THE OTHER SIDE OF GREECE

A COLLECTION OF MEMORIES

 

careless young rabbit

among the olive trees

the buzzard swoops

in dying light

a blizzard of bats

flees into the night

wearing their white socks

fruit trees tread warily

mindful of the ants

cars hum their tunes

race towards the setting sun

the olive tree’s seen it all

a light across the bay

quarters the dying day

at last the sea can sleep

swimming near Lixouri

reflection on the water

how fine you look

young boy

coaxing his old dog

finally leaves him behind

tethered boats

restless, rampant

winter waiting in the bay

last visitors gone

hotel echoes

to the slumbers of the sea

a change in the wind

thrashing the palms

lashing the tourist home

sepia photos

times I never knew listen

  as they reminisce

 

the music of the waves plays on

echoes from the summer

as birds fly south

this ancient city

lizard on the hot wall

escapes in a flash

driving to the sun

sha sha sha as the poplars

pass my open window

 

 

C.P.CAVAFY

 

Your words drip with ancient longing

hanging in the air like succulent clusters 

waiting to be plucked and savoured,

or like the olive, grown on branches

gnarled and wizened with time.

I rejoice in your summer rain and winter sun

recovering through your art the effort to create mine.

 

 

LONELY PLACE

 

Sometimes

it’s a lonely place I run to,

a place I’ve been many times

to hide

from myself

or from whom I’m expected to be -

just an ordinary place I’ve come to,

a place I’ve seen before

many times

but only in dreams.

 

 

MELISSANI

 

Melissani -

on your inviting subterranean cold;

scarcely a ripple in lake or sky,

drifting,  deeper.

Some time ago

a roof fall blocked your way -

just part of your act,

a reminder of unforeseen power

and the need to adapt.

 

 

LASSI

 

The first time I saw Lassi

I knew why you had come -

those placid blue waters

shining with memories shared

and times spoken of

unabashed, unscared.

 

I understand

the forces drawing you,

the instincts calling you

to account,

but you didn’t –

not totally,

leaving me waving

like a fool.

Was it this distance you wanted, to keep us apart

in case I felt your shame – what shame?

Or lost my faith?

Perhaps, but just perhaps

better to take a risk,

or was the risk of losing what we had

too great?

The next time I saw Lassi

I thought

I knew why I had come –

to share - perhaps reclaim, a memory.

But a cold wind now blows,

too late in the season.

An armada of waves

warns those still at sea

that these are your memories,

not mine.

 Here is where you sat and laughed

and here must lie your dreams

and your final farewell.

As the sun behind Lixouri dies

I know mine lie elsewhere

though I am glad to have known your Lassi.

So, I hear you softly saying,

‘Go, now you have seen;

let these shadows drift,

follow dreams of your own’.

 

 

ATHENIAN DAWN

 

The first fingers of light

like a lover

gently lift the covers of darkness

caressing the tops of apartment blocks

daybreak seeping down their drowsy faces. 

First joggers pad softly below my window

preparing for the adrenaline rush of day

that even now stirs and growls.

Early risers beneath the tired palms

turn their backs as their dogs

irrigate bins and benches

the cool beds of flowers.

 

The grandest scenes of this city

have been viewed, snapped and stored

but the play rolls on

along busy streets and squares

that don’t complain,

indifferent to their shabby chic

their magnificent wretchedness

and us, just passing through.

 

 

SUNFLOWERS

 

Shining faces listen

to the whispering wind

absorbing the warmth

and comfort of the sky

while they await the artist

who will cut them down to size,

remodel in a vase

for all to feast their eyes.

 

 

OLYMPIA

 

Though sun and earth grew tired

of your crowning glory,

allowed your proud columns to tumble

and weeds to grow,

olive and oleander entwine their roots

round ancient stock of

moral splendour that still haunts

timeless as stars -

here in your heat and dust,

values we still cling to,

to savour and refresh our lives

 – we must.

 

 

HUMMINGBIRD

 

Like the blackbird

singing in the dead of night

you sing alone

the outer world not listening

not entranced by your magic colours
that streak and glint on your miracle wing
teased by the plastic flower
that is your forest garden,
a glossy voiceless painting
in someone else’s hall.

