Sunday, August 06, 2006

268. The War in Lebanon





O God, they’re at it again!

During the last 60 years, or ever since the creation of the State of Israel, hardly a week or month has gone by without some incident of political violence in which civilians have been attacked or killed. There have been major outbreaks of violence in the form of all-out wars in 1948, 1956, 1967, 1973, 1982, and now, since July 12 of this year, we have witnessed Israeli airstrikes on Lebanon. Apart from the full-scale invasion of Lebanon in 1982 there have also been bombing campaigns by Israel in 1978 and 1996 before the Israeli army finally withdrew its troops from southern Lebanon in 2000. Internally Israel has been engaged in almost continuous military actions against the Palestinians, most notably in reaction to the “intifadas” (uprisings) of 1987 and 2000. Now they are at it again in Gaza.

Israel lays claim to the sympathies of the West as a fellow “democracy” surrounded by hostile enemies who wish to destroy the Jewish state and push its inhabitants into the sea. This is very emotive stuff but it has gradually lost the power to convince (except, of course, in the United States) since originally well-disposed European nations have taken stock of the overwhelming military superiority of Israel vis-à-vis its opponents and the number of times that Israel has been the actual instigator of armed conflict in the region (every single time, in fact, with the exception of the Egyptian attack in 1973). It’s a little bit like the Boy Who Cries Wolf in that the neighbours soon learn to take these pleas with a pinch of salt. Woe, then, to Israel should she really come under the sort of devastating attack that would actually threaten her existence!! Of course, America will probably still be there to pull the irons out of the fire should things ever get that far – and it seems highly unlikely they ever will – whereas the Europeans, grown ever more disillusioned with Israeli behaviour, would be much slower to react.

Does Israel have a right to exist?


Yes. It will always be a troublesome entity because of its location and because of some of its rather more dubious Zionist claims to legitimacy. Nevertheless, the state of Israel is internationally recognized and its right to exist will be defended by the United Nations, even to the extent of military intervention if necessary. In spite of Israeli fears to the contrary, the world will not stand by and allow Israel to be destroyed. Only Israel itself can do that. There is a growing belief among non-partisan outside observers that the attitudes and policies of successive Israeli governments have done much to exacerbate the problems of the region and that these policies have increased rather than reduced tensions with Israel’s neighbours and its internal population of Palestinians. In other words, Israel has generally created more problems than it has solved, rarely if ever accepts responsibility for these problems, and consistently engages in angry but well-orchestrated attacks on any groups or individuals who have the temerity to challenge its behaviour.














The real question here is which Israel has the right to exist? Is it the Israel of the original UN Partition Plan of 1947, the expanded Israel that followed the 1948 war, or the even more expanded Israel which came into being after the 1967 war? (see maps above and below). In 1967 Israel took over -- and continues to occupy -- the West Bank and East Jerusalem (formerly part of Jordan), Gaza (formerly Egyptian -- the Sinai Peninsula was returned in 1982), the Golan Heights (formerly Syrian) and a small enclave along the Syrian-Lebanese border known as Shebaa Farms. UN Resolution 242 (November 22, 1967) specifically called for Israel to withdraw from these occupied territories.


There have been 98 UN resolutions concerning Israeli actions and the vast majority of them have been critical. Nevertheless, the only UN Resolution that Israel cares to quote is Resolution 1559 calling on the Lebanese government to disarm Hezbollah, (“There are pro-Israeli and anti-Israeli sources that have commented on the amount of United Nations resolutions against Israel. Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir commissioned an analysis of UN voting concerning Israel. According to results of this study, from 1967 to 1988 the Security Council passed 88 resolutions directly against Israel and during that span, Israel was condemned 43 times. In the UN General Assembly, 429 resolutions against Israel were passed, and Israel was condemned 321 times”. – source, Wikipedia).

Is Israel justified in its attack on Lebanon?




No. The rationale put forward is totally out of sequence. We are told Israel has a right to destroy the Lebanese infrastructure (roads, bridges, the main airport, oil storage facilities, TV and cellphone relay towers, factories, etc.) because Hizbullah fired rockets into Israel. This is not what happened. The Hizbullah attacked an Israeli army patrol, killed three soldiers and captured two. Their intent was to set up a prisoner exchange for some of the 900 or so Lebanese held without charge in the Israeli military prison system. Israel sent in a team (there is still a dispute as to which side of the border the original incident occurred)to chase down the Hizbullah fighters and one of their tanks ran over a landmine and a further four Israeli soldiers were killed. One more soldier was killed in an ambush as the Israelis attempted to retrieve the bodies. The next day Israel initiated air strikes on southern Lebanon and hit the airport in Beirut. Hassan Nasrullah, the Hizbullah leader, told Israel to stop bombing Lebanese targets or Hizbullah would fire rockets into Israel. That’s how that got started.



