An urban man for all my life, I’m used to city pigeons

 And recognise that you are different, plain grey with a smidgeon

Of white on the neck and a dull pink breast, plus a douce demeanour

In contrast to the aggressive cadging of the city broods. In feel you are

basically shy, but knowing gardens are safer than country woods, want

To strike up relationships with the two-legged animals that haunt

Them, by coming from your nest in the maple tree to stand upon the lintel

Of the gate where you, male and female, can be seenfrom the window

Of the kitchen, keeping a quiet watch, perhaps in expectation of food

From us, although nuts, berries, fruits, and seeds are close by, a good

Menu which contributes to your sleek well-fedness. You are lifetime

Partners with two eggs per brood, of which you may have at least five

A season, making you a successful species. We have found

Your gentle company genial. Meanwhile you have worked a turnaround

By studying us, noting our mealtimes to visit us then, giving us a calm stare

if we come out, trusting that we are your friends in this garden, and paired

like you. What else you know of us we cannot know except that as we

observe behaviours of another species we may know what we see

but not what it means. Today, checking on weeds in the clear sunshine,

below the maple tree, I saw you including me this one time

as you looked at the mangled body of your mate splayed on flattened greens

the cat from next door has left behind. We both know what this means.

 

 

A farmer and writer in Kentucky, he died yesterday, leaving

The world poorer due to the absence of his life and belief

In God, goodness, the community of living things, horses over

Tractors, kindness, equality, and walking lightly on the clover.

For many years he lived with his wife in a wooden homestead

With traditional technology only, growing wheat for their bread

On fields ploughed with their horses. He found he had time enough

To walk in the woods, fish the river, talk with his lady, and rough

Out a poem or an essay in quiet verse or elegant prose. He thought

Government favour to capitalism was destroying the earth, not

by force but by the replacement of well-tested custom by Big Tech.

He opposed the Vietnam war and the death penalty, their disrespect

For life, and for the same reason he opposed Abortion, because, he argued,

It is killing. Before, there is a living creature: after, a corpse. He stood

Against the violence, finding himself alongside people who had

Nothing against killing but wanted abortion made illegal because God

Told us to multiply. His clear mind saw that when it had been illegal

Desperate poor women paid unofficial nurses who used needles

To cheat their wombs. “I am against abortion,” he said, “It is a violent

Big Tech solution to a human problem, but for the sake of pregnant

Women who do not want to be with child, I hope the state will permit

And provide it, and human beings by their wisdom not require it.”

 

 He thought, like Jesus, that we are wise when we know that our

glory can never match that of a single unemployed flower.

 

So, Mr. Mladic, I first heard of your crimes from the battered lips

Of a man who had escaped one of your torture centres, who sLipped

The ropes that bound him to a faucet that dripped water on his head.

He and millions of Muslims in Bosnia will be glad that you are dead.

I like to imagine that one day a squad of tasty men marched into your prison

Rooms in the Hague, saying, “Good Morning Sir, we remember the Christian

Army.of Bosnia in which we were bullied until we deserted, and we think

You ought to remember it also, as we punch you to the floor and kick

Your balls a bit, yes, it’s very painful and degrading, but later, in your torture

Halls You made it worse, remember? A gun muzzle in our nose was enough horror

To make us strip naked for the electric wire to be clipped to the penis, like this

And activated, like this, which makes you scream because it’s a drill that rips

Through all your tissue and recurs with any orgasm, you won’t want many of them,

Most of us gave up then, accepting dishonourable discharge and unemployment.

Others screamed their courage at your face until you shut them up with a bullet

In the mouth. Ready? It won’t hurt, give you my word. And don’t try to chew it…”

 

None of that happened. You were treated with decency but never understood it,

Thinking that moral disciplines are a waste of time and any kindness stupid.

 

 

 

What can a poem do to defend Scotland against A.I. Data

Centres that will occupy land needed for growing food, alpha

And omega of energy consumption, creating few jobs, useless

To Scots wha’ hae wi’ Wallace bled, they’d surely be foolish

To rely on a poem because these are products of international

Capital that doesn’t take no for an answer and is fashionable

Amongst those who want Scotland to be a new silicone valley.

Wake up people, see approach proud Edward’s power, rally

against chains and slavery. There’s no disguise, this is the beast itself

Ready to devour Airdrie, Auchtertool, Larbert and more, your health

at risk by oppression, woes, and pains. What use is a poem? We

may have to stand firm against lies and bribery but we shall be free.

When we are asked to meet, demonstrate and march, we must go,

It will not be glamorous but be sure that tyrants fall in every foe.

Poetry is the language of justice: Liberty’s in every blow.

 

 

 

 

ODE TO THE LATE RATKO MLADIC

So, Mr. Mladic, I first heard of your crimes from the battered lips

Of a man who had escaped one of your torture centres, who sLipped

The ropes that bound him to a faucet that dripped water on his head.

