Daily Archives: September 18, 2017

Rohingya & other invisible places by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

In Rohingya,
a bright bird was shunned for being beautiful
if you see a torc of vultures another village burnt down
only the river reflects what is happening like stories in another language.
To translate,
a bell is ringing from a dazed Ox circled in fire
it is only an Ox, he serves the mouth and disputed grass
at the very same moment in Srebrenica a covered woman unveils her tears.

In Paradise,
a man with dirty hands cleans a gold Rolls Royce by day.
At night he scrubs himself and the humming of his wife cleanses him.
England, he says, is guilding Yemen, creating refugees like sadistic greek gods.

To translate,
a bell is ringing from a Devon cow, milked for Tesco.
At five am they clean the udders and work them to ulcers
At the very same moment in Rohingya, a landmine clicks, the screen burns out.


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Shaping Dreams by Karen Little

I am not a silent poet

At the tidal point where ripples run like dominoes
from sea left to sea right, memory offers up decades
of misunderstandings, trying to make things right,
managing to never be right. Reality pounds in my ears
leaving no room for imagination, the crest before anything happens
the only time our power seems matched. There’s no turning back,
no gentle retreat to look forward to, just being plucked like a bruised whelk
from its shell. I learn my lesson over and over again, but every wave
is a little different, shifting grains into distinct patterns, hitting new rhythms,
shuffling another set of broken dreams to fold in on themselves.

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