Syria

The blood flows and limbs are torn asunder,

Screams reach out across the air waves, hopeless

Victims of savagery, caused by blunder

Blind fear and crusades, cruel, meaningless.

Yet we sit, frozen, clinging to quiet lives,

To our nuanced decorations, as though

Frodo in the green of the Shire derives

Purpose from a warm hearth and soft pillow.

The shambles of scattered flesh is hidden

From us, witnessed by a few mad brave souls

And the poor folk condemned to the midden

Trapped though innocent in the hell fire coals.

Is it enough that we live where we are,

Wrestle with our domestic pains, bemoan

Minor obligations, in safety far

From the charnel house, the wail and the groan?

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4 thoughts on “Syria

  1. I understand the intensity of emotion in this poem. It is utterly justified. I like this poem, but less than your Arden one in which I think the emotion is more restrained (and also which is full of allusions). Congratulations though.

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    • Yes – it’s not quite enough. As I said to Chris Nelson it is just a helpless wail. Perhaps the savagery of Syria is beyond us in the comfortable west – the Observer featured a couple of poets from the war zone who are drawing poetry from the horror. Maybe we have to leave real poetry to them?

      Liked by 1 person

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