(Poem #134)Regime Change Advancing down the road from Nineveh Death paused a while and said 'Now listen here. You see the names of places roundabout? They're mine now, and I've turned them inside out. Take Eden, further south: At dawn today I ordered up my troops to tear away Its walls and gates so everyone can see That gorgeous fruit which dangles from its tree. You want it, don't you? Go and eat it then, And lick your lips, and pick the same again. Take Tigris and Euphrates; once they ran Through childhood-coloured slats of sand and sun. Not any more they don't; I've filled them up With countless different kinds of human crap. Take Babylon, the palace sprouting flowers Which sweetened empires in their peaceful hours - I've found a different way to scent the air: Already it's a by-word for despair. Which leaves Baghdad - the star-tipped minarets, The marble courts and halls, the mirage-heat. These places, and the ancient things you know, You won't know soon. I'm working on it now.' |
Regime Change -- Andrew Motion
What the Japanese Perhaps Heard -- Rachel Rose
(Poem #133)What the Japanese Perhaps Heard Perhaps they heard we don't understand them very well. Perhaps this made them Pleased. Perhaps they heard we shoot Japanese students who ring the wrong Bell at Hallowe'en. That we shoot at the slightest provocation: a low mark On an exam, a lovers' spat, an excess of guilt. Perhaps they wondered If it was guilt we felt at the sight of that student bleeding out among our lawn flamingos, Or something recognizable to them, something like grief. Perhaps They heard that our culture has its roots in desperate immigration And lone men. Perhaps they observed our skill at raising serial killers, That we value good teeth above good minds and have no festivals To remember the dead. Perhaps they heard that our grey lakes are deep enough to swallow cities, That our landscape is vast wheat and loneliness. Perhaps they ask themselves if, when grief Wraps its wet arms around Montana, we would not prefer the community of archipelagos Upon which persimmons are harvested and black fingers of rock uncurl their digits In the mist. Perhaps their abacus echoes the shape that grief takes, One island bleeding into the next, And for us grief is an endless cornfield, silken and ripe with poison. |
What We Heard About the Japanese -- Rachel Rose
(Poem #132)What We Heard About the Japanese We heard they would jump from buildings at the slightest provocation: low marks On an exam, a lovers' spat or an excess of shame. We heard they were incited by shame, not guilt. That they Loved all things American. Mistrusted anything foreign. We heard their men liked to buy schoolgirls' underwear And their women did not experience menopause or other Western hysterias. We heard they still preferred to breastfeed, Carry handkerchiefs, ride bicycles and dress their young like Victorian Pupils. We heard that theirs was a feminine culture. We heard That theirs was an example of extreme patriarchy. That rape Didn't exist on these islands. We heard their marriages were arranged, that They didn't believe in love. We heard they were experts in this art above all others. That frequent earthquakes inspired insecurity and lack of faith. That they had no sense of irony. We heard even faith was an American invention. We heard they were just like us under the skin. |
Vergissmeinnicht -- Keith Douglas
(Poem #131)Vergissmeinnicht Three weeks gone and the combatants gone returning over the nightmare ground we found the place again, and found the soldier sprawling in the sun. The frowning barrel of his gun overshadowing. As we came on that day, he hit my tank with one like the entry of a demon. Look. Here in the gunpit spoil the dishonoured picture of his girl who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht. in a copybook gothic script. We see him almost with content, abased, and seeming to have paid and mocked at by his own equipment that's hard and good when he's decayed. But she would weep to see today how on his skin the swart flies move; the dust upon the paper eye and the burst stomach like a cave. For here the lover and killer are mingled who had one body and one heart. And death who had the soldier singled has done the lover mortal hurt. |
The Last Laugh -- Wilfred Owen
(Poem #130)The Last Laugh 'O Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped - 'In vain! vain! vain!'
Machine-guns chuckled, 'Tut-tut! Tut-tut!'
And the Big Gun guffawed.
Another sighed, - 'O Mother, Mother! Dad!'
Then smiled, at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
Leisurely gestured, - 'Fool!'
And the falling splinters tittered.
'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till, slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned;
Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;
And the Gas hissed.
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