 

 

SAMARIA GORGE

 

In oven heat

we stumble down the miles

over baked stones glaring
marble smooth
out of blasted rock
past blasted trees
pestered by blasted flies
till I’m on my blasted knees!

 

 

HAIL FAIR METEORA!

 

Hail fair Meteora!

Before me on the screen

Your sunlit smile shines softly,

teeth so sparkling clean,

 

rising every morning

like early morning dew,

your words you said caress my head

from when I’d had a few.  

You come to warm my cold front

soft words like April showers.

I listen to the weather changes

repeated for the next four hours

 

but now, no longer with me - 

my time zone’s been advanced
and no more I sit before you
thoroughly entranced.

But for me you’ll remain special -

my special weather girl,

even though I can barely tune in  

the Beeb's service to the world.

This man who kneels before you

for one simple fantasy begs -

that someday he can verify

the wonder of your legs.

 

Whether rooftop swept or mountainside

where gentle breezes blow

your hair adrift like skeins of gold

as you flick them to and fro.

Your face so mesmerizes,

I do not want to go.

I’ve forgotten what your forecast was -

plague of frogs or snow?

In my lonely cold apartment

you’re like a glowing ember

that melts my eyes and thaws my soul

from the beginning of September.

 I’d like a portable telly -

not to carry you that far –

just so in the depths of winter

your smile will defrost my car. 

But now I’m adrift in  a foreign land

and some-one else is on the telly

I’m not at all interested in his voice

or his big protruding belly.

 

I long to hear your lilting tones

bring calm to the world beyond-

to the storm-wracked east

to the African heat

to our friends across the pond. 

You give hope to everybody

the weather won’t be all that bad -

in fact, I bet you could convince us all

it’s the best they’ve ever had.

SIYAR YNWA

SIYAR YNWA

I would like to tell you about my friend, Siyar.
Siyar is a Syrian refugee driven out of his country a year or so ago who has been living in a camp in Greece for the past six months. I asked him how he felt about life in the camp; he went silent. His friend said that after everything Siyar had experienced in Syria, anywhere would be good and Siyar nodded. He was just happy to be there in spite of all its privations.
The first time I saw Siyar he was running towards me as I entered the camp one morning, arms outstretched as if I were a long-lost relative.
'Liverpool, Liverpool!', he called out, recognising the red football shirt I was wearing. He had never seen a real one. His dream was to see a match at Anfield one day. When he discovered I actually live near Liverpool, I was immediately raised almost to the status of minor prophet! There was little he did not know about the club and players past and present. His favourite player if Steven Gerrard, of course.  Siyar was ecstatic over Liverpool’s 4-0 beating of Barcelona in a pre-season friendly and seemed to have committed to memory the dates of many of the games in the forthcoming season.
I asked him his name. 'Siyarinwa' he seemed to say. I repeated it back to him .'No, my friend. Siyar Inwa' he replied, 'Inwa!' and beamed hugely at me. It took a while for me to register what he meant until he showed me a crumpled identity paper with his name on it: Siyar Ynwa. ''You are joking!' I said, 'Really?'
'Really, yes!' he grinned. 'YNWA, You'll Never Walk Alone. That is my name.' We both laughed.
'Well Siyar Ynwa', I promised, 'when I leave for the UK, I will give you my Liverpool shirt'. My ribs are still recovering from the hug he gave me'.
'Perhaps you are leaving tomorrow?' he asked.

A week later I saw Siyar playing five-a-side with his mates on the concrete ‘pitch’, wearing his newly-washed Liverpool shirt. He smiled across to me - kindred spirits in the beautiful game that can erase barriers.
I hope one day he makes it to Anfield.

c/o Filippiada Camp for Refugees

c/o Filippiada,

Camp for Refugees

 

 

 

a collection of poems by

Lea Knowles

 

Preface

 

A month spent working in Filippiada camp cannot fail to leave a lasting impression on a volunteer. The ‘refugee crisis’ and its attendant injustices, obscenities and frustrations can raise the blood pressure for sure, but ultimately you are left with respect for the resilience of these trapped, injured  and bewildered people,  Afghani, Iraqi, Kurdish and Syrian. One can only pray for an end to the turmoil in their countries and in their lives. These poems are dedicated to them.