Next, we hear that Syria and particularly Iran are engaged in a proxy war with Israel (and the United States) by supplying Hizbullah with missiles and military training. Even as this complaint was doing the rounds of all the media outlets, the USA was shipping new bombs into Israel by way of Prestwick airport in Scotland. This is apparently OK. The bombs were redirected through Prestwick (much to the fury of the Scots) because my own government in Ireland refused landing rights at Shannon airport. Good for them. So why can’t Hizbullah and Israel make a deal? We (Hizbullah) will cut all ties with Syria and Iran if you (Israel) promise to cut all ties with the USA? Well, I can’t see that happening any time soon, but it amazes me that people can't see the parallels.

Are we being told the truth?

No, of course not. When has that ever happened? The so-called Peace Process between Israel and the Palestinians is a total sham and everybody knows it. It’s a smokescreen to hide the fact that Israel wants to retain the occupied territories and somehow get rid of the Palestinians. This is why they are building illegal settlements, usually on strategic hilltop positions; this is why they confiscate Palestinian land, refusing building permits to Palestinian families (if they do build, their homes are destroyed by bulldozers); this is why they set up military roadblocks and checkpoints that make it nearly impossible for Palestinians to get their goods to market, attend schools and universities, get to hospitals for imminent childbirth and other medical emergencies, or in simple terms, lead normal lives; this is why they have set up a highway system connecting settlements that only Israeli citizens can use. The list goes on. It is literally unbelievable, except nobody seems to be paying any attention to what is actually happening to these people. These daily humiliations are totally buried in American press and TV coverage. Whenever Palestinians react with anger they are painted as mindless terrorists and Israel is praised for “defending” itself by shooting a few of them. Kids throw stones against tanks and when the soldiers catch them, they beat them and break their arms. Those are the lucky ones, the ones who don’t get shot. Unlike press and television outlets from the rest of the world, the American news media hardly ever mentions the brutal military occupation which gives rise to these responses. The whole situation is reported totally out of context as if the Palestinians were unstable people addicted to violence. Could you imagine this happening in your own neighbourhood? Probably not, but if it were to happen, what would be your reaction? Fight or flight? The Palestinians have nowhere to run to.

Ehud Barak, military hero and former Israeli prime minister, was once caught off guard by a reporter's question:

"What would you have done, sir, if you had been born a Palestinian?"
Barak thought a moment and replied candidly,"I imagine that if I were a Palestinian of the right age, I would, at some stage, have joined one of the terror organizations."

Right, exactly. Source under Quotes.


In the meantime, for those who are interested in Israel and the Middle East,there is a longer article on this blog entitled 'Great Hatred, Little Room'.

By clicking on the links button below you will be brought to a kaboodle.com page with a collection of nearly a dozen recent articles on Lebanon and Gaza.







links

www.kaboodle.com

Friday, August 04, 2006

267. Breaking News




Whatever it takes,
between station breaks,
allow your mouth to do the walking
and never once stop talking;

Anderson Cooper
induces stupor,
but, consistently, most of all,
what really drives me up the wall

is Colonel This and Brigadier That
who woof-woof at us rata-tat-tat
with their steely eyes and lantern jaws
about events, yet never the cause

of the unfolding dreadful situation
in a small and faraway foreign nation
when any fool can easily tell
that they don't know really what the hell

is in actual fact transpiring;
this is sad, it is totally uninspiring,
as innocent people continue to die
and they focus on what, but can't say why:

half-cocked blather, ill-prepared,
"news" by and for the thought-impaired.

Under the moon and under the sun
all humankind must learn,
that those to whom evil is done
WILL do evil in return.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

266. Mexico



In many different ways
the nights were a torment
far worse than the days.

Trapped, involuntarily,
in a situation beyond our control,
we believed, contrarily,

that others were to blame.
We tried to shrug aside responsibility,
and so avoid the shame.

We were not good at introspection:
we were trained to fight, wrong or right;
thought was a kind of infection.

We had killed the enemy with impunity,
to be captured was a blow to our pride;
then kindness broke down our immunity.

Why were they devoid of hostility?
This we could not, would not, understand;
it made us consider the futility

of the righteous, murderous behaviour
that had primed us from the start.
They spoke of a just and gentle Saviour

bringing peace and freedom to the land.
We tried, but it was beyond us --
at first we could not understand.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

265. Rue du Bonne Chance



Madame Vavasour
trips the light
fantastic,
orgiastic,
dans le Rue
du Sauvignon.


L’onion
in zee hand
is worse too
in zee Boosh.

Alors, quel’ homme!!
Inky- dinky
Quest ce-que tu dire?
Never push
when you can shove instead.

Hola, parlez vous?
(Oui, oui, on y va chez nous!)


Life is short,
soon comes le Morte
and by report
the silent resentful dead
remain dead for a very very very
long time.

