Manifesto for Murder

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Feedback suggests that some of my poems go down well in Russia, possibly because many Russians enjoy poetry, certainly, the few I have had the pleasure of meeting over the years have taken pleasure in the genre. I have always wanted to visit Russia although it will not happen now as I have too many health problems...but anyone can dream.

I have tried to record many world events good, bad, and ugly - in poems, mostly in the villanelle form, and this is one of them. As I continue working my way through my poetry collections with a view to publishing them online one day, I expect to come across more poems that are not on the blogs; since some (not a lot)of interest has been shown so far, I will continue to let readers decide for themselves whether they belong here or not.

This poem was written the day after two female Islamic suicide bombers aligned with Caucasus Emirate and Al-Qaeda. caused carnage on the Moscow Metro during the morning rush hour, March 29th 2010. There have been other attacks since, but this was possibly the worst.

I have always felt a poet has some responsibility as an archivist. Having been given to understand that my poetry is being archived in the British Library and elsewhere, hopefully the likes of this poem may be of interest to future generations. More importantly, we should never forget that behind every tragedy, wherever in the world, there are families and communities.

Terrorists worldwide have much to answer for, but we must never judge the many by the few. It is my experience that the majority of ordinary men and women, whatever their belief or non-belief, are ready and willing to take others as they find them and don't let religion - or any other differences - get in the way of being kind or even establishing lasting friendships … however much some of their leaders, deliberately or otherwise, might encourage them to do so.

MANIFESTO FOR MURDER

Carnage, a Moscow Metro station

as suicide bombers strike;

when, oh, when will we ever learn?

Speculation on political intention,

the politics of blame at work;

carnage, a Moscow Metro station

Chechen rebels, focus of attention,

Muslim extremism and the like;

when, oh, when will we ever learn?

Same tit-for-tat strategies for action

in denial of mutual needs to talk;

carnage, a Moscow Metro station

Buy into a constructive contribution,

and invariably find pigs in a poke;

when, oh, when will we ever learn?

It’s down to us, the ordinary person

in the street, to vote as we’d like;

carnage, a Moscow Metro station;

when, oh, when will we ever learn?

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2010

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The Saddest Swinger In Town

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T

When we talk about poverty here in the West we invariably think of Third World countries. Yet, the West has its share of poverty too, even the great USA although it prefers to hide it behind a glossy corporate image. In the UK and across Europe there are beggars on the streets and families living below the bread line
Statistics tell us that poverty kills more than 50,000 people every day. Oh, but to hell with statistics, they are academic. (Who takes any notice of them anyway?)

Every statistic is a real person. Behind every statistic, is someone trying to get a life.

A year ago, I spotted an enigmatic young woman in a bright orange dress on the dance floor at a London bar. Months later, I read that she had been found dead in her home. She wasn’t the victim of a violent attack or a drugs overdose; she had been unemployed for several years and died of malnutrition. So why didn’t anyone realise? Why didn’t she ask for help? You tell me...

This poem is a kenning.

THE SADDEST SWINGER IN TOWN

I am a friend to none,
but embrace all, yet it is not
out of vindictiveness
I swing for every man, woman,
and child on the streets
of a world fast losing the plot
when it comes down
to getting its priorities right
(looking after its own)

Some call me The Teaser,
calling on Life to flirt with Mercy,
dragging kindly souls
deserving far better than this
to an untimely death;
small comfort in Earth Mother’s
lasting kiss for those
left to grieve for the greater
of love’s tragedies

I spare none, but feast
on shadows, waters of the womb
and leftover dreams;
Yet, even I can be beaten,
forced to retreat,
were the world to take arms
against its penchant
for glossy storylines, take issue
with home truths

Poverty, the saddest swinger in town
for society's denial of failing its own

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note: This poem will appear in my next collection, Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Bools, 2012.]