I would like to submit two new, unpublished poems to I Am Not a Silent Poet. The first is my poem about the current crisis in Syria and the second is by Antony Owen, who says his poem was written in response to mine and is happy for me to submit them together. Antony and I are currently working together on a new, collaborative collection about the last hundred years of war.
Kakistocracies, by Isabel Palmer
Noun: Government by the worst people
This is the house that Trump made,
its drains and gutters over-run, his words
rat-droppings in the night.
This is the child, legs folded under him
like a cat’s: thorns, forgotten
for a hundred years, in its paws.
These are the dogs of war,
off the leash, rolling over
Syria, licking their balls.
This is the girl, cow-eyed
and crumpled under the hose,
bubbles bursting from her mouth.
These are the airways all tattered
and torn, sooty spit dredged
for each breath gone missing.
This is the priest with his Bible,
all shaven and shorn. This,
the cock’s crow three times denied,
cruise missiles pecking
in the dust of cluster bombs,
chlorine and white phosphorous.
This is Big Ben, the scaffold built,
his hands cut off, his tongue removed,
his prison for MPs empty, under lock and key.
A Syrian slam poet dies with her mouth open, by Antony Owen
A Syrian slam poet dies with her mouth open
words leave her mouth white as blood-foot ballerinas
like the Moscow symphony at Scene IV when Giselle slips away.
Just weeks ago, a Syrian slam poet screamed her poems under her breath
She knows how Kalashnikovs sound like her Father banging her door,
When once upon a time she French-kissed a forbidden boy.
A Syrian poet lived with her mouth open often,
The first time she read Rumi and he read her back as a bridge
The first time she touched herself into a woman to let the girl go
Just seconds ago she performed her poem to the tomahawk sky,
These are not real tomahawks for they would scalp the top of the world
Remove the brain and see that its swirls are the very fingerprints of God herself.
She screamed to the sky I am woman, a goddess of the shooting star
The trebuchet light that swirls into sycamore to be one with earth
To be (poem burns from left to right then blows into the sky).