My crime
was complex, yet quite simple,
my best girl had a pimple
and the blowtorch
came to hand.
Franz Ferdinand
war ein “echter Wiener”
In Bosnia-Hercegovina,
Jetzt tot, der lieber Mann,
his white on white tunic
now so dunkel-rot
and poor morganatic Sophie
shot and squealed and bled,
equally, beastly dead.

La veille ogresse avec les dents jaunes
No, that was Queen Victoria,
a completely different storia.

In another place, another time
some other crime
transpires; now the fires
of Hell burn low:
the Devil’s stokers want to strike
instead they just “go slow”.
They don’t much like
their permanent condition
and seek the Devil’s permission
for a 3-week summer break
in Purgatory. Nugatory, I fear,
such hopes, the rise and fall of tropes:
after all, they have made their beds
along with other nasty deads.

And it’s only them feckin Paddies
(such an awful lot of them down here)
who keep acting queer, obstreperous laddies,
getting into fights,
demanding non-existent rights.
So, the Devil, well, he’s right annoyed
and consults his adviser, Sigmund Freud
(yes, of course, he’s down here too,
an under keeper of this shabby zoo,
a critic and constant scathing belittler
of his hopeless assistant, Adolf Hitler).
Ah, feck this crowd, says the Devil,
would you ever get on the phone to Neville
Chamberlain? He’s one of the pure
blithering idiots beyond,
he’s easily fooled and easily conned.
Tell him to ask that fella God
if he’s ready to do a trade?
He can have the Irish, the whole bleedin’ crew,
and all he has to do
is send me some Baptists and Quakers
and a slew of pious Protestants.
They’ll work without the bother of getting paid
and pay attention to the borders;
best of all, at my beck and call,
they will obey my Standing Orders!!


Madame Vavasour
is not a hoor
but a woman of a certain age
with a mind “en clair”
who thought, this world is so unfair
with young girls placed in a cage:
Alors, she reflected, what can I do,
If not be unfair too?
Her raging business success
has got her on the Fortune 500
along with all the other crooks and liars.
On the smouldering funeral pyres
of our moribund civilization
a final oration
falls due to our Captains of Industry!
Damaged people, with nervous tics and snuffles,
who root out money like pigs find truffles.

On the Chateau d’If
d’Whether, du When,
the wind blows from the south.
Ah, Bisto!
cries out the Count of Monte Christo,
rinsing out his … armpits;
today I believe I shall them deceive,
Voila! Heu, heu .. oui, sacre bleu!!
Vite, vite, vite, doleur!

Zee tricoleur
will fly over all zee nations
and reparations
will be honoured, on presentation
of a duly signed and stamped receipt
at Burlington Court, 114 the Strand.
Ah, life would surely be grand
with loads of unearned money!
But life is brutal, grasping, sick,
a carny trick --
but sometimes very funny.
Things happen.
Things happen some more.
Things happen some more some more.
You can’t help but love it.

War criminals
die peacefully in their beds
while their innocent victims
die in agony, in hundreds of thousands:
that’s the way things are.
In my little car
I drive ten thousand miles
across the weeping frontiers.

Tears
do nothing.
Nothing changes,
Nothing improves.
Power remains a heartless game
in every generation.
The occasion
of death is incidental,
accidental, and necessary.
It moves all people aside.
It ranges wide.

Friday, July 07, 2006

264.Texas/Japan

East Jesus

Nowhere, East Texas,
set down on the courthouse square,
walk over to the store,
dark and dim, take a moment or two,
to adjust from the outside glare.
Three pair
of cold unfriendly eyes
look me up and down:
Where you from, boy?
Uhh, Dallas.
You stayin long?
No, sir.
Good.
Can I buy some stuff, is that OK?
If your money's good
yewkun bah whut yew lakh.
No satisfaction
in that transaction: walk out
and some lizard-like lounging lout
spits a gob of tobacco
right in the shadow of my shoes.
This is totally calculated, calibrated,
so I look in his rattlesnake eyes
and think "Oh fuck, I'm outta luck"
but don't look shook or frustrated.
"Y'all have a nice day now,"
I drawl with a smile and a wink,
(you need a Stetson to really pull this off,
you tug at the brim, look constipated)
hoo, that made that bastard blink!
Scoot back quick into the car,
ignition, ignition, ignition!!
get me, get me outta here!
Whoa, slow down,go almighty slow,
'cause only a fool would fail to know
that the county sheriff is around the bend,
"Well, well, pull over mah little friend"
and he don't take checks or credit cards.
Ahh, Texas.
I dunno.
Give it back to Mexico?

Snow

The bells of hell
go ting-aling-aling
ting-aling-aling, ting-aling-aling,
the bells of hell
they ring-a-ling-a-ling,
for you but not for me.


