in his mother's arms the boy said ta-ta
to starvation, now lays on the mud floor
his dead eyes blindfolded with a coloured cloth
ready to be buried alongside a crowd
of small mounds of clay where dead children lie
she keeps her son's death a secret so as
not to loose his portion of ration too
to enable feeding his twin sisters, whose
scared eyes witness the life's ghastly drama
unaware of what is in store for them
© SK Iyer
I hid my dead baby so that I could keep food for his twin
Editor's note: This isn't the first poem we've published, associated with this particular story, but such is the gravity of the situation in the Horn of Africa, we make no apologies.
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SK Iyer is a commerce graduate, leading a retired but busy life in Pune, India. His poems have been published. He is a member of PK Poetry List, UK.
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Night Out
I left them on the doorstep for a good while.
That’d show them what it was like to live slow.
Then I let them in. Didn’t offer them tea.
‘Haven’t played tag since primary school’
didn’t go down well with the burly one.
Worth a try. Miserable gits, both.
I stuck my leg up on the coffee table.
Had borrowed a pair of Dad’s old flares.
Looked a right knob. But needs must.
‘Must’ve been a nasty injury, that,’
said the thin one, tapping the bandage.
I winced a bit. Always liked Drama.
He unzipped a rucksack, full of tags
for lads not going out tonight.
Lads with both legs. Ha ha ha.
‘Tag's not too tight, is it?’ said Fat Bloke.
I nearly lost it then, I’m telling you.
‘Can’t feel a thing.’ It was the truth.
‘That’ll keep you out of trouble,’ they said.
I watched them walk down the road.
That’d be Kane, then. At number 33.
I left the leg in a corner, home alone,
And practised with my crutches in the alley.
Been a while. Lump in the throat.
No one at the pub had a better story.
Still came home without a girl
but, hey. As days go, fair enough.
© Fran Hill
G4S sacks pair who tagged offender's false leg
--------------------------------------------------------
Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.
That’d show them what it was like to live slow.
Then I let them in. Didn’t offer them tea.
‘Haven’t played tag since primary school’
didn’t go down well with the burly one.
Worth a try. Miserable gits, both.
I stuck my leg up on the coffee table.
Had borrowed a pair of Dad’s old flares.
Looked a right knob. But needs must.
‘Must’ve been a nasty injury, that,’
said the thin one, tapping the bandage.
I winced a bit. Always liked Drama.
He unzipped a rucksack, full of tags
for lads not going out tonight.
Lads with both legs. Ha ha ha.
‘Tag's not too tight, is it?’ said Fat Bloke.
I nearly lost it then, I’m telling you.
‘Can’t feel a thing.’ It was the truth.
‘That’ll keep you out of trouble,’ they said.
I watched them walk down the road.
That’d be Kane, then. At number 33.
I left the leg in a corner, home alone,
And practised with my crutches in the alley.
Been a while. Lump in the throat.
No one at the pub had a better story.
Still came home without a girl
but, hey. As days go, fair enough.
© Fran Hill
G4S sacks pair who tagged offender's false leg
--------------------------------------------------------
Fran lives in the West Midlands (UK). She teaches English in a local secondary school, writes, performs, blogs, tweets and tries to resist chocolate.
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