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.

 

 

 

 

I saw her in Gneevguillia, County Kerry, on a Sunday at Mass

Standing at the rail, reaching as if there were no perhaps.

She came to mind when you asked if there is any reality

In religion, and I have painted her for you, so that her bodily

Presence may be with you, in your struggle with the enemies

Of life. My canvas is almost life- size so that it can tell this

Story with conviction.The main figure is on the left side

With low down a block of grey as in dust, tilted to the right,

The application of the paint miming an upward thrust. Above,

Tilted to the left a block of brown as of arms or legs that you’d love

A shirt in, flagrant. On top, poised centrally, a small purple

Oval with a nose facing right, sharply. You might guess purpose

If this was a person. In the centre, to the right of this figure, level

With the brown block, are five large purple tubes laid parallel

To each other horizontally with a definite impetus as if stretching

Rightward to demand a reward, which at first seems wretchedly

Absent, but when you look closely you see it is conventional

And trite, a tiny communion wafer tinged with wine, not mystical

Nor philosophic, but drawn from a specific history, simply saying,

“Jesus God is here, now” That is her passion amid all the tatters

Of her time and place. And if it is true, nothing else matters.

 

 

 

They often say of old friends that when you meet them

After a long absence, it’s as if time itself were defeated

And you pick up where you left off, but when two friends

With whom I’d worked forty years ago, two old men

Came to visit me, I was struck by how much they had changed:

This one, after two divorces and a career in community education

Was committed to playing and composing jazz, an ability

And skills not evident when I knew him, though perhaps his instantly

Correct grasp of my ideas came from the same place as his joy

In jamming. The other when young had been a benign playboy

Of energy and potential, which he had used well in local

Government, family life, and friendships to become a bloke of

mellow interaction, easy with the world. I love them new

as they are, hoping for future meetings in which this true

affection may be celebrated. But who did they encounter?

A man stripped of illusions of personal empowerment

And communal usefulness, offering only a trust in what

Is beyond the self, whose daughter’s death was havoc

To the soul, how could they love this altered man?

And yet they did, it seemed by their warmth, even if I can

Not. Friendship is no mere aggregate but a mystery whose arts

Make a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.