“Good morning, ladies,and gentlemen, I trust you slept well

I hope you are throughly confused about where we are, unable

To guess either the nation nor this city, as that will be safest

For your lives and welfare. I admit that we are responsible for this test

Of your confidence in us, but you all replied to our job advert online

Which admitted our illegal purposes. Some applicants had designs

On our existence and were eliminated but we regard you as promising.

We have in our possession a huge consignment of Ketamine; your mission

Will be to sell it. Some of you have useful experience of this but some

Have none, so a summary may be helpful. Ketamine has many uses but the one

That matters is as a human and veterinary analgesic, although it is used

more and more as an anti-depressant for young people. Legally. You

Will sell it illegally at a street price of10 to 20 sterling a gram

In Scotland, its main cities and towns. You all speak English, you can

Understand their vile dialect in a week if you listen. We have chosen

This society because although it is one of the richest it is frozen

Into cultures of poverty where economic justice is absent

sInce its government would rather be known as kind than competent.

It has some of the worst deprivation and the most drug deaths in Europe

While the state tries to protect addicts from the effects of their dope.

And leaves us with the sole right to supply it, the secret of our success,

And their social disaster. So,you’ll be safe and appreciate a stress-

Free business amongst likeable people. Your distribution, contacts,

Instructions, banking, payment, area guide, emergency extraction

From the territory, and above all supply of what they are calling Special K,

That’s all in the phone we will give you, on which your identity

Will be confirmed through facial recognition. We pay 200 Sterling a day plus

20% commission on monthly sales. Our present stash will last us

And you, maybe 6 months. If you don’t want the job, please raise your hand.

Nobody. Good. One last thing. This is a very attractive drug; don’t use it.

If you don’t want turned into a bladderless pile of piss, refuse it.”

 

 

 

“The pig is a dangerous animal. I want to illustrate this truth

With the story of an acquaintance whose promising youth

and mature achievement were infected by an unknown pig virus

leaving him an intellectual and moral wreck. I saw this, I was

his one-time friend, who tried by critical companionship

to save him from destruction, by plucking him from the grip

of this disease, but all without success. Here is the story.

Tom was a bright fellow who thought he was cut out for glory,

and inheriting a country farm was persuadedthat vast riches

Were in pigs. After his visit to a piggery in England his sickness

Was evident in the building of an enormous pig shed on his farm

And the purchase of two thousand pigs. I could see, with some alarm,

That his mind was not right because there were simply too many pigs

For his shed, which might have accommodated half of them, big

As it was. He simply told his men to get them in or else. I knew

This was an act of appalling cruelty and told him so. He said “You

Must have mistaken me for someone who gives a fuck.” In the days

Afterwards I visited the shed and saw the results of his care:  crazed

Animals biting each other; broken legs and backs; urine and faeces

Everywhere; weaker pigs starving; and the continuous screeches

Of animals in pain. Occasionally he visited himself looking with approval

On the suffering, increased by his workers kicking or striking with wooden

Poles any creatures that got in their road. I thought that as they had infected

Him with their disease they deserved the treatment he gave them. More wretched

However, were the pregnant sows he bought to give him piglets for market. Confined

To farrowing crates, they were unable to stand or turn while their offspring dined

On their defenceless teats. Driven beyond fear a giant sow broke her cage

Trampling Tom who was in her way. One foot went through his chest, her rage

Unstoppable The Local Authority paid Compassion in World Farming to clean

Up the mess. Pigs are very dangerous animals and there may be no rescue

for those like Tom who catch Porcoid Encephalitis and lose human values.”

 

 

Since I was an undergraduate biblical scholar

I have known about St. Catherine’s Monastery and followed

Its story from its founding by the Emperor Justinian

In 563 CE to its present dispute with Abdel Sisi the Egyptian

President. For more than 15 centuries monks have prayed

And treasured manuscripts, one of which is now displayed

In the British Museum, the Codex Sinaiticus, the oldest complete

New Testament in Greek, from 343 CE which you can view online, sheet

By sheet, original, and transcription, a gift beyond price from faithful

Monks to the Christian Church. Today you can see where an ungrateful

Nation has begun building an absurd hotel for tourists to visit Sinai

Against the wishes of the monks and the Bedouin appointed by

Justinian to protect the monastery. He moved Christian families

And housed them near the mountain, but they quite soon strayed

Into Islam while continuing to serve their Christian brothers until

Now, defining no one by race or religion or any method of chill

Identity but by loyalty to a shared handshake. Their valley is contained

By red, rounded, blocks of naked rock where pasture is so scarce

that the women of the clan must daily lead the herd to food and water

while the men look after their homes, their sons and daughters.

Women make embroidery on rest days while the men employ

Their skill as poets. “Oh valley,” says one, “You are a home for the heart’s joy.”

 

 

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.