Daily Archives: March 1, 2016

Dolphin, Fish.. Fuck It by Mike Bell

I am not a silent poet

Facebook, overnight, post-bagged snarl:
She, swimsuit-sat, on dolphin, ‘so cruel’:

Held it from water, until it drowned;
we sucked-dry its soul, re-tweeted around.

More concerned cries, over the death of a thing:
As kids ‘cross la Manche, wait, suffocating.

Jungle slow-cleared, raked-over soil,
lost, infected youth, truth’s grey voile.

Les enfants want lives, to make it across,
but may drown in the camps, more un-figured loss.

When war-blown minors are once given hope,
they too will suck life, from freedom’s throat.

This day: not one child will be dragged from hell,
instead we will shame ‘the fish-riding girl’.

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Calais in October by Paul McElhinney

I am not a silent poet

The Jungle’s highway, where the refugees travel
Tents sinking in the mud, amidst the harsh gravel.
Continents are crossed to reach this place,
Would it be so hard for us to offer an embrace?

From Sudan, Eritrea and Ethiopia,
Varied people flood into this modern dystopia.
They make their way from Iran and Syria,
Hearts full of hope, that they’ll meet the criteria.

An act of brave and untold desperation,
Thousands dreaming of their legalisation,
Hope for a life not beset by brutality,
Where now is our western morality?

We take for granted safety and security,
Whilst they fade into complete obscurity,
They fly from their oppressive regimes,
Would we not all share similar dreams?

Hope and despair are sisters here,
People come and go and just disappear,
Such beauty in the small things of life,
Not having to worry about previous strife.

Every night, the bold dance with the…

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One More Day 29/02/16 by Natalia Spencer

I am not a silent poet

They arrived scared. Now they are scared of us’ Good Chance Calais

The caravan made of blue Sanskrit & blankets

which was love to us

burns black

You watch children weep

gas & bulldozers claw

a food shop

in the space emptied of friendship

& prayer

you say it’s to prevent typhoid          promise

to house us in cargo containers

fourteen beds to one pod

my brother’s name was Tariq

he who pounds at the door

I look to the pony tail lady

she gave out water & shoes

Sorry I cannot stop this

Her focus is on a smoking black bag

The tins           tall ones          short ones

have no labels

no distinguishable marks

Were they useful

or just flea plagued rubbish

What choice    is there

but to go as life jackets

red, yellow, orange     hang

fixed to Greek sky

discarded like butterfly wings

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Sightless Eyes by David Wilson

I am not a silent poet

Sightless, staring

Arms and legs

Gently washed

By incoming waves

Bare feet

That will never

Skip and run

On freedom’s beach

“The migrant swarm”

“Scrounging benefits”

“Take our jobs”

“Impossible burden”

In ignorance and fear

We step back

Behind barbed wire

Fortress Europe

Choose sightless eyes

That see not death

Nor sorrow

Nor hope

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279. courage to cross. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

I am not a silent poet

initially,
crossed the great divide,
sea to the land, from
one to another, then, talking.

crossed the narrow bridge
spoke of the past,
revisit the old place.
all plumbing and stair rods,
you know what i mean.

courage to walk away
from objects that irritate
our eyes, to eat another way,

with snakes and camphor oil.

you know what i mean. with
the kindness of strangers
to cross the mountain, be led
home.

they say it may be drizzly today,

279

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Sarah Watkinson

Writers for Calais Refugees

‘Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.’

‘One of the most beautiful lines in Latin, and also one of the most famous  . . .A joy it will be one day, perhaps, to remember even this.It is about loss, about overcoming the worst, but the word ‘perhaps’ is important. It may not be a joy to remember. It may be a bloody misery.’ Robert Fagles

Forsan (Perhaps) Take us, fate. We are adrift, the waves and the current decide. Home lies scattered behind us; my consulting room, her hanging silk, toys, garden tools and pans. I hope the dog died cleanly.

et haec (even this) There’s rest in this moment. As if on a holiday trip we lost sight of pebbles on the sea bottom and let the deep take us. It is like sleep, the swell rocking the boat and these packed bodies around us.

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wild jasmine by John Mackie

I am not a silent poet

wild jasmine
ready to burst
in the mountain
commune
heady
intoxicating a
promise of spring

in the Pas de Calais
a two man tent
my cocoon for kids
perched on a
hopelessness of mud
is being ploughed in
like horse-shit

here, with tear gas and
water cannon
we welcome you
to spring
see
cherry blossom
mimosa
the return of swallows
the casual cruelty
of states

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