O mournful mournful is my role
as horror-struck I view
the used-up hanky of your soul
dissolve into the blue.

The bells of hell
go ting-aling-aling
ting-aling-aling, ting-aling-aling,

O Death where is thy sting-aling-aling
O grave thy mysteries?
Across the hot and heartless highways
armadilloes whacked by SUVs.
O we may weep into our pillows,
and we may weep in lanes and byways,
our emotions can be such a tease.

they ring-a-ling-a-ling,
for you but not for me.


Her name is Yuki
and she tells me that means snow.
I know. She has bad teeth but a nice smile,
and like all girls, she wants to be liked,
and not chased and used and thrown away
and cast into the blue.

My feelings, sorry, don't run deep.
I'd really rather go to sleep.

When girls ignore guys
people smile and call it a game;
when guys ignore girls
it's suddenly not the same:
no, somehow, that's not funny.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

263. Billy Wilson



Baby, let me drive your car,
let me drive you, honey,
it's so funny to come so far
in such a short time:
hey, ain't no crime,
basking in the neon in my flashy suit
and my twenty-seven dollar necktie,
guaranteed imitation
Thai silk. Pass the milk
and drink up your coffee, baby,
we gonna have ourselves some fun
before this day is done.
I like you, girl, but I just LOVE your machine,
tuned-up, growling, smooth, and clean.
I'm holding steady, rough and ready,
but I can sure be kind --
Yes, ma'am, wham-bam,
ya-hoo ... hey, you don't mind?
If I act like a prisoner on reprieve
it's because I got compassionate leave
(my grandmother died for the second time)
and very soon I gotta go back
to f**kin Iraq, shoot down
another two dozen ragheads
or get blown to sh**.
There ain't no sense in it.
They say there are 35 million
of these goddam people
and we sure as hell can't shoot them all.
We'd like to. Greasing is so easy,
and nobody don't say nothing.
What the hell, survive. Stay alive,
and blow them all to hell.
Might as well. Drop bombs from the air,
we don't care. Ay-rabs suck,
hey, what the f**k!!
Say, baby, you wanna get married
when I come home?
Just don't sell that car.
Or we could go to Vegas
and live in sin
at the Holiday Inn.

USA!
your daddy was a preacher
USA!
my mommy was a teacher
USA!
Damn, it's a great country,
you can't help but love it.

Sunday, June 11, 2006

262. Afterlife



Welcome to the Afterlife --
so sorry you are dead, folks,
but if you would just step this way
we have some exciting
offers and options
and several "eternal" packages
which I am sure
you will find interesting
(my assistants very shortly
will hand out brochures).

Could the Jews
please leave your suitcases, undress
and go to the showers?
Just follow the guide.
You were right all along.
Congratulations.
Thank you, thank you,
just follow the guide
and ignore the dogs,
they rarely bite.

Now, Mormons,
over to my left, please,
so we can fit you up
for your robes and wings;
there's a bit of a cliff,
a precipice, actually,
but I can assure you
that the wings
generally work quite well.

Ahh, Muslims!
Will the men please move over
to the small stinking rooms
where you will remain
for the next seven centuries?
Ladies, into the garden
with these young lusty handsome chaps,
seven each, I believe,
who will fulfill
your every desire.
Yes, yes, of course
you can throw away the veils!

Namaste, Hindu friends!
Over there with the cows
and the monkeys, the elephants
and the kangaroos:
they all speak Railway English.
The Untouchables
(such a quaint endearing term)
will prepare your food
and look after you.

Protestants, oh dear!
We're not quite ready
so, if you wouldn't mind
please gallop along
to this cold drafty chapel
and sing tedious hymns
for the next 300 years
while we do our best
to get back to you.

Catholics, oh so many!
Right, Italians into the restaurant,
Irish and Poles into the pub,
Spaniards and Portuguese
onto the terrace, if you wouldn't mind,
and South Americans
into the carnival tents.
Chileans, if you please,
into the soccer stadium!

Right, who's left?
Pagans, atheists, New Age
California bunnies?
Pick up the brooms
and grab the mops
and clean up the area.
Enya is on Channel Four
on your headsets, the same song
for the next 400 years,
plus forest winds
and ocean waves
and birdsong.
Enjoy!

God is on a business trip
negotiating exchange rights
with Mr Lucifer
but should be back
by tea-time.
He will welcome you all
with a 3-year-long speech
upon his return.

We are negotiating with Hell
to get Fidel
when he drops off from the pod:
he can do the speeches instead of God.

Now we are all settled
and nothing remains to be said.
Aren't you all thrilled and excited
to know you are finally dead?

Friday, June 09, 2006

261. Beer is Beautiful!!!


Slainte!!

Ale does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to Man.

When I finally expire, the thing I require
is a barrel of beer at my head and feet;
and all the sad mourners, such as they are,
should certainly NOT arrive by car:
they'll be unable to drive when the wake's complete!

