Blatant by Robert Garnham

I am not a silent poet

This is who I am.
The only trick that nature pulled
Was to instil its hate in you.
I’m still your son.
There were childhood days of sun
But this isn’t playtime,
It’s very real.
If I could change the way I feel
Just to please you, I would.
I haven’t strayed.
The path is as obvious as it always was.
I will not sully your house
Or your name.
The touch I crave is not alien, nor supernatural,
But human.
I’m not the first to feel this way,
Even if I am your only.
Why would you want me
To be lonely?
This is who I’ve always been.
There was no switch,
I didn’t press a button
Marked with unwitting defiance,
I was not inspired by soap opera shenanigans,
Nor whims, nor fashion statement,
The suburbs will not catch fire
Because I have transgressed whatever manly

View original post 269 more words


Brokering Peace, by Ananya S Guha

I am not a silent poet

Syria they have used
you as a battle field
for a long time
your body is a soldier ‘s
your skin pocked with infinite
marks of hurt before death
scarred with wounds
of women and children
where is your history
your soulful people
are they in the blood
of those fields?
where are those fiesty
signs, love or music
where are those who have
let this hell loose on your
bosom, where do they sit
or are they swathed in your blood
your coffins?
whose conscience
whose voice speaks in those
sabre rattles, in those booms
of artillery, who now will mediate
or broker peace
among mangled eyes, nose, face, ears?

View original post

IRAQ: DOHUK: YAZIDI, by Jude Cowan Montague

I am not a silent poet

Children who fight still have to learn
when they return from Daesh.

Crayons, drawings of tanks, flags and guns
on white paper, grab pink and brown and draw car bombs.
Yeah, give me, shouting. Polite voices of children,
playing nicely drawing purple, blue legs,
attached to the square torso, black hair and beards,
I don’t know – family or fighters, or what?
Psychotherapist Qassim show us, show us.

Shaking and jumping, outside,
when you get older, girls grow white dresses
and gold coins that bang on their headdresses,
In a playground cluster giggling, with care
they adjust the younger boy’s red and white scarf,
maybe saying, ‘he is so cute.’

Sitting in class, drawn in eyebrows,
eyes down at the paper, thinking and listening
to the teacher’s shouting, your green eyes see –
– what do they see? – what do I see?
Did the camera operator choose you

View original post 7 more words

Yemen Open House, by Jude Cowan Montague

I am not a silent poet

Bakeel heard the rocket inside the house,
last night.

Today is the day of carnage.

Houses have been opened by bombs
A blasted tree leans on the edge of the house
sprouting branches, steel rods,
the reinforcing concrete prods the azure sky, aimless.

Poor old walls, proud of your white diamonds.
Even now they look good. For now,
everyone’s moving, carrying mattresses,
but this is only temporary.

There were no Houthis here.
Just women, just children. Bakeel will tell you.

We will be back because otherwise
others take what’s ours from under this beautiful blue,
our land, we have to return,
we will rebuild our own house right here
or they’ll make us pay.
They always make you pay.
You have to fight to keep land.
The preciousness of soil.
Even this rubble is full of our souls.
This is our home, know
the fattest bombs won’t take it.


View original post 14 more words