ON BEING A FATHER IN GAZA
The hospital doctor told me
my son had a slight chance of survival.
When I went back
I couldn’t find
my son,
the doctor
or the hospital.
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
The Book of Daniel tells the story of Belshazzar,
acting ruler of Babylon, a debauchee who binged
and banqueted like there was no tomorrow (for the people)
while the low dives and noxious taverns were locked.
It’s said that a spying scribe wrote on a public wall
strange words, unintelligible to the wine-befuddled Belshazzar.
Suspecting treason he summoned his wise men and a wizened woman
first to interpret and then expunge the bewildering words.
Some suggested a nearby prisoner from a foreign land,
practiced in the art, might be able to uncover hidden crimes
but other humbler scribes, uncharacteristically bold,
declared the meaning clear and grim: Belshazzar’s days
were numbered (the tyrant snorted in defiant disbelief)
and moreover that he’d been weighed on the scales
(a lie, he blustered, knowing his puffed-up weightiness
was beyond all measure) and found wanting.
A dire warning of baleful consequences was also implied.
Belshazzar belched in contempt, but the portents were confirmed.
In those days retribution was a swift and righteous sword:
drink-bedraggled, the wretch was taken from his palace and slain.
Like verbiage from Belshazzar’s own bloated mouth,
the veracity of the Book must, however, be doubted,
for we live, do we not, in more sane and rational times.
According to another, more credible, source
Belshazzar retired to a lucrative life of ease,
overladen with rich accolades and garlanded
with full honours. Worthy successors were soon found
and Belshazzar was accorded his rightful place
in the annals of his uniquely enthralling land.
PERIGORD
Where Coeur de Lion died, where Provençal
once was spoken, where the young poet Pound,
long before he was caged in a compound,
pilgrimaged along roads he believed hallowed
by the troubadours who sang of wars and love
for noble ladies.
East to Aubeterre, wrote Ezra
and I followed after reading of the church
in a rock face: a Sunday, the bar crowded,
les rosbifs eating roast beef, and a woman,
elderly, rude, her complexion healthily bucolic,
her eyes inviting, smiled and winked at me
and addressed me in words that found me dumb.
Younger guests explained it was Occitan,
or Provençal. And that was it, nothing more,
but it made my day.
Such sounds, Mr Pound,
you might have found had you not been attuned
to canzone of the days of chivalry,
and such pleasure in a countrywoman’s face
glowing with more life than any pallid damsels
pining in castles. Sharing common ground
with common grounded people might have saved you
from that dumb suburban prejudice (your words
of easy contrition). The roads you walked,
thinking them alive, were those of overlords
whose word was doom, not only in Perigord.
“ALL THEM CORNFIELDS AND BALLET IN THE EVENING”
Its devotion to fairness was positively zealous
The kind of “balance” that would make the BBC jealous
I’M ALL RIGHT JACK slams unions and bosses alike
When good-for-nothing workers decide to go on strike
And stammers a dig at Fleet Street for a naughty laugh
Tell ’em to fuh fuh fuh find something else to photograph
Windrush the toff is out of place with the workers
Says time-and-motion proves they’re a bunch of shirkers
He causes the walk-out and runs off with Miss Kite
-Cynthia’s curvaceous if not very bright –
Whose father happens to be shop steward Fred
His union is solid and his politics are red
But his doctrinaire bent leads to conjugal strife
Because Fred has an uncommonly common-sense wife
She’s sick of hearing about Lenin and revolution
So withdraws her own labour in retribution
Apron-wearing Fred becomes a figure of fun
Yet the anti-worker thrust is unconsciously undone
By the poetic description of the USSR,
Fred’s vision of a world that’s better by far.
DEAR EDITOR, Your newspaper was recently guilty of a pronominal insult to a Lib Dem, whom you mis-gendered as “he”. I too identify as politically non-binary, neither Tory nor Labour, and demand that you show due respect for my politically-queer identity. Please refer to our party as the Non Binary party and refer to individual members by using the appropriate respectful political-gender-neutral pronoun “they”( or alternatively, xe, zie or ze).
DEAR FRIEND, Our manner is too blunt and what we consider our wit too incisive. It’s too easy to cut each other without knowing it and then have to staunch the wounds. Our friendship’s now on a knife’s sharp edge. No, it always was. If only one of us is kinder it won’t survive.
DEAR MADAM, I hereby give notice, should you be in the least bit interested, of my intention not to entertain further hopes, thereby causing myself unnecessary distress, of getting back into your good graces and enjoying certain favours. Notwithstanding this waiver I reserve all rights vested in my last surviving illusions.
DEAR LIBERAL ACADEMIC I hear your business, formerly known as a university, is seeking a government bailout. Given the seriousness of the situation, I suggest you show solidarity with your Vice-Chancellor and stop pretending to be controversial, even radical, by engaging in verbal and intellectual contortions designed to disguise your satisfaction with the political status quo. I also advise you to switch from the Social Sciences to Business Studies, where the future undoubtedly lies.
DIRE POLITICO, Your blithe unawareness of the damage which you ̶ or shall we blame your communications consultant ̶ inflict on what is presumably your native language ̶ the clichés, the solecisms, the barbarisms ̶ is sad to say only the least of your crimes.
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