When I was young, I stuck my tongue
into me Daddy's pint, I was no more than five;
O -- a strange taste, a need for exploration,
the start of a lifelong adoration:
no sense of sinning, just an early beginning!

Whatever age you are, stand up at the bar,
and if your nose, by God, peeks over the rail,
and if you can pay for what you think you deserve
the old-time barmen would chuckle and serve:
them charmin' barmen; just the one , never fail!

With laughter and tears, over many long years,
there's been a fair amount of time in liquid locations;
exhilaration and anger, yes, these I have seen --
and a whole gamut of feelings inbetween:
yet my dealings are smooth with friends and relations!

It's difficult not to let
things get you upset.
A lightly controlled beer-aholic
can mentally leap and frolic,
and avoid the sour and sober juices
that pride (and sister envy) induces.
There's nothing wrong with a rosy glow
if it bucks you up, and helps you know
that your life is a comet in the sky:
you are born, you live, you die.


But when I look back, I can't keep track
of all the beery idylls that have kept me sane;
not a bad oul' life, many a sudsy day
in spite of AA and what puritans say:
Yoho! -- hey, hey -- let's start up again!

Saturday, June 03, 2006

260. The Summer of 1914




The summer of nineteen-fourteen
has been made idyllic
through the prism of memory:

nostalgic images of a lazy purling stream
meandering through the peaceful village
under a buzz of bees and hummingbird wings;
of high teas with strawberry and cream,
of respectful peasants at their tillage,
of order and stability in all things.

Poof! It was nothing of the sort.
One can objectively report
and the diarists of the time will readily confess
that the world was already in a mess,
quite ready and willing to go to war,
and had been for some time before.

The apogee of pride and prosperity
reached its peak around eighteen eighty six
at home, and in farflung British dominions;
the Empire commenced its slide downhill
with the Second Irish Home Rule Bill;
and Victorian gentlemen, with asperity,
were wont, ever afterwards, to fix
that date in their opinions.

By mathematical extraction
(learned at school as subtraction)
there are twenty-eight years left adrift
between 1886 and 1914;
and, as can be wryly foreseen,
this will allow the blame to shift
for decline and contamination
on that hapless generation.

Conscience made brief appearances
and (inevitable) disappearances
as the ancient ruling classes
gave ground to the growling masses.
Under brave Parnell, until he fell,
(hounded to his death by his own countrymen, I might add,
Irish jackals will only attack a wounded lion, bedad!!)
the Irish had set out to leave the UK,
and it's eminently fair to say
this was not the first nor last temptation
to do so by that wounded nation.
(Let's leave it at that: today,
Ireland is five-sixths OK.
Up the Republic!!)

But in Britain at the time, what was going on?
Even now, today, it's not easy to say:
Blind conviction gave way to "I surmise" or "I feel",
and the bedrock the Empire had been borne upon
was slowly, steadily, being whittled away:
an empire taken for granted, yet not quite real.
Extending the benefits of English civilization
became a minor not major consideration;
the extraction of profit was no longer the aim,
so what, indeed, was the point of the game?
Power and pride, perhaps,
and in the event of a lapse
overseas employment for wayward sons
and a chance to try out new guns.

Whatever happens we have got
The Maxim Gun, and they have not.


After the Crimean ( 1856-58 ) disaster,
slowly, and then faster and faster,
the despised but tough little British Army
trained on rebellious natives.
They were ever victorious
happy and glorious
in India (1857) and China (1860),
in Ethiopia (1868) and Zululand (1879)
and ever and always
on the wild and woolly Afghan frontier.

When the Boers said, "What's mine is mine!"
Britain thought there'd be nothing to it,
(that would be South Africa -- 1899)
but, then, after three years, lived to rue it.
The Boers -- Dutch white settlers -- arose
and the world stood up and said ... Yesss!!!
when Britain suffered a series of blows.
At last, at last, there will be redress
for all those years of arrogance!

The Army went on to win in the end,
after initial and surprising defeat,
dealt out by "European" opponents
for a change; one should consider the range
and consider the various components
of this war -- the barbed wire, the machine guns,
the concrete blockhouses, the concentration camps,
all the features that would so soon repeat
with ruthless exponential brutality,
the new twentieth-century reality.
Only this time in Europe.

Britain "won" the First World War
at least until Hitler came along;
then they had to fight the Second Half
of the extended German War as well
for which I confess, one can do no less
than admire them. They stood up
when the rest of the world stood down.
Including America.

So that was the final end,
in victory, of the farflung British Empire.
The eccentric awkward island remains
querulously independent to this day.
Rapidly, with very little delay
most of the red and the pink bits on the map
have faded and gone away.
Yet who can say
that this is a bad thing?