 

Contents                                                                                                         Page

 

Filippiada haiku                                                                                               3 - 11

Refugees                                                                                                         13

Arta Bridge                                                                                                     14

The Threat of a Storm                                                                                    14

Warehouse                                                                                                      15

Look-Out                                                                                                         15

Perhaps                                                                                                           16

Tent Peg                                                                                                          18

Anahita                                                                                                            19

Stone Throwers                                                                                               20

Hugs                                                                                                                20

Going to School                                                                                               21

Ali                                                                                                                    22

Mr Sneezy                                                                                                       23

Thesprotiko                                                                                                     24

Ice Cream                                                                                                       25

Naser                                                                                                               25

Not Dreaming                                                                                                 26

Narges                                                                                                             27

If You Should Ever Meet Them                                                                       28

I Can                                                                                                                30

A Kind of Haunting                                                                                          31

Holes                                                                                                               32

Zainab                                                                                                             33

Fundamental Errors                                                                                       33

Sound of the Storm                                                                                         33

Boat People                                                                                                     34

Swimming with Sharks                                                                                    35

Exodus                                                                                                             36

Syria                                                                                                                 36

Aid Workers                                                                                                    36

 

 

Filippiada   

 
                                                                                                                                             

the barrier fell

and a family split by

hard stares, rough arms, hard hearts

 

 

headful of sorrow

a furnace of dirt and grit

heartstrings bound by wire

 

 just to think of her

terror in the night as

the boat split apart

 

 January sea

wreaking its own kind of terror

chilling to the bone

 

 trays of plastic food

discarded by the roadside

caught in the throat

 

lone tortoise rescued

the children know what it is

to live with fear

 

 

mercury rising

pricking exhausted skin

sky empty of birds

 

hot breeze sifts the grit

we seek out the walls for some

slim midday shade

 

 children of the dust

pulling the zips on my bag

hoping for a gift

 

 pushchairs and buggies

rattling over harsh gravel

with water rations

 

running children wild

clutching at stones

till play turns to war

 

behind polite smiles

bearing wounds on their hearts

where fires still burn

 

 common tragedies

but suspicions seep through

their ethnic clothing

 

 sunlight fingers the tents

amid coughs and prayers the

camp slowly rises

 

hey my friend, my friend

just for me, just for me

you no good, no good

 

 

those imploring eyes

that so slight infant body

too fragile to swing

 

 quiet Sunday morning

the village sleeps on but

we must be at work

 

 quiet in the camp

sleeping through the midday

but we sweat it out

 

 Iliana – the

pool of air we dive into

to keep our cool

 

 tyres crunching the track

engulfing pillows of dust

we are driving blind

 

 beneath sultry trees

from across the blue-green lake

this cool drift of air

 

 small children appear

creating their mayhem then

running away

 

 

 

they’re running for hugs

to be lifted off the earth

to know they’re still loved

 

 

 

the Afghan girls come

head scarves billowed by the breeze

‘hello my teacher’

 

 

 

hacked and maimed – this,

my hot and gusty school

my favourite tree

 

 

 

 

on a dusty bank

shaded by a tortured tree

wind disrupts my school

 

 

 

above heat and noise

in the cool plane trees of Arta

sparrows are singing

 

 

 

piling on the heat

Arta and I sweat it out

so cool beneath the trees

 

 

 

officer on the gate

checks nothing but the air-con

returns to sleep

 

 

 

from a Liverpool fan

free bed at the four star

Siyar Hotel

 

 

 

 

chai tent revives

I give away my shirt

for a cool place to chat

 

 

 

in the chai tent

how hot, sweet and lovely

we talk at end of day

 

 

 

shouts from the goalmouth

an international language

transcending borders

 

 

 

Spanish inquisition

deep gloom of the warehouse

tortured with heat

 

 

 

kids, rattling the locks

clambering the steel gate

craving attention

 

 

 

 

volunteers at work

in the warehouse where they must

preparei for winter

 

 

 

from Aladdin’s cave

a hidden child trying to

escape with a toy

 

 

 

her child drags a toy

yellow truck with broken wheels

across the hot stones

 

 

 

see the silver birds

wheeling, glinting in the sun

veils of mist rising

 

 

 

storks rattling like bones

gliding like premonitions

coming home to roost

 

 

 

 

