Qana

“For use in MK-84 Guided Bomb BSU-37-B”

Safe in your sister’s arms,
Shielded from the blistering heat,
Safe in your mother’s embrace
At one with the rhythm of her breath,
Safe from the random bullet,
The stray delivery of death,
Safe in a womb of your own,
Out of sight of the pilot above,
Safe here, where miracles are made,
Where water turns to wine, as an act of love,
Safe because of your innocence,
Safe because you are only a child.

This ten second news story,
This modern parable,
What lessons does it hold?
My fingers splintered on rubble.
My blood ran cold,
As the last stone moved,
Revealed the first disfigured limb
And I knew the colours of her dress,
Recognised the pattern, doves on a dusty hem.

This comes from Robert Fisk’s account of the bombing of Qana in southern Lebanon. 56 innocent civilians were killed, victims of Israeli ‘precision’ bombing. 34 were children. The sub-heading refers to the markings found on a fragment of the bomb that slaughtered them. I don’t know whether to thank Robert or to curse him. He reveals so much that others would prefer to remain hidden, but it also means I can’t sleep at night and I haven’t even seen these horrors for myself. I don’t know how he can return, time and time again, often risking his own life, to the scene of one massacre after another. I don’t understand how he himself can sleep, having seen what he has seen. Qana is reputed to be the biblical Cana. Welcome to Bangladesh!

60

Today the bulldozer crawled
Into my village.
I watched the trees’ resistance,
Heard them groan and shake,
Hoping beyond hope
They could not break and after the trees bowed,
the stones ground their teeth in impotent fury,
Before they too tangled with the bones
Of lost tomorrows, in unmarked graves,
Corrupt foundations
For a shimmering, empty city,
Destruction in the myth of creation
By architects stripped of any pity.
What still remains that we may save
From the ruins left by an alien nation?

The bulldozers did come. A local farmer just sent them in to clear the cutting in front of our house. We were outraged, but then I began to put things ina different perspective....

The Assassination of Fadel Shana

Painted on its side was a Star of David,
Which made it God’s chosen tank,
Impervious to criticism, omnipotent,
Invincible in the face of stone throwing kids.

The turret rotated and the muzzle,
Like a baleful Cyclops eyed its prey,
A four by four parked
A few hundred yards away,

An obvious target,
Marked with letters three feet high –
‘TV/PRESS’ – an obvious invitation to open fire –
After all, it’s open season on those who ask why?

And so the long barrel coughed once,
The rabbinical shell spun on its way,
Determined to have the final say,
Ripped the back of the car right off,

Splintered into flechettes,
Inch long darts, which sliced
Through his flak jacket, as if through chaff,
Cut his puny spine in half.

Two seconds after a puff of dust
Marked the moment of the shot,
His images gave way to static
At the moment his great heart burst.

An Israeli military official said, "We wish to express sorrow for the death of the Palestinian cameraman ... It should be emphasized that the area in which the cameraman was injured is an area in which ongoing fighting against armed, extreme and dangerous terrorist organizations occurs on a daily basis. "The presence of media, photographers and other uninvolved individuals in areas of warfare is extremely dangerous and poses a threat to their lives."

After 2 weeks in hospital, weeks without news, I see that nothing has changed and so I return to the fray.

Falling Down

Dr, Mugabe knew one secret.
He found it in a learned book,
So when he saw the great White Tree he shook
And shook until the leaves fell into the dust
And the roots were ripped from the earth
And the Tree crashed to the ground
As all rotten trees must.

Dr. Mugabe strode out of the forest of dead trees,
With an AK47 in one hand.
On his back, he carried a bag of promises,
gifts to be spread throughout the land.
The greatest promise he kept inside,
A song of freedom that could never be denied.

Dr. Mugabe put his feet under our table.
He took the food from our plate.
When the water from our wells ran dry, we realised too late
That of the song of freedom there was no sound
And the bag of promises was nowhere to be found.

Dr. Mugabe grew old.
His women all grew fat.
His brothers all wore sharp White suits
And smiles like the proverbial cat
Who crept into our house and stole the cream
And the song of freedom became a distant dream.

Before it came to this,
If only he’d had the time to sit
With the old men in the shade,
Watching the ants, such industrious insects,
Build great cities out of mud and shit
And he would have known, like them,
That warriors rarely make the best architects
And the elders would have told him, without hesitation,
That if you yearn to build a nation,
There’s one big snag….
You can’t imprison freedom in your own bag.

My old Townhill sparring partner, Frank Grist, would have a wry smile on his face if he could read this poem. When I last saw him, just before he died, he took great pleasure in reminding me that I was 'Mugabe's Man', as I had supported the liberation struggle in Zimbabwe. I don't regret my stand and I never have had any illusions in the 'heroes of the revolution'.

Ama Sumani

Time for confessions ….
Were you the one
Who formed the weasel words?
Were you amongst the sheep
Who voted for this ‘law’?
Is this what you voted for?
Were you the one
Who signed her death warrant?
Were you one of the immigration cops
Who dragged her onto the flight,
Muttering, “ I was only
Carrying out orders. Somebody else
Would have done it if I had not.”

This how a Holocaust begins,
You watch, disconnected
As they take one defenceless black woman
From a cancer ward,
Give no thought to her fate,
For though she has countless friends,
The money needed will come together too late,
She’ll be too exhausted to fight on,
Knowing that for justice she’d have to wait
Until the oceans froze and the skies wept blood,
Long after she’d been murdered by the state.
Who’s will be the next name to be chalked up on your gory slate?

What has Latuff's cartoon got to do with the poem that follows? I am making a point here. This is the same fight and we are dealing with the same enemy.

2008 Grav Slam

There I was, like the last miners’ picket,
Stranded outside the ground without a ticket,
When a voice whispered, “Follow me Butt.
I know an entrance that’s never shut.”
And so I can tell you, I was there
Where the flags flew the thickest in the cold evening air,
To see Grav lead his girls out by the hand,
Hear his voice boom “Mae Hen” louder than the band.

High ball, crash ball, ruck and maul,
The soundest brick in a great Red Wall,
The big man stormed everywhere,
Laying waste to blue shirts without a care
Until the final whistle blew
And the roar of 80,000 grew
And the foundations of Cardiff shook
And pubs overflowed wherever you looked.

Faced with a post match interview, Grav gravely shook his head
And with a grin that split his face from side to side just said,
“That was the most gruelling game I’ve ever had.
Just goes to show, this artificial leg’s not bad!”

No one who isn't Welsh will understand this poem or even care what a 'Grand Slam' is. With so much misery abounding it's time for some unbridled joy and another celebration of a great man and a Welsh legend.

March 17

The memory of your blistered skin
Makes my flesh crawl even now,
Forty years older and no wiser,
Conscience fragile, still paper thin.
Your face spools round and round
The screen, flickering in flame.
The camera pans onwards,
Here the scorched landscape,
Olive groves ablaze,
There the cratered city,
Green flags defiant through the haze.
Da Nang, Beit Hanun
Our nightmares blur as one,
But always the same face,
The same ravaged eyes
Come running straight at me.

It's almost the 40th anniversary of the anti-Vietnam War demonstration which was charged by mounted police in Grosvenor Square on March 17 1968, my political baptism of fire. I wish I could say that things had changed for the better. I am pleased to say that the celebrated cartoonist, Latuff has agreed for me to use his cartoons on this blog. See above for the first one....