marilyn Monroe Hair

and the Caligula Eyes; Scourge of the Argies!

It was the conflict and the outcome of her dreams –

the opportunity to destroy

the National Union of Mineworkers,

and the Labour-voting pithead villages,

and make Britain great for greed again!

 

The comrades, the brothers and the sisters,

were too certain of the power of the rubric

of rule books, rhetorical abstractions

like ‘solidarity’ and ‘community’,

too sentimental, too innocent

to take note of the mounting stockpiles of coal

at the coking plants, and the lines of police

waiting with their horses in the woods.

 

 

DEVELOPMENT

Now the flyover has been demolished – that simple

solution to traffic congestion,

leaping over library, art gallery

and museum to disgorge suburbia’s

commuters into the city’s erstwhile

mercantile heart – when you drive down from Low Hill

on the new three lane carriageway, flanked

by immense hoardings for the latest movies

and multi-apartment blocks for students,

you can see the Duke of Wellington,

Protestant Dubliner, on his column

against the sky above St George’s Plateau.

 

His back is turned on the vestiges

of the Irish Catholic slums, and his gaze fixed

on the railway terminus. He was

a talisman for the merchants who paid

for his statue. He kept trade free for sugar,

cotton, and slavery.

 

 

ON THE ARBAT

The May that Putin was crowned for the first time,

in the cathedral the Tzars had used,

and made-men of the Russian mafia,

in blacked-out SUVs, were taking their kids

to private English-medium schools,

we walked in sunshine along the Arbat,

a pedestrianised, consumer street,

once the trade route from the Kremlin to Smolensk

and the Steppes, Moscow’s main thoroughfare,

featuring in Tolstoy’s WAR AND PEACE,

and where Pushkin, with his bride, rented

a small apartment: ‘Better the illusions

that exalt us than ten thousand truths’.

 

We had the modern traveller’s currency

of choice, dollar bills, the lingua franca

of secure world trade. Young Muscovites,

in smart-casual attire, were queuing

outside the newly opened McDonalds.

Almost directly opposite, in the shade,

between Timberland and Shake Shack, dressed

as if for winter, a bespectacled babushka

was begging, her hand held out for kopeks.

 

TEARS ARE CHEAP

One of His Majesty’s Ministers breaks down

in tears uncontrollably in a makeshift

tent in the scrublands of Chad near the border

with Darfur. Millions of women and children –

the men dead or in hiding – are on the move

again in their multi-coloured robes,

hoping again to escape hunger

and molestation, the greed and havoc of

post-imperial wars. There to promote

the good deeds of HMG, the Minister –

without the protection of suit and tie,

and the gentlemen’s club procedures

of the House of Commons, without the bombast

of office, the fustian oratory

of the pretence of power – is reduced

to a human being.

 

 

PROMISED LAND

A small group of Jewish Israeli settlers

has built sukkot – temporary tabernacles,

as the Talmud ordains, to commemorate

harvest time and Exodus – on a rise

not quite two miles from Gaza’s border fence.

The shelters have been built from steel frames

and tent tarpaulins bought at a camping store.

 

***

 

‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me’

is the initial clause of the contract, the deal,

the covenant. The neighbourhood then was teeming

with gods and goddesses all vying

for obedience. Yahweh’s USP

was the promise of the land between the sea

and the river, the driving out of natives,

like the Hittites and the Canaanites,

– plus milk and honey, of course – in exchange

for unquestioning adoration.

 

Unmentioned in the covenant is one

of geophysics’ unintended

ironies. The land is placed where, in effect,

the different climatic systems of

Africa, Asia and Europe meet.

Consequently, winds are unpredictable.

 

***

 

Many of the peoples of the Book seem

particularly prone to war – Christians,

Jews, Muslims – so, in this small family camp,

all the men feel obliged to carry Uzi

machine guns slung on straps from their shoulders.

Not more than eight miles away black smoke

from the latest bombing begins to rise

on the urban skyline. Occasionally –

while the children are blowing bubbles,

for instance – as the wind shifts, the air

is briefly acrid. The settler families

are waiting fervently for God’s promise

to be fulfilled, and millions of people

be driven from their land.

 

 

 

 

 

JUDITH AND HOLOFERNES

During that far time when there were many gods

and the kings of Assyria considered

the world lying west of the Euphrates,

from that river to the Sea of Joppa,

theirs by right of threat of conquest, in Shechem –

that some call Bethulia, some Nablus,

between  Mount Ebal and Mount Gerizim –

lived a beautiful woman named Judith.

She was a widow with a maid servant,

and dunams of wheat fields, and olive groves,

and scrublands for grazing flocks of goats and sheep.

 

Allegedly, this nubile woman’s courage,

cunning, and her zeal for her god saved

her people from slaughter. She has been

immortalised – by Caravaggio,

Gentileschi, Bigot, and Klimt twice.

Sometimes her maid servant appears –

but only the head of Holofernes,

the Assyrian general threatening

Shechem, and whom Judith cajoled into wine,

and decapitated in his stupor.

 

Hers has become a tale increasingly

salaciously painted by Europeans;

a sort of Red Riding Hood for grown ups;

a PC version of Salomé

and John the Baptist; a cautionary tale

for bibulous tyrants; a reckoning

for the straitened widows of Shechem,

Bethulia, Nablus.