‘my life has been hard

so hard every day but

will soon be over’

 

 

 

injured beyond pain

but this tortured tree still wants

to be our school

 

 

 

thunder getting close

intent on soaking my class

storm clouds gathering

 

 

 

strong gusts rips through

our tree school wrecked and scattered

but we still press on

 

 

 

desolate hillside

bears a dust-choked weariness

refugees, stay strong

 

 

 

 

caught in a moment

grit in the eye, or memory

holding back tears

 

 

 

as guests of honour

children dance and sing for us

fruit juice and cookies

 

 

 

split, scuffed and worn-out

dust-choked and weary I leave

my battered shoes behind

 

 

 

final round of goodbyes

but the children won’t let me

just fade away

 

 

 

hard to look back on

this white sea, these canvas waves

where some are drowning

 

 

 

 

they must not, I must not

disclose the pain of leaving –

goodbye my teacher

 

 

 

now I close my eyes

hear their voices clearly and

time is standing still

 

 

 

 

 

REFUGEES

 

A flock of wounded doves

driven ragged into an empty cage

by blood-red fog and the blackened dew

of dawn

staggers to the end of the world.

The past echoes like thunder

in the dark clouds assembled

and a orchestrated breath

borne on a careless wind

wraps a barren land in shame.

 

 

 

 

 

ARTA BRIDGE

 

Old lady of the river

Cracked and bent with time

Generations carried on your back

When you have waded across troubled times

You are now allowed to rest and soak your feet

In the trickle of cool blue water.

 

 

 

                               

THE THREAT OF A STORM

 

Storm clouds gather and ponder

Brooding over the billowing tents

Whether to blast in tumultuous deluge

To quietly drown or

Blow softly and allow them to drift away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WAREHOUSE

 

Hammering the warehouse door

Pleading for attention

Trying to evade the guardians

Of their welfare –

Wreaking gentle havoc

A game, for a steal;

Better than scrabbling in the dirt

Kicking a punctured ball

Dragging a broken toy

Or throwing rocks

To bite back the anger inside.

 

 

 

 

LOOK-OUT

 

Children clamber the look-out steps,

Barber seeks its shade.

From here a soldier once stood guard

Now only ruins surveyed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PERHAPS

 

Perhaps it was you

Who first flitted across my dreams

A far away shadow across the screen

Amid screams and blasts

And the rattle of death,

Each rising pall of smoke

An end to life, and then

There was you, without face,

Without eyes or mouth or name

Trying to keep your grip.

 

Perhaps that was you running

Through the shattered streets,

Fearing the bullet but running anyway

To pay the black-hearted,

Join the river of humanity

Flowing away

From the place of your birth.

 

Perhaps it was you I saw

Trudging, blind and blistered

Across a frozen landscape,

The remains of a life in a plastic bag

As the world looked on.

 

Perhaps it was you

That brute force split you apart

And moved you back into the shameless night

And twisted razor wire around your heart.

Perhaps it was you

Who saw your child alter

From the child you knew,

Heard her night-screams,

Felt the wet bed,

Saw the flesh fall from her arms,

Her cheeks,

Eyes growing wild as her hair;

And you felt sorrow mingled in the blood

of your love and helplessness.

 

Perhaps you were among those we saw

Crammed on that leaking raft

Clinging to your child

As around you bodies floated.

Terror in the night as the world watched

In horror and debated.

 

Perhaps you were among those

Who staggered cold and wet,

Helped onto a foreign beach

By caring hands,

Terful and trembling and

Thanking God for your safe deliverance

But not knowing the road for you ahead.

 

But now it is you I see every day

Stripped of dignity

Pleading for your safety,

For an ear,

For a mind to unfold,

Who must feed the hope that one day

Life will be good again.

 

And as the bells ring out for Assumption Day,

It is you who greet me every day

With your smile,

Knowing this day will be like all the rest,

Trying to believe that somewhere

Someone is writing your future

Free of dust and heat and war, reunited

With those lost to you.

Your children will outgrow their memory and find

That life that is by rights yours and theirs..

 

Perhaps. I pray.

 

 

 

 

TENT PEG

 

It was lying in the rubble

where it had been thrown,

considered of no further use

or pulled out and hurled

in a moment of frustration.

