It's been so wonderful to find this site. Basically, this where I'll post my poems and so forth. Also, apart from commenting on your threads I'll make comments about the poems in this section that have made an impression on me - It's like my own little poetry journal!
This first poem was written out of appreciation for the work done by Bono and many others in highlighting the ravages of extreme poverty. I visited Ireland recently where I was transfixed by statues created by Rowan Gillespie that highlighted the plight of those affected by the famine borne of the potato blight that so decimated Ireland. It struck me that all they needed was some help, somebody who cared, people who could sustain them for a while but it never really came. I looked at those gaunt figures and saw a link between that crisis and today's modern day AIDS crisis in Africa. So this poem was written to say thanks to those who are at least trying to make a difference, in this case, Bono and Mandela (please forgive my Bono idol worship - sorry can't help it) I've included some pictures; Stanza 1 - the famine memorial statues, Stanza 2- AIDS orphans standing on the graves of their parents, Stanza 4 - Mandela.
Whether.
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Whether by blight of crop
or blood,
it's when the eyes haunt whilst still alive,
the young turned old, that awful quickening,
that is the same
it's a stare that never ends.
I chanced upon Rowan Gillespies work,
along the banks of the harrowed Liffey,
and I saw those families,
and I imagined my own son limp on my shoulders,
As I too, stumbled towards,
my own shell shocked death.
How ravenous the famine that stalked,
like bristling wolves, the homes,
of the children of the soil - the homes,
of the believing.
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Whether by blight of crop
or blood,
it’s when their cries search for mothers already perished,
The young turned cold, that awful freezing,
that is the same.
Barely audible gasps of grief,
roam the blank halls,
so sore, as to wrestle the throat
to silence.
I see the vanishing families,
and in them felt to adopt the whole world.
How bitter this plague that erodes,
a hissing spitting acid,
devouring the husbands, wives, lovers and friends,
of the children of Africa – the last,
of the believing.
Whether by blight of crop,
or blood,
though my eyes no longer wish to see,
and my tongue is a numb statue,
yes, like one of Gillespie’s,
but you are not the same!
We can hear your voice,
our ears somehow the only mortal appendages,
linked to the spiritual,
and they are made more aware on nearing that new place,
where no lucre, sup or fuel sustains,
where it’s spirit surging in the veins
between perfected flesh and bone.
We can hear your voice
and it brings Africa…. possibility, the hope
of the believing.
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Whether by blight of crop
or blood,
whether by sword or hatred,
The awful tragedy remains the same.
You ask about how history will judge us?
It will be the same,
unless we change and divert,
from this absorbed path.
War, poverty, plague and death,
again and again and again.
You ask if we could somehow,
make some kind of good history?
Whether we could succeed?
We could – we could blow fresh like a breeze,
dancing from the freedom of Mandela’s Capelands
to the seeds sown in your Edun - In the gardens
of the believing!