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Publié par | Phawyug |
Nombre de lectures | 41 |
Langue | Español |
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These Days
A poetry chapbook by Ruth Mark2
"You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such
things must happen, but the end is still to come."
(The Bible, Matthew 24:6)
“But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.”
From “The Parable of the Old Man and the Young” by Wilfred Owen
“These days are fast, nothing lasts
There ain’t no time to waste”
Bon Jovi, lyrics from These Days
Acknowledgments:
A number of the poems in this book have appeared in the following publications:
The Pedestal Magazine
Pemmican
The Surface
The Cerebral Catalyst
Wired Art from Wired Hearts
Poems Niederngasse
Pebble Lake Review
Cover Photo from etan.org with permission.
Ruth Mark Ó 20053
Table of Contents
Page Number
NO MORE HEROES 4
ONE NATION. ONE LAND 5
MOTHER TONGUE 6
THE CAILLEACH RUA VISITS ANGOLA 7
THEM AND US 8
A FAR CRY FROM HOLLAND 10
PLUS ÇA CHANGE 11
DECLARATION, MARCH 2003 12
HOLLAND TURNS ITS FACE ON FOREIGNERS 13
ELEGY FOR A CHILDHOOD FRIEND 14
IMMIGRANT 15
BORDERS 16
COMMON GROUND 17
THE FINAL CURTAIN CALL 18
THE WEEKLY MEETINGS 19
THE SOVIET WINTER IS OVER 20
GROWING UP IN 2004 21
THE DAY OF THE TERRORIST 22
ALL FOR THREE EUROS 23
FEAR OF OTHERNESS 24
CARPETED CAGES 25
SRI LANKA 26
NEXT STOP BAGHDAD 27
THE HUMAN’S FATAL FLAW 28
OUR COUNCIL’S POLICIES 29
CESARE LOMBROSO 30
KIDS AT PLAY DOWN A DIRT PATH 31
THESE DAYS 32
About the Author 344
NO MORE HEROES
A week when chaos has reigned
all Hell let loose
fear cracking the very air
people twitchy, watch faces
movement for menace.
Men, women, children who
have lost their way, cry publicly
yearn for a dead hero
will him to walk amongst them
fill the empty void.
But, there are no more heroes
noone will rescue us
present us happiness wrapped up
in a box with ribbons.
There is a Savior
who has never gone away
will hold, reassure, help
when asked. He is the last hero
if only we would stop to listen.5
ONE NATION. ONE LAND
Come, men, women, children
enjoy the beauty of the land where
you have been blessed to be born,
grow old in. Savor the color
the rainbow of green
all around you.
The land, sea, mountains
call to you.
Leave down your anger
your petty grievances
embrace your mother, father,
brother, sister, neighbor
set aside your prejudices
rejoice in the allencompassing
beauty. Lift your arms up
feel the soft rain on your face
and dance a jig – kick your feet
high, tap out time to the ancient rhythms
your ancestors have given you
rekindle the ageold tradition
of storytelling, huddled together
at home, in bars, on windy mountain tops –
and know this – you have been blessed.
Together we will rise again
as one island, one nation, one land.6
MOTHER TONGUE
Accents come thick and fast
English butchered, unconsciously
no awareness, selfconscious only
in this newfound language we grapple.
He thinks he can speak English
but struggles with the spelling
quizzical, eyebrows raised
when given a colloquialism.
She says Dutch isn’t necessary
in this land of the guttural g
a mistake one feels when
at every corner tourists are ripped off
for ignorance of the Mother Tongue.
Foreigners in a land famous for its business sense
with money the heartblood, the pulse
in millions of homes, windows glowing
all of life inside on perpetual show.
To live in this ironedflat land
most of it reclaimed from the sea
to feel less foreign, knock off the alien pallor
which clings to our faces
we must learn their tongue
their cadence and rhythm
if we are going to have
any chance of a foothold
a planting in the seasoaked soil.7
THE CAILLEACH RUA VISITS ANGOLA
I didn’t know the Cailleach Rua
old Woman of Winter, redhaired Hag of Hunger
stalked the fields and squatted
by empty cooking pots in summer.
I thought she was only to be found
in the hedgerows and townlands of Ireland,
I thought the 1850s were her heyday
not the second year of this new millennium.
Not again; this time clawing, nails piercing
straight through the very heart of Angola.
I see that she’s clouded the babies’ eyes
with her deathveil, turned her dark aura
to horror in the mothers’ faces
sucked the lifeblood from the white faces of
careworkers who scurry around yet feel redundant
useless in these dying rooms –
makeshift tents over cracked earth floors
drips, bandages, water, even food
too late for these children, their drumbellies
smoothed round with malnutrition.
Take your mantle and leave Hag –
find some other planet to inhabit
suck the life from the Moon perhaps
go away, someplace, anyplace
let the skeletal babies once more grow plump.8
THEM AND US
Is perestroika a worse evil
than the Cold War?
A sellingout in some way
to the distant yet familiar
Russian communists?
Have they infiltrated
every nook