But though thought of as just another scrap,

In my hand it has a purpose and a job to do.

 

 

 

ANAHITA

 

She wanted to write

but the words would not come –

thought them worthless, shameful,

a betrayal of her heart.

 

She wanted to draw

but the colours would not flow –

too soon for flowers and birds or clouds,

or places from her childhood

now torn apart – frightened

to release the power and savagery

of her inner eye that

may undo her mother’s fragile smile.

 

Perhaps she was right.

Perhaps she needed to know that

whatever lies buried will not reappear

but rot with time.

There will come a time to write, to draw,

to express the beauty of her mind

but for now she is sensing 

amidst the turmoil and confusion

a power that lies elsewhere

and that it’s not over yet.

 

 

 

 

 

STONE THROWERS

 

They throw stones – at everything.

They spit and snarl, scream and shout

bite and pinch, kick and punch

from fiery pits of dark anger

they cannot explain

so for now they will continue to throw stones.

 

 

 

 

HUGS

 

They run to us for hugs –

from anyone, at anytime.

They want to be lifted off the earth

and held with a softness meant

only for them

to hear softness in a voice

that is speaking to them alone –

no matter the language,

and a meeting of eyes and hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GOING TO SCHOOL

 

Then one day

they came and took our schoolroom away –

small, small symbol of a normal world

of something happening for the children.

 

It had only just been painted –

clock face, an alphabet frieze, a new door,

a new nail to hang my poster from –

but they took it all away,

even the joy and liberty of knowledge denied.

 

Within a week lessons were learned beneath the trees,

Amidst the dirt and the ants,

the faeces and the bare concrete of the bunkers:

the children would not be denied – they loved their school.

 

And the former schoolroom?

Now a conversion project –

to become an air-conned sanctuary

for men to get a beard trim

and charge their mobile phones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ALI

 

I was telling them of my past, my family,

that they might get used to my voice and

my voice gets used to me,

teacher, of that paced, precise English – key

to a future life they want to own.

 

So I outline my family tree,

chalk it onto card for all to see.

We practise familiar words –son,

daughter, brother, sister, mother, uncle,

grand and great grandparents.

 

They marvel at their dates and ages,

unsure about their own,

enjoying the novelty of pronunciation

of strange names with tongue and lips.

 

They listen as I explain and repeat

asking questions innocently

until my idiot brain takes over

to suggest they draw their own tree.

 

It only takes a second for the children to agree

but Faezah’s eyes are swimming .

 

Ali lays his pen down,

looks sadly up at me –

we have lost so many branches, says he.

 

MR SNEEZY

 

You were the perfect visual aid, Kazim –

a natural.

I was teaching the ‘ee’ sound, as in ‘feet’

and suddenly you obliged with a verb of your own,

to the interest and amusement of us all.

We enjoyed the sneeze as we moved on to meet and greet

and Greece and sleep, but

you keep reminding us

with moisture on your cheek

and each time the children cheer

at our champion Afghan sneezer of the week!

 

 

 

THESPROTIKO

 

These morning mountains seem tame,

their quiescence casting you into their cool blue.

The good people of the valley are watering their baskets,

their orchards, trimming  their vines.

A ripple of church bells sweetens the air

And the stork glides free to its nest.

But in the camp, just the battering of the children

on the steel warehouse door.

 

 

 

 

 

ICE CREAM

 

Once I saw a shop that sold ice cream.

My daughters love ice cream.

I like ice cream too, but I prefer chocolate.

 

Today there are jobs to be done in the haima

But tomorrow I will leave the camp and go with my children

into town.

We will walk beside the road for perhaps an hour.

It will be hot; they will be tired but

we will arrive in Filippiada and

I will find that shop and

I will buy ice cream for my brave and beautiful daughters,

whatever flavours they like –

and perhaps some chocolate for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NASER

(based on a conversation between us)

 

To Ireland, you say!

I have not heard that wish expressed before –

It’s usually Germany, Sweden or Denmark.

Have you family already in Ireland? No?

But you think you know where it is.

Well, no! It’s not really in London.

OK, well it’s not exactly empty –

the land is not for free, though

the overall density of people if fairly low.

 

Yes, I think it would be hard to get to from London

and paying traffickers to get you there is not such a good idea.

