UNDERWORLD
it is a war on the underworld
and so
they burn everything
and so
they burn the sky
the shades of heroes
long gone stare
across
the river
in supreme disbelief
not since
the Children’s Crusade
has an army of the tiny
mustered to cross
souls
that did not
have a chance to live
REFAAT
so now
they have resorted
to killing poets
because
the pen is mightier
than the sword
it is said
and they took that literally
and
as is well known
James Bond carries
his old Q branch
speciality
of rocket-
launching pen
nothing
more deadly
which
you know,
we know
every spy agency knows this
it is something that
military intelligence
even one
caught false flag asleep
at its post
has prepared for
extensively
trained for
exhaustively
knows
only too well
and how can
target
be a poet
if they are all animals?
that is the syllogism for you
to
take to heart
the
reactive-armour
heart they
gave you
as you plough through
guilty humanity
steel-skinned in
your Merkava
kampfwagen
hunting for the tunnel
will take you down to Hell
where
poets, great poets,
will all be waiting
to raise a few things,
take issue with you
by hook
or by crook
endeavour to persuade you
that there is
something in
this voice, about
this speech
that justifies itself
KING OF SWORDS
War is
not part
of my nature.
Said
many prayers
had it
excommunicated.
Hiroshima
is not
my business, neither
is it in my chemistry
my molecules do not
resonate with that
Einstein equation, are
left stone cold by
Oppenheimer’s
Gita paraphrasing
should you, when you
slip curved Katana blade into
my hand
I become aware
of the gravity
way
beyond my capacity
very thought
of shearing, slicing flesh
turning
my fingers to sushi
for a moment
but then the power
and the craft
such beauty in steel
steeling my spirit to point
I can do anything
kill or
be killed let those
ancient dice roll
for here
the rush comes
goes
and maybe wounds, maybe
death, perhaps
slaughter and havoc
maybe
not a scratch, blood
to expatiate
peace in my heart: who knows,
can hazard
a guess how true
and longlasting
sigh of regret even
in victory with the sheathing
of such
a blade.
CUT AND DRIED
thing about chess
is it’s
cut
and dried
you take my bishop
I bomb
your hospital
there may be pawns down there
lying on gurneys
lurking
in tunnels
one run
through to
the perimeter
and beyond
we could be facing
a brace of Queens
vying to sacrifice for
the triumph of their King
victpry
defeat
so strategic this battle
to an altogether special
level
of native
human genius
nothing in this benighted
world
so cut and dried
SINCE
I was cooing
and gurgling mightily
all those years ago
the day I was born
some few years after
the war to end
all wars
(part two)
so unbelievably lucky
to live in a world where
since then
no one
in Syria, Lebanon, Rwanda,
Angola, the Falklands, Iraq,
Eritrea, Algeria
Vietnam or Ukraine
has died or been wounded
or in any way
been inconvenienced by war
such as being
covered in white phosphorus, Sarin gas
or napalm
shredded by machine gun
disembowelled by rocket
burnt to a crisp
by hot cluster bomb
and me gurgling away happy
happy happy
stupidly convinced
I had been brought
into a world
where such things
would not could not
must never
be allowed to happen
poems 2 die for