Sunday, 19 November 2017

Brexit Sestina

Brexit Sestina

The year of twenty-sixteen was the year we chose to leave,
the year the Referendum posed the question should we go.
To hell with Brussels and the rest or just decide to stay,
or count the blessings we were told we'd get when we were free.
The cash we'd keep was on the bus; it seemed to make some sense
to spend it on the NHS, but Boris couldn't count.

The benefits of membership, they said they didn't count,
because we fought for freedom and we had the right to leave.
But as we know, their facts were lies, we knew they made no sense.
To pull us out of Europe and to force us all to go
and leave the common market and stop trading tariff-free
meant nothing good would come of it if voting not to stay.

Despite the Tories thinking that we'd all just vote to stay,
the voters paid attention to deceivers and the count
then went against the polls, because the reins were given free
to teamsters on the wagons driving all of us to leave.
Despite the ballot's status and the lack of need to go,
the tight result was soon avowed a triumph in a sense.   

The country was quite clearly split and leaving made no sense,
because the Referendum rules meant that we could all stay,
but no the leavers threw a fit and we were forced to go;
to go against the interests of the people who don't count;
to go along with Grassroots Out and champions of Vote Leave;
to follow blindly Nige Mirage and be migration free.

The fascist doctrine of the right said Britain must be free,
so Greater Brexitania could be in one real sense
an island full of xenophobes and haters who would leave,
their jingoistic bigotry on show to those who'd stay;
to those remoaners as they called them, those who didn't count,
whose will was not for leaving like the ones who voted go.

And when she penned the letter that announced that we would go,
she lost control and panic struck, May thought that she'd be free,
if only folks would vote for her, but when the ballot count
was made, Theresa's Tories lost. Her gamble made no sense
and she was left to count the cost of paying up to stay:
a billion to the DUP to feed the will to leave.

So now what counts for talks take place as Britain plans to go
and jump the cliff and leave except, we're going not for free,
but for a fee that makes no sense. Far better off to stay.

Sunday, 12 November 2017

Lead poisoning

Lead poisoning

C'est la via, c'est la mort,
c'est la fin de la guerre, 
c'est le poème du sacre mercenaire.

I was to compose a 'death or glory' poem,
after Tennyson, when the first few lines
were shot clean through with leaden slugs.

Slingshot, engraved with wingéd bolts,
Take that! (in Greek) inscribed on obverse,
peppered the raw first draft on the page.

I'd written of 'Harry' and 'unleashed dogs',
tried Havoc! but clichés clashed and those,
a writer's volleyed words, fell short once more.

Spherical lead in cold-swagered rounds,
which the French, in their way, call boulettes,
tore a bloody great hole in the verse,

and Minié balls, a gift of France,
were fired in discharged fusillades,
in salvoes to the stanzas' flanks.

Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, chanted guns
as columns were strafed while standing fast
and rank upon rank, the syllables fell.

Outflanked at the last, I attempted retreat,
but enfilades of covering fire
failed to prevent ignominious defeat

and an orchestrated din of lethality,
made wretched by countless fatalities,
brought surrender-- the last vulgarity.