Is there a lesson for our American cousins?
Damn right, there is. I'm coming to it,
in fact, what do you think I'm writing for?
Look upon this poem as a metaphor.
Since I don't wish to seem to attack
you (you can be so-o-o sensitive!!).Iraq
and the Idiot and his Cronies, on this occasion,
will be airbrushed out of the equation.
There has been enough political talking.
I think, on the whole, you should be walking
Home. Leave it. You sure as hell don't need it.
The British found out the hard way
that tyranny, which is what Empire is,
does not befit a free people.

It hurts the people at home
just as much as the "natives" overseas:
even more, in some ways.
America has its own history of defiance,
real enough at the time, now Disneyfied,
and unfortunately ill-remembered:
Geo Washington and the cherry tree!
But a Republic is not an Empire,
not if its citizens remain vigilant.
Avoid it like poison. Keep the soldiers home.
Do not become another Rome.
----------------------------

For an article on the 1914-18 War, based on a visit to the Somme and Ypres, please go to the link Armistice Day on this blog.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

259. Damaged in Transit

When things start to go wrong
panic rises, with a tightness
in your chest, with a lightness
in your head. Time seems long.
Dull colours, bled, take on a sharper edge,
but this, of course, is an illusion.
It adds to your sense of confusion
as your life creeps out on a ledge.
Breathe deep, you have been here before:
idiot, risk-taker, chancer,
laughing moonlight dancer.
I don't ...
I don't believe I can take any more.
I can't go on. I must go on.
This is the end. This is the
End: No, this is
the last beginning.

Monday, May 15, 2006

258. Consider, if you will, the crocodile

The crocodile
in the Nile
knows something
we don't know;
he may give your legs a playful tug
and look, my goodness, very smug
but his mind
is far from slow!
Day by day
in his calm and careful way
he reflects on depictions
of hieroglyph inscriptions
and, there in the Nile,
once in a while,
he will chew and swallow
Egyptians.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

257. Terrorists on a Coffee Break

We were told
to stay off the booze
and to run five miles
across the feckin fields
when we had,
as it were, the time.
Everyone snorted
and fell over laughing,
and then Dinny ups and says,
Are we to wear
our Wellington boots, sorr?
to the snippy runt (it rhymes)
come down from Belfast.
He looked pinched and peeved,
having to deal with us rustics,
but he'd brought us guns.
Nice guns, too.
Armalites, greased-up, new.
We were better tooled-up
than the sad sallow boys
in the fearful British Army
(you can take that both ways).

They were just walking targets,
doing useless patrols.
We'd do a ping
most days, shoot one,
let them drag the body home
and think and brood about it.
They took it out on the locals
which was exactly
what we wanted them to do:
safe houses, money, food,
they all came pouring in.

That's when we thought
we were winning the war.
We were doing grand
in East Tyrone, but the cities
were a different story.

They started picking us off
one by one: dawn raids,
roadblocks, security checks;
all the technology
brought to bear.
We were driven into the hills and woods
like the clansmen
five hundred years before.

We lost the M-60 that way.
Some young lads, recent
recruits, seething with frustration,
raced through the town
with the gun set up on a flatbed truck
and shot the hell
out of the local police station.
The SAS were waiting
and shot the lot of them dead,
even shot them
after they were dead
(to make sure, like)
there in the parking lot
in front of the church.

Cartridges like peanut shells
everywhere you walked.

That's when I went
to America, after the cops
beat up my little brother,
hassled my mother in the street,
and swore I would never
be captured alive.
We had lost, as they say,
the initiative.

That's why the "Peace Process"
was grudgingly welcomed.
We were losing. It's that simple.
Nobody will admit it to this day:
"IRA - the Undefeated Army" ---
(that was supposed to be us)
was barely functional, nearly licked,
and mostly on the run.

I was scared of my life
in New York -- Jayzus,
you think Norn Iron is dangerous?
Try Brooklyn. I was
bartending, what else
do Irish illegals do (construction)?
when the word came through
it was safe to come home.
It is never safe to come home,
not if your home is my home:
it's been on the frontline
for about four hundred years,
and I don't want my own kids
(if and when I have them)
to go through the same thing.

Everyone does their little bit,
gallantly unmeasured, for Mother Ireland.
Do chum Gloire De
agus Onora na hEireann*

but the time slides around
when you have to think
about doing a little something
for the nerve-wracked jangling creature
that dear old Mother Ireland
has made of you.

-----------------------------------------
* For the Glory of God and the honour of Ireland

NB - this poem is NOT autobiographical. I get into a lot of trouble for my weirdly accurate imagination. I would rather not be strip-searched (again) on any future visit to Fortress America. As if I even want to go there ....

Saturday, May 13, 2006

256. My Own Mata Hari

Last night I saw you
clearly, for the first time,
with all your untruths exposed,
with all the explanations
swept away, with all the lies
stripped down. For a year
you have been using me,
pretending to love me,
pretending to be cheating
on your dimwit husband
who now turns out
not to be your husband at all,
instead, your political
controller.

