ODE TO THE IRAN WAR

 

Commentators are puzzled as to why Trump started this war

Which is not surprising as the Greatest War Leader himself was

Vague. Some think he wanted a war he could stop and thereby

Earn himself the Nobel Peace Prize. That’s a tempting answer, but I

Know better. Let’s just think clearly about the nature of Iran. Firstly

Its ruling elite are not responsible to anybody and do as they wish.

Complaints from citizens are treated with contempt. They promote

A national ethos of worship and obedience, imposed on all media

Of public information and protected by force, with a precise schema

Of good and bad. Opposition, especially from groups called woke,

From universities, artists, writers and the like, is destroyed by choking

Off their funding, bureaucratic interference, or if necessary, violence.

Critical assessment of government is mainly evident by its absence.

A detachment of fanatical thugs is always at the disposal of the elite

To threaten, beat up, torture or murder persons who are not wanted–

Immigrants, feminists, liberals, radicals – whose lives are haunted

By the threat of death. The state puts itself and its policies ahead

Of all other concerns, supporting killers in other states who shred

Any local policies that do not suit their masters. So, check:

Surely you can see that Trump could not allow such a mirror

Image of his USA to flaunt itself in the world. Hence the terror.

 

 

Eyes circled by dark fur on a fawn face you gaze confidently

Enough as you perch on a human wrist, when you are presented

To the camera. Now we can prove that The Ring-tailed Glider,

Tous Ayamaruensis, thought to have gone extinct the far side

Of the first Pharaoh, is alive and well in a Papuan forest,

Called by scientists a Lazarus Taxon, a back-from -the -dead

Being, although the indigenous people, for whom it is sacred,

Have lived with it thousands of years, while forbidden to utter

its name. You look the intruder in the eye, trusting that the shutter

of the camera is their only weapon. You were declared extinct

because your fossilised remains were found with no link

to any living creature. Well, no known link. Other lazarus

taxa have suffered the same human arrogance, plus

scientific astonishment when discovered to be alive.

None of our nonsense has stopped your quiet survival

Nesting in tree holes, eating nuts, and fruits and blossoms,

Guarded by people for whom the holy is a kind of possum.

You do not know us and will not be wise to trust us, now you

Have been addedto the list of contents of our planet. Few

Share your story but maybe Lazarus should be asked the question

If he truly enjoyed all the consequences of his resurrection.

 

He has worked in gardens most of his days honing

A physique capable of digging, planting, weeding, sowing

And lifting. hours at a time, with civilised breaks for food

And conversation, the latter deciding whether he would

Classify you as friend or merely customer. His talk revealed

That he was an educated man who had studied his field

In books, at courses, online media, and with fellow workers

Relishing facts and theories that were his ecological scriptures

Sacred but correctable that helped him comprehend

the landscapes on which he lived and worked. He knew I’d

been at university and therefore with learned terms he tried

me out, often proving the vagueness of my knowledge. Biome

I could manage but ecotone, no way. “Ah,” he says, spying

A chance to shine, “It’s the transition zone between different

Ecosystems. Like the tree line on mountains, with small bent

Trees and big shrubs, taking life from above and below. Or like

The lush vegetation by a watercourse” “Riparian” I reply,

Proud to remember the word. I had it easy, middle class

Posh school, Uni, and into a job I loved; he, stats

Call unusual, made his way from a housing scheme

Into skilled work which became a vocation. Even

Now he worries about funding his retirement. I’ve grown

To enjoy his visits here. For him and me, an ecotone.

 

 

When the trolley buses were voted a failure and abolished

I was allowed to take the train to school in the city. It hissed

Into Muirend station at 8-34am, the 2-6-4 steam engine pulling

at least five coaches, which let me reach the start of my school-day

in Elmbank Street by 9-15, a sad routine for eight years of my lifetime.

But I was an aficionado of trains long before that, since one north line

Took me to my granny in Aberdeen, another to our holidays

On Speyside, and the line to Uplawmoor bordered our estate

To the west. Parents forbade us to go there so of course we did,

To play in the surplus carriages parked in sidelines and shit

In their loos. Whenever I saw a train on track my imagination

Would be engaged, envisaging its journey and destination

Even if I knew nothing of it, and speculating on its travellers headed

Home from work or off to London, with eyes fixed on me spread-

Eagled on the embankment. As I hated school, these trains became

The promise that this was not all, there were other better places

for people that would be accessible. Still today, when my old

body does its interval training at the football pitch next the coastal

Line north, I pause if a train, local shuttle or Azuma Express, goes

By, telling me me that if frailty of muscles or of mind shows

a time is near that puts an end to all this bother

yet I can hope there will be a train, one way or the other.