Kofi Annan stepped into blood on streets,
slipped and slithered between army and rookie
fighters. He held his head high inside a secure
circle of nations shooting spitballs across crushed
bones, empty i.v. lines, children’s bodies in linen,
all paraded on TV screens in spotless offices
where men rested, in fresh shirts, on soft chairs,
and moved chess pieces, snacked on fresh fruit.
But Kofi Annan did not rest, he flew to Moscow,
to Damascus, courted the Arab League, NATO,
sent in a team of blue helmeted observers, talked
nonstop with suits, heads in sand, minds blocked.
He gave his all as he passed by bronzed thrones,
silver dress swords, but only he was worthy of gold.
© Lavinia Kumar
Syria crisis: Annan's exit marks end of diplomatic track
Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, in the US and UK. She writes a blog for her brother’s seniorsmagazine.org, based in Portsmouth, NH.
Monday, 6 August 2012
Sunday, 5 August 2012
Sunday Review
As expected, we've had a couple of Olympic poems this week - beginning with Steve Regan's blistering attack on The Evil Games with its 'tarnished gold', 'rancid anthems' and 'being about /winning instead of the /important stuff of life, /which is mainly about losing.' Even Vala Hafstad's series of limericks The Animals' Olympics Report hinted at darker truths about marketing and one-up-manship.
For all our heroic aspirations, how sad it is, says Abigail Wyatt in Dark Days: a Reflection on Our Time, 'when the tribe no longer will carry its sick / but leaves them by the wayside to die' - a poignant poem inspired by a threat to disability and sickness benefits which has gone under-reported in the UK due to Olympic fever.
If this sounded like The Door to Hell - it isn't, that's in Turmenistan according to Craig Guthrie. But sometimes hell is a closed door, like those described by the ex-prisoners Lavina Kumar writes about so movingly in Just draw the sun on the wall.
What will we think looking back on all this? Noel Loftus has some ideas on that in Vision Twenty Twenty. But then hindsight is always 20/20 isn't it?
We're very low on submissions at the moment, and we're happy to have more Olympic Games!
Have a good week
Clare (& Martin)
For all our heroic aspirations, how sad it is, says Abigail Wyatt in Dark Days: a Reflection on Our Time, 'when the tribe no longer will carry its sick / but leaves them by the wayside to die' - a poignant poem inspired by a threat to disability and sickness benefits which has gone under-reported in the UK due to Olympic fever.
If this sounded like The Door to Hell - it isn't, that's in Turmenistan according to Craig Guthrie. But sometimes hell is a closed door, like those described by the ex-prisoners Lavina Kumar writes about so movingly in Just draw the sun on the wall.
What will we think looking back on all this? Noel Loftus has some ideas on that in Vision Twenty Twenty. But then hindsight is always 20/20 isn't it?
We're very low on submissions at the moment, and we're happy to have more Olympic Games!
Have a good week
Clare (& Martin)
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