Now you say
your child is in danger
(which I believe)
and you beg me, tearfully,
to help you
because
I am the "only friend"
you have
in spite of all the lies,
in spite of all the deception,
not to mention
the fake orgasms.

And I think
it is on this latter ground
that my equivocal heart
closes down on you.
You can lie.
You can lie.
But how could you lie about that?

Women do this all the time,
you say. Maybe so.
But you?

-----------------------

Ich weiss nicht was
Ich werden will ....
People want love
Instead they kill.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

254. Foreign Correspondent




Chinga su madre
you filthy foreign
gringo, step away
from my line of sight!!!!!
He spat this out in Spanish
and this was
my introduction
to foreign correspondence
as the bullets
whacked into the walls
over us and around us
but, thankfully,
not quite into us.
Got him, he grunted,
and so I peeped,
quickly, out the window,
and said, No, you missed.
Bad mistake.
He glared at me
with his red-rimmed eyes
and when he pointed the rifle at my head
I could actually see
the split-second decision
in his eyes, the frown,
the little blink,
when he decided
not to shoot me.
It was then, at that moment, that I understood
the first principle
of eyewitness reporting:
report not what you see,
report what people tell you.

Well, that was Nicaragua
(or was it El Salvador?)
back in the Reagan 1980s.
I moved on to Lebanon
where the civil war was
so confusing, even the locals
couldn’t tell me what was going down.
The US Marines got blasted
and everyone looked so damned pleased,
as if they’d done it themselves,
which everyone hastened to inform me
they hadn’t. Big cheesy grins.
Therefore nobody was responsible,
everyone was totally innocent
and it was a total non-event
as the 280 plus bodies
were dug out of the rubble ….

report not what you see,
report what people tell you.

My newspaper wanted bathetic
details, like which poor kid
came from Oklahoma.
Like who cares!!
Maybe people in Oklahoma.
My three previous stories had been spiked
because I had no solid proof
apart from the fact that everybody
local knew exactly
what had gone down:
It was the Iranians.
It was the Iranians.
It was the Iranians.
Got that? Well, it was never printed.
The Americans, wisely, withdrew
(they could still do that then)
after blasting the unoffending coastline
with volleys of 18 inch shells,
murdering a few hundred women and children,
shit happens, from the USS New Jersey.
Makes sense; it’s kinda hard
to swagger away
unless you leave some death behind you.

Now I was beginning to understand
the things I could write
and the other things I couldn’t.
The only people who shot at me
and quite seriously tried to kill me
were the Israelis: they did that
oh, about 15-20 times, for them
it is always a joke, and when
with distress and piss-streaked trousers
I wrote in a white heat
about the last of my narrow escapes,
the newspaper yanked the story,
told me I was too “emotionally involved”
plus the incident had never happened
according to Israeli Army Radio.
Like, right, sure, get your ass over here,
see what these people do, day in day out,
But nope, sorry pal, “We have growing concerns
with regard to your objectivity, and would
wish to remind you that this corporation
expects the highest level of professional conduct”
These are bullets, man,
They blow holes in you.
The BBC guys lost their driver last week
because some bored little jerks in a tank
decided to blow him up, displaying
the local level of professional conduct.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