No, I don’t know any.

To be honest, I don’t think your skills as a translator of Farsi into English

would be in great demand –

no, not for Pashto either, I’m afraid; there’s just no call…

There just aren’t many refugees living in Ireland,

at least not yet.

Oh! So that’s why you want so much to go there: no people!

To be free of the past; to make the ultimate escape.

But you need a positive reason.

Have you heard about the Guinness and Temple Bar? –

Perhaps not. They are of no consequence.

 

Ah! I see you have started learning Greek.

I think this is a wise decision, my friend.

 

 

NOT DREAMING

 

A faint lick of air wafts the canvas awning

flicks up the midday heat a little

then settles back to sleep –

to sleep, if not to dream,

for dreaming permits Hope to be renewed,

so often dashed, denied or

sold back as a lie, so that now it seems

we are to be mocked even in sleep.

 

Looking back at dreams we shared,

for our children, for our land,

through the efforts of our own hands

tangible, real, fuelled with expectancy,

swept away on a tide of blood and bigotry;

swept away to join a sea of cant and hypocrisy.

We had such fine things – mosques, schools,

shops, markets, farms, orchards  - gone.

And so it is gentler to myself

not to think of a past realm where dreams once shone,

not to dream of a future in case those dreams too are washed way.

But to sleep through the boredom and heat

to give me enough strength

to see me through another day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

NARGES

 

Every time I glance down I see

on my wrist the band you made me,

the one in the colours of Afghanistan.

Instantly I am re-immersed in your bright eyes,

your mischievous smile, your tragedy.

I replay the moments of fun when

you stood on my feet and we shuffled across the gravel

till you spun off to play some other game.

And there was you speaking Spanish to me

till you realised I was English; then you came

to my tree school and tried so hard – a good student

among many.

You will go far if they give you the chance, and

you will do your mother proud.

So I will wear your wrist band often and

count it among my treasures

for the light and life and love from which you made it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IF YOU SHOULD EVER MEET THEM

 

If you should ever meet them, they will call to you,

run up to be picked or to high-five you then veer away,

run their fingers through your hair

and gaze into your eyes the better to know your heart.

 

They will clutch your waist and investigate accessories

test the zips and buckles on your bag,

proudly show you their small small achievements

and pull you to their haima.

 

They may push and jostle, shout and spit,

shove and kick without apparent reason

until you see that all must me equal

even in poverty.

 

They may clamber on your back and shoulders,

run off with your cap

investigate pockets for any gift that might be

‘just for them’.

 

They will take things they should not –

off you, of each other

needing to learn to share, to wait their turn,

to be patient,

to learn the rules of the game.

 

They will scale fences and cars,

clamour at the warehouse door

trying to get to the toys and food,

uninhibited refusals to obey,

wild as roadside flowers.

 

*

But if you should ever meet them

they will greet you with their English

and cuddle you back.

If they know your heart they will

give you what they have just made,

for it is all they have to give.

They will warn you of an open zip,                                                                     

invite you to their haima for hot sweet tea,

hosted with a civility born of a former life.

 

They will return that which you thought lost long ago

and will play with their siblings among the refuse and the dirt.

They will help at home washing clothes, collecting water,

cleaning the tent, preparing food,

learning the rules of economy and survival.

 

If you should ever meet them

they may irritate and frustrate

but they will charm and entertain

with their smiles, their laughter

their vivacity.

They will return your love and

will you not let you fade away,

nor you them, for they are children.

 

 

 

I CAN

 

I can sit in my garden,

admire the flowers and the raspberries ripening,

I can listen to birds, listen to the news on the radio.

As I make a shopping list

I can smell the lavender and rosemary.

I can watch the washing flap madly as it dries in the sun,

mow the lawn and marvel at the variegated greens

dappled by filtered light.

I can sweep the gravel back to its path

feel my skin thrilling to a cool breeze.

I can see the planes pass over on their way to the sun,

watch the cat laze in his favourite spot.

I can welcome my family and hug them

and laugh and play and talk of silly things,

watch catch-up TV,

have another cup of tea if I like -

but then, I am not in Filippiada.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A KIND OF HAUNTING

 

I thought I could put those moments away,

in their own slot of time,

out of the way of every day

until I chose to bring them back to life.

