Watered Down
Into a white plastic bowl drop tears
diluting still further the lentil soup.
An old man feeds his dead grandchild.
Always red lentils absent of celery
a smidgeon of onion or re-used carrot.
Then a daughter shakes her dead father.
Garlic, ginger and cumin are missing,
lemon juice might have brought brightness.
A husband embraces his dead wife.
If only a bay leaf where adding heartiness
with chicken soup for a liquid base.
A soldier steps over the dead and recovers
the bowl for the next mealtime at four.
Parsley, cilantro, potato and a hint of rice
could have brought a muscular flavour.
He exchanges his helmet for the salty bowl
letting the broth wet his head and cheeks.
His self anointment no longer for grace
but relief from the burning heat of war.
The ghost of the grandchild is laughing.
Dabke
In a large tent of orphans, recovering
from another day’s fruitless search,
a boy wakes up, in the night,
not for Allah’s blessing
but to greet his dead mother.
Sneaking out of a displacement canvas
he walks to a makeshift grave
to curl up his body against hers
so as to dream together unrestrained by death.
Yet the boy wants no obvious resurrection:
but a dazzling reversal of events
flying him back to a kinder eternity.
On this first third of a new day approaching
he either sinks into mother’s compelling earth
or she pushes upwards to grasp
his hand and they dance, stamping
their blistered feet so that even their father,
near the angry sea and smothered
quick by a premature burial,
for drinking coffee
in a wrongly placed café,
as drones deliberated, then struck,
will be granted an alternative
dream, or at least a temporary reprieve,
from the emptiness,
and allow a spirit to partner
its remaining fragments
of family.
Dabke = A middle eastern dance of defiance.
Musical Defences
The wolf and the bear have come.
What can we do? What can we do?
Defend your house replied the teacher.
Defend!
They brought rockets and bombed
our sacred house of instruments,
ouds, flutes, guitars were destroyed
by their teeth and claws.
You must be strong said the teacher:
stay calm, protect your inner house.
An upright piano still stands defiant.
Soldiers broke strings. Smashed hammers.
I will heal it. The keyboard will sing again
We’ll bring more instruments out of hiding.
Make others anew from cans, pipes and bottles.
Play strong under tents with plastic sheeting.
We’re hungry and they’ve blown our homes down.
Huffing and puffing they invade shattered streets.
But the bricks, cement and harmony of music resists.
The Third Eye
A journalist trades his camera for a sack of flour:
parted from his companion through years of war.
To save his children from the hunger of each minute,
where concentration’s lost, along with photographs
that could have documented his family and neighbours.
Once, it was secure in his small backpack
pressed against a falafel and soft drink.
Today it’s sold on again or brutally bartered
with whoever is the chosen enemy.
A camera doesn’t need to eat,
has no functioning brain:
a chip contains its protein
and vitamins, nourished by the click
of images gifted back to the man,
with a lost third eye,
struggling to stand.
Fortress Europe
(For Kate Hopkins, Sun Journalist)
The cockroaches are meeting. It’s an emergency.
Barrels of baking soda are being smuggled
into the country.
Who are these smugglers that threaten the state?
The cockroaches are in power.
Vermin know best.
Show me bodies in the water, coffins on the shore,
play violins at sunset, film skinny people
to look even skinnier.
I still don’t care.
Gas will not explode them. They can breathe.
Bay leaves, catnips, mint, cucumber and garlic
are sewn into the clothes of migrants.
The smugglers are relying on the repellents.
Roaches stand discreetly back.
Allowing the lesser bugs to confiscate.
Show me young men clambering on trucks.
Feral humans. A plague on the drivers.
Bring out your guns. And burn the boats.
I still don’t care.
In the dark of their old chambers
they hiss and chirrup on festering laws.
All will survive the attack,
draw plans to creep and stick around.
Commandeer ships. Cruise to many lands.
Seek out other enlightened roaches.
Show me a dream of Eldorado.
Open up your passports.
Cockroaches squashed inside
covering your face, your number, your country.
I still don’t care.
In the dark of their old chambers
they hiss and chirrup on festering laws.
All will survive the attack,
draw plans to creep and stick around.
Commandeer ships. Cruise to many lands.
Seek out other enlightened roaches.
Show me a dream of Eldorado.
Open up your passports.
Cockroaches squashed inside
covering your face, your number, your country.
I still don’t care.