Thursday, 30 January 2014


There can be no poems on mornings like this
neither before nor after breakfast;
they’ve build a fake refugee camp at Davos
complete with soldiers and mock corpses
so the rich can dirty their shoe soles
so they can rough up their retinas
and call it experience,
they'll call it learning and worthiness
our world leaders can lean-in
to conflict zone chic
and they can learn something
they’ll tell us that people can flourish in adversity
sure, didn’t they visit
a very close simulation of it?
And didn't they cry about it?
Oh yes they did.

My radio is spewing indistinguishable headlines
about how everything everywhere is better now
and the rain is relentless
the streets here are sleazy from it
parents are driving their steam-filled cars full of children,
they're sending them out to learn how to be obedient citizens
in this country where people of conscience are jailed
and my bed is a pit of insomnia
where the self won’t stand up to questioning
it can’t bear interrogations like this
the self won’t get up out of bed today
and I don’t blame it,
I'll have to leave without it.

Link to an article about Margaretta D'Arcy who is in jail

©Sarah Clancy