He and millions of Muslims in Bosnia will be glad that you are dead.

I like to imagine that one day a squad of tasty men marched into your prison

Rooms in the Hague, saying, “Good Morning Sir, we remember the Christian

Army.of Bosnia in which we were bullied until we deserted, and we think

You ought to remember it also, as we punch you to the floor and kick

Your balls a bit, yes, it’s very painful and degrading, but later, in your torture

Halls you madevit worse, remember? A gun muzzle in our nose was enough horror

To make us strip naked for the electric wire to be clipped to the penis, like this

And activated, like this, which makes you scream because it’s a drill that rips

Through all your tissue and recurs with any orgasm, you won’t want many of them,

Most of us gave up then, accepting dishonourable discharge and unemployment.

Others screamed their courage at your face until you shut them up with a bullet

In the mouth. Ready? It won’t hurt, give you my word. And don’t try to chew it…”

 

None of that happened. You were treated with decency but never understood it,

Thinking that moral disciplines are a waste of time and any kindness stupid.

 

“The world in which you grew up, in the nineteen forties,

Was more secure than mine, born two thousand, your ears

Were full of a won war, ours of a lost climate and threatened

Extinction:  We got global warming in Primary School with less

Hope of its amelioration than of curing the playground mess

Of crisp packets. And we know that you are liars: we’ve had

Twenty years of older people saying theres a climate crisis

And doing nothing about it. My auntie asked a taxi driver,

As he drove her home, “Aren’t you worried about global warming

for your grandchildren?”  “No. That’ll be their problem,

I’ve got mine.” Trump denies it, but at least he wants a new

Cool home in Greenland, so maybe he’ll distribute a few

Square yards of it to his grandchildren, while we have floods

In winter and fires in summer. Do you wonder why I need drugs

to stay sane! If I am sane. 64 % of us admit to mental disturbance

including consideration of suicide. But if you are inclined to envision

us as nutters, remember that we have less faith in politicians

than any previous generation. Theorists say we’re poisoned

by the internet, but my experience is I’ve been made wise and

informed by the connections that showed me the antarctic

giant sea spiders, once land creatures, who in ecological disaster

took to the water, adaptive, beautiful beyond their struggles’ frenzy

offering an example that may be relevant to me and Gen Z.”

“It’s good to be with you,” I say, “without all the blood

Odysseus has to provide for the dead to drink, food

That will restore their humanity enough to speak and hear,

Whereas you decide to make yourself available as now, dear

Daughter, without that messy requirement. Would I know

Even if it was legalised, how to go about sacrificing a cow?”

“Don’t be so sure,” you tell me, “Life here is perfect of course

But perfection excludes the lovely imperfection of horse

And human, which I am forgiven for missing. Through you,

I can enjoy the warmth of the sun on skin, the blessing

Of blue sky and sea, the excitement of waves pressing

Over sand and foot, that makes you say to strangers, What

A day! My recompense for meeting with you is not

Just the pleasure of your conversation, but also your physique.

Thanks for letting me share it.” But I had to speak,

“We’ve come to understand that too much sunshine is as

Bad as too little, the rivers low, the fields and forests parched,

The crops burnt, it’s the catastrophe we’re causing, each

Perfect day is also a killer, the kids playing here on the beach

May not have a future, you must know this.” “The Mother is wise,”

You say. “Death, like blood, is one way in which she can dramatise

The need to understand and change. Always in evolution she

Works with every particle to make the best that there can be,

To give the past a future, the dead a life. What you call history

Is her store of wisdom, always available if you choose to listen.

The sun’s danger is also a beauty you do not want to miss. And remember, if I weren’t dead, we could not meet like this.

Rich and powerful people in medieval times admired its winter

Fur and wore it to advertise their status, mainly as trimmings

on ceremonial garments such as caps and shoulder coats.

Popes and priests popularised another myth of winter stoats:

That they would rather die than let their white pelage be stained-

A symbol of purity not very suitable for Cecilia Gallerani painted

By Leonardo da Vinci with an ermine in her arms. Ludovico Sforza

Duke of Milan was her lover when she was sixteen, but tossed her

Away to marry the love of his life, Beatrice, while she quickly

Married Count Lodovico Carminati. All this is a bit tricky

 To symbolise as purity, and as any farmer would have known

That the stoat is a formidable shagger because of its penis-bone,

Cuddling the animal may not have been unambiguously

Innocent. In any case I know it’s a killer with an unfussy

technique.. When I was nine years old, watching rabbits feeding

In the park meadow, I saw the autumn brown and white creature

Dance before its victim, climb upon its back, and bite its neck

Before disemboweling it and chewing fast. I will not forget

The rabbit’s scream. Celtic stories recognise its danger:

It is a banshee whose howl means death, whose spit is famous

As poison. If you cross its path, doff your cap and say,

Good morrow, noble lady. She moves easily between day

And night, future and present. I have seen her when walking

Fields and forests, appreciating her skill in stalking

Beasts bigger than herself, more often as I have got older.