253. Down the Alley in D-Town



On my way home, down through the alley,
I nearly tripped over him,
stretched out in his trenchcoat:
another bad drunk, thinks I,
until he grips hard on my ankle
and says, Son, do you love Ireland?
This was an unexpected question.
I suppose I do, sir, says I,
now will you let go of me leg, please?
Listen to me, son, I haven't long to live
and ye're a good lad, I can tell.
I've a thing in my pocket, now,
it's a thing I plan to give you ...
are ye with me now, me stout gossoon?
Would you let go of me leg, sir,
says I with the panic rising.
I will, says he, with a rasping sigh,
but his grip had actually tightened.
I have the Naval Plans for the invasion of France
(Oh, right, thinks I, this is all we need.)
You must take these papers direct to the King!
But, sir, says I, we have no king,
we are the free and independent
and poverty-stricken Irish nation!
Ah, so the rumours are true, says he.
Indeed, sir, now would you care for an amberlance,
sorry, an ambeedance, one of them yokes
for to carry you away? I would not,
says he, anything without an honest
upstanding horse in front of it, is entirely
suspect, a matter for the gravest concern.
Oh, to be sure, says I, but why
will we be invading France? Divil blast ye,
son, do you not know a thing about code?
Sorry, says I, rubbing on my leg
(he'd let go by now), but can you tell me,
sir, what has you stretched out in the alley?
Haven't I been shot, says he, annoyed,
have you no idea what it means to be shot?
Well, it would hurt, says I, I suppose. Hurt?
says he, it hurts like the bloody blue blazes!
I'm sorry for your trouble, can I get home now?
Ye cannot! Amn't I just after telling you
that the future of the Empire ......
Tis a Republic we are, says I, now,
Ahhh Republic me arse, says he,
aren't we the same feckin people,
the fishermen, the farmers,
the gombeen men, the hoors?
Well, you have a point, says I.
And isn't it dear old Ireland,
he says to me, that calls to us,
like a lonely stag across the moors?
Like a what, sir?
Like a stag!! One of them lads
with the horns on top of their heads, like,
have ye never read a buik?
Oh, but I have, sir, says I.
Well, then, ye'll know what I'll say to you next:
there's Caitlin, Kathleen ni Houlihan,
the personification of our nation,
the pure young girl, the virgin bride,
the ideal we believe in, as we
count our money and scratch our balls,
ye've heard tell of her? Oh, and I have,
says I, many a time and oft, here and there
among the neighbours. Tis been very nice,
sir, but I've to go now, I'll be late for me tea.
Young man, he roars out of him, I AM Kathleen!!
Drunk and shot, sprawled out in the alley,
here as ye find me, for a moment, perhaps,
there may be some lingering doubt,
some slight scintilla, some shadow of disbelief,
but I AM her, here before you, the eternal
feminine symbol of Ireland!! So you are,
sir, and will I go and call that amberlance?
Listen, ye scut, ye hoor's melt, I AM that pale-cheeked
lass, with raven hair and lips like blood upon the snow,
a knowing child who has sent out men to die!!
Not a bother on you, sir, been a great pleasure,
had a grand time talking, but I'll be off now so ....
Not so fast, me young spalpeen!
You will take my message to the King
as I lie here (gasp) alone and dying.
But we have no King, says I.
Ahh, but we do, says he.
And he whispered a name in my ear.

I carried his message to the man he mentioned.
Our country, since then, has become rich
beyond all dreams of avarice. The alley,
when I went back in the morning, wasn't there,
hadn't been there for a century, they told me.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

252. Kalidasa

Posted by Picasa

Arrows let loose from a thousand bows
spread like a stain across the skies:
a thousand arcs of danger descending.

Waiting and watching, the army defending
raise their shields with worried eyes:
Who will survive? Blind fortune knows!

A poem, cousin to such lethal darts,
can land, unexpected, in our hearts.

Friday, March 24, 2006

251. St. Paddy's Night - the Return of "Oisin"!!

The band finally got back together after 3 years and everything seemed to click all over again. Kenji had been at me incessantly and Brian was encouraging. He and his mate Suzi (a bloke, not a girl)were fixing up a 2-storey wooden building and converting it into a bar. Brian asked us to open the place with the band on St. Patrick's night. Ah, sure, what can you say to that? We had only the one practice session on the previous Sunday but it went well. All the memories came back and we just needed to review the chord changes and get the timing down again. The building was still in a shambles with lumber, and tools, and pots of paint all over the place. 'Ah, it'll be grand on the night' said Brian. And it was! <br /> The first set was supposed to start around 8 but we never got rolling until after 9. Just like old times, in fact. It went pretty well but all of us thought the second set from half-ten on was much better since it got the crowd going ... of course, they'd had a lot more to drink by then!! The place looked great with loads of colourful posters of Ireland all over the walls, thanks to Bord Failte (Irish Tourist Board in Tokyo) who had sent them down along with a load of shamrock stickers as well -- ah, shure, daycent folk: go raibh maith agat!! A good number of people came -- a very good turnout considering everything had been done by word-of-mouth and slapped together at the last possible minute. At one point, in fact, I was passed a cellphone on the stage in a pause between songs and asked to give directions to a taxi driver. The boys were lost entirely!! Anyway, here are some photos of the night, courtesy of Ryuji Horiike. Ryuji was lepping around with his camera like ... a very good man. How else would we have these pictures otherwise? (And I know you thought I was going to say lepping around like a leprechaun ... God, the minds we call our own). The lineup, from the left in the picture above, is Kenji (guitar, flute, tin whistle), Brian (guitar, vocals), myself (bodhran, vocals) Satoshi (bouzouki, vocals), Matsu (fiddle), and Tibor (bass). Sláinte Éireann Gael go leor!!









What do you call a drummer? Some eejit who hangs around with musicians. Ryuji sent along a lot of pictures of this pesky craythur and not enough of the band ...!!

Monday, March 20, 2006

250. Ireland 28 England 24


Shane Horgan scores in the final minute!!

With their third consecutive defeat of England, Ireland has won the Triple Crown for 2006. Although tied in first place with France for the overall Six Nations title (each team had four wins and a loss) France edged ahead for the title on point difference. Still, a very good year for the Irish team -- go maire sibh, buachaillí!!

Monday, March 13, 2006