 

I thought I could easily fold and pack them on my own,

store them on a shelf of my choosing

but instead they gently haunt my days,

taunt my nights, naked in the hours before dawn,

leading sleepless treks across sharp gravel

into caves of treasure useless to me.

I trip over ropes, grit blowing into my eyes

as I struggle to stop the tree from dying

and keep hopes alive.

 

Children holding broken toys

clamour for food, for knowledge, for attention

waiting for me to perform a miracle,

turning foul food into a feast and

blessing them with the sign of a refugee.

 

But in the end

I can perform only to my limits

restricted to that moment when

I tried to conjure change.

 

I thought I could safely put away that moment

but I can’t – not alone –

and I’m not sure I want to.

HOLES

 

See these ragged holes the bullets made

in every street, in every single wall and door;

see the craters left by rocket shells –

a war leaves holes in so much more.

 

 

 

ZAINAB

 

She likes stroking cats and dogs –

cats are her favourite –

and the Spice Girls and  One Direction –

but you can’t stroke them.

 

She lives within the prophet’s law

that angry men see fit to ignore -

It seems all they know is

what has been washed into their minds

and out of their mouths

dark and twisted words spread

through the blasphemy of the bomb.

Their well of morality dry as bone

as time ticks towards an end

when there can be no time for childhood

where all the cats and dogs are dead.    

 

 

 

 

FUNDAMENTAL ERRORS

 

You imagine your cause anointed

that God fights by your side

approving the evil persona

you seem to wear with pride.

               

But if He passed among you now

how could you not feel it’s true,

His fury and disgust,

how ashamed He’d be of you!

 

 

 

SOUND OF THE STORM

 

Throughout the silence of night

I lie awake till morning light,

cannot still my tortured mind

and leave my fears for you behind.

 

I see your face upon the screen

in barren fields that once were green

I feel the heat behind your tears

that seem to flow across the years.

I want to show how much I care

but not sure how, not sure where.

 

I want to comfort with a kiss

and fill your longings with a taste of bliss

I want to tell you it’s alright

I want to bring you peace tonight.

 

I regret not having the power

to turn the gun into a flower.

For though your world and mine may be far apart

we are joined together at the heart.      

 

But you look at me as if to say

‘Just take my life, throw it away;

this current of pain all my people know

is the only river that will ever flow’.

 

 

 

BOAT PEOPLE

 

Beyond the lapping waves

afloat on the calm seas of summer

they drift away from the sun

huddled forms, jumbled voices

disconnected phrases in varied tones

betraying fear – few of them joking

then the silence.

 

Mother to child clings

not knowing the end

afraid to reach the bottom

of the bottle of water,

land lost to sight,

the only light

the impenetrable stars.

Adrift on the sick waves of sleeplessness,

nothing to lose but their lives

to be washed up on a golden beach.      

 

 

SWIMMING WITH SHARKS

 

We tried to swim the open sea

but washed ashore

with every other wave

gasping for breath.

Left to dry out on sandbanks

like whales

till the next tide launches us

into foaming seas

growlers prowling

storm clouds tearing

at the fabric of the sky,

carried with the flow

into deeper waters.

Only hollow reeds and the power of prayer

saved us from drowning

just to face the next wave.

 

The ship passed us by -

indignant folk pointing, some shouting,

but not till our last gasp

did they throw a lifeline

opining it was we who chose

to go swimming with sharks.

EXODUS

 

As wild breakers roll

their bright spindrift blown

whirled from the roar and tumult of the fall

the punch and echo of cascading shells,

a balance has been tipped,

the choice between the lesser of two hells.

You must take to the salt-bitter trail

bearing nothing but the hope

that on a foreign shore

some kind of wisdom will prevail.

SYRIA

 

There is no love left in Syria, she says.

When she sleeps, she feels

she carries the souls of her friends

in her heart

 

and will do so till the end of her days.   

AID WORKERS

 

Blood seeps into an eastern sky

where a careless sun has cracked the earth,

where demonic winds turn quiet dreams to dust,

and the fires of hell are falling. 

Already they are risen. 

When there is no hiding but in confusion

and daytime shadows merge with nightghasts,

still they are there.

Even as their fingers burn

they hold a candle, hold a hand

and comfort till you sleep.