-Is it that I am more attentive or has she become bolder?

One day soon I will feel her delicate feet on my back,

Her teeth on my neck, then feel no more of the attack.

 

Penelope says she has a dream vision of Odysseus’

Homecoming but that all such intimations issue

From two gates, one of horn which gives unvarnished

Truth, and one of ivory which gives deceptive wish-

Fulfilments and complicated lies. The dream of her man’s

Return, she thinks, comes through ivory, although he stands

Before her as she says so, in disguise. So is she mistaken

About which gate it is, or is her version of the dream gates

Too simple because too binary? I don’t sleep well because

I am tortured by dreams that I would dearly love to be false

But they come through gates of fact, stories of my past

Actions and inactions, depicted in all their nastiness

By a sceptical investigator. Oh, to wake up and be able

To reject them as fictions! The burden of them is intolerable,

but real and must be carried. Yet, like Penelope who accepted

the many stories that were Odysseus, as connected

narratives from the gates of fiction to bring him home,

could I accept the stories of my past as fictive wisdom,

A sequence of garish selves I wove and wore until I learned

Enough humility to be not much more than a man who yearns

For his own bed and lady. Homer knew his story ended

On a poor rocky island with nothing more to be defended.

 

 

 

 

 The word is new to me, although I guessed it came from carcer,

Latin for a prison, which in turn came from a far earlier

Indo -European root, ‘ker’, which was doubled as ‘kerker’ to give

The sense of enclosure, as in the related word, circus. If

You were found guilty of a crime in Rome, you were unlikely

To be jailed unless you were awaiting execution -exile,

forced labour, fines and whipping being much more common.

Standard incarceration is an invention of Christendom.

When they call the state carceral, they mean that its key

Institutions imprison its citizens actions and thoughts in ways

That suit its rulers. Most decent people think this theory is farcical

And angrily reject the notion that say, education, is carceral.

 

Susan aged 25 was in prison for selling small quantities of ketamine,

A sensible, cheeky, model prisoner, six months pregnant, keen

To give birth and nurse her baby. She was taken to hospital handcuffed

To a male officer, and still was when displaying what he called her muff

For examination. Her labour was intensely painful, but he showed no

Interest while playing heavy metal on his phone. The female officer who

Replaced him was no better. She felt abused and violated. The complaint

She made was dismissed by the governor who said some officers would faint

at the sight of blood, so she was lucky with the two she had. This ain’t

a holiday camp, he said. Show some respect to us and we’ll show

some to you even if you are a housing scheme drug dealer, amigo.

 

From the age of five, my school taught me to revere the men

In suits and ties and gowns who hit me again and again.

I was no angel, but I certainly was not as feral

As those whose discipline made the place carceral.

 

 

 

 

The USA and Israel killed him and his family on the first

Day of their war, Ayatollah Khomenei, who in repeated bursts

Of repression had killed thousands of his protesting citizens

Who did not share his ludicrous view that their offence

Was rejection of Allah and worthy of the death penalty.

Now, with the war declared a victory of both sides, melodies

Of patriotism call Iranians to their leader’s funeral. From

All over Iran, in buses, trains and cars, on willing feet they come

Many hundreds of thousands, together, then divided into female

And male cohorts for solemn assembly. These women are not frail

But, ranged in rows, project the power of people much kept down

Yet freed in this vast crowd. Their lips are parted, not in sound

But silent ecstasy of grief at all that must be borne,, including

Their leader’s death, and anger at the unbelievers’ stupid

Military that wiped a school and all its pupils from the map.

A dullness in their eyes says if I make a criticism or madcap

Joke amongst them, they’ll murder me and eat my balls.

 

Then I remember Paul Fusco’s photos of Bobby Kennedy’s funeral

Train from New York to Washington with people all down the line

Showing respect, especially the poor who saw him as a sign

Of hope because he knew the arc of the moral universe does not bend

Toward justice without the contemporary commitment

Of decent citizens. So, there they are, his people, marshalling

Themselves along the track, not in military formation, but calling

Families and friends into groups that speak of love and the struggle

To survive, as for example the family at the yard door of an ugly

Three story brick house, black people standing with pride, parents

And at least four children on the step, the eldest out front, wearing

Sunday best for the man who understood their royalty and was steering

The state towards their kingdom. The mother and eldest daughter wave

Affectionately towards RFK as he journeys towards his grave.

“Many people see the way things are and ask, Why? But

I see things that do not yet exist and ask, Why not?”

Fusco’s photos are a joyful critique of the Islamic Republic

Of Iran, and of Trump’s sad superpower America.