Another day at the office

You attend dutifully, dapper as ever, 

sip green tea, adorn yourself with a fancy,

close to the mouth microphone;  take your

turn at pontification, then nod your head 

in sycophantic obsequiousness to the 

interminable, futile rhetoric that bleeds 

from the jaws of other well fed hyenas;

that unlike Dostoevsky think truth is worth any price. 

Sometimes, though only metaphorically speaking,

you wring your hands, pay homage to the

stricken;  stern of eye, sturdy of limb 

as empty promises slip through your lips

as easily as your expenses chit slips 

past the blinded eye of the great unwashed;

knowing that tomorrow, or in one year,

whichever is the sooner, it will not matter. 

Later, you are chauffeured home in cossetted luxury:

there is a warm light shining in your home,

your servant is at the loom, spinning sweetly

and all the bells in fairyland are tinkling.

"Good day at work?" she asks, as the bones

of dead children cry out for compassion.

"The usual," you reply, "Aleppo,

my goodness, when will it ever end."

Only as time ends is the answer you seek.

When the men with no eyes

The men with washed hands

The men with stones for hearts

The alchemic shifters and shapers

will be brought to final judgement.

Reviews

[Eilis]

I do believe comfort is a great deadener of feeling. The sorrows or perils or hardships of others do not reach the man who hasn’t suffered very easily.

You paint a bleak portrait of it here, and, above all, I’m left with that awful feeling of impotence I have when I’m thousands of miles away from something and have very little actual power to change it for the better.

I hate to hear suffering people discussed as though they are property or an abstract concept rather than human beings with the same hopes and dreams as I have for myself and my family. And you offer such a bare portrait of it here. The man at a distance with nothing to lose, and consequently very little real feeling on the subject.

It’s stark and sickening. But, a necessary reflection to face so that we may, hopefully, reflect on how we can do better.

Great work on this, Beccy.

[Beccy]

I wrote this after recalling one of the many conversations I had with Peter Whitehead, a brilliant author and film maker, who was a good friend of my fathers. Sadly He passed away in June of this year, but the times I spent with him remain a fascination in my life.

The conversation that spawned this poem actually took place some years before I put pen to paper, when we discussed the inner workings of the UN, of which he had some knowledge. 'Worse even than a toothless dog,' was his opinion of the organisation, vested interests always taking precedent over people; and he then went on to tell me of particular circumstances, where decisions and resolutions made were quite deliberately against the best interests of the suffering. A few years later, the situation in Aleppo triggered the memory of that conversation, hence the poem.

Sadly, nothing much changes, does it; and like you, I hate the feeling of impotence I get when time after time man's inhumanity to man is met by no more than empty rhetoric and futile hand wringing.

[Eilis]

You want to believe that certain things function in the way they are meant to function, and can be a force for good. It's difficult to come to grips with the reality.

Thanks for introducing me to Peter Whitehead. I just looked him up and apparently there are some films online (one about his life and work) that I'm going to watch when I have time.

[Nigel Newman]

Becky this is so well written. The target of the first couple of verses could be a specific Tony Blair type person, UN member, or someone a level or two beneath such folk. I read this that you hold to the view that they COULD do better, could do more, but don't. You paint him or them as being without conscience. And you do all this brilliantly. Your descriptions, similes, etc and flow/phrasing are fabulous; original, clear, evocative, apt. Even in such a heart-felt piece, I really enjoy reading what you write.

I was reminded of a swearing Bob Geldof as I read this, or one of the Tim Curtis movies. I have to confess I wouldn't chide these folk quite as scathingly as you do. Heartless as it sounds, these alchemic movers and shapers have many calls upon the resources, time, money, materials they can bestow, including maintenance of domestic economies to help fund future support. Even as I write this, I know that sounds shallow and I fully understand Geldof swearing at these guys. And I can see Tony Blair as Middle East Peace Envoy and I think WTF!!!! So I see the frustration, and I see the macro politicking where chess is being played with countries and populations. I just can't be so equivocal as the line taken in this poem.

But that doesn't stop it from being a brilliantly written piece of writing, for which I say thanks and very well done!
BRs Nigel

[Nigel Newman]

Just realised it was Richard Curtis. And any differences we may have in political/economic/social opinions has no place in a critique about writing, so apologies for that. Just to say again, fabulous!

[An owl on the moon]

There is an elegance like the sea that washes over the deep darkness floating in the waters here. So much pain and loss and life aching to find roots somehow in the rubble.

[Ken Simm.]

I find this to be an exemplary castigation of the movement this year especially. An extraordinary piece of art that sets my mind along many different pathways. The wish for power from the insignificant man. I hold that anyone who wishes power should not be allowed to have it. Only those who never wish.... Those who would cherish the children.

[Sami Khalil]

A sad tragedy of man and the power struggle where children are caught in the middle and suffer the most. There will be a final judgement to each individual and a punishment of some sort or another. You show a lot of compassion in this marvelous poem...:).......................

[Lydia Shutter]

People who take advantage of children...who use their innocence and vulnerability against them....are the lowest of the low. We can only hope they will have to answer for their actions someday. Powerful poetry. Lydi**

[Beccy]

Thank you all. Nothing is worth the life of a child.

I pray, but it seems as if I will never be heard.

[Woody]

magical, Beccy, for want of a better word. words of a poet with a huge heart. I can never match Dana or jacob. they said it beautifully.

[Mark]

I love the apocryphal style of this poem. It's insightful in an offbeat way that resonates with me.

[Beccy]

It's the opposite way round in real life, isn't it; the bad guys seem to be the winners.

I wonder what they dream about, and whether they ever think about how fragile is their own mortality?

[Gee]

They probably sleep more soundly than we ever will. What worry when no moral compass to guide them. I wish I had the words to compliment your writing, sadly, for me anyway, I have not. Therefore Jacob speaks for me too