For Ben Cornford
Now
I’ve seen you, Freedom
I
know your style, the cut
of
your sandal; know your
ten
percent smile, a triumph
of
might, how a country
was
only born by the force
of
your pawns, how your
golden
flame can ignite
the
tinder-passions of most
heartfelt
night (Mona Lisa’s
cards
were never played so
tight);
I have a sense now
of
your wile, these planes
that
bear us, pregnant with rage,
you
too-much-loved lady in green.
Unlike
most, this I held obscene:
to
stand, an ideal rebuke
of
all I am; to frame
my
flight, your Majesty, and
so
outlast my javelin-ride;
and,
though all that stands
must
fall, in time you’ll come
to
recall, how my flames burn
only
the trees of this archiforest —
yours’ll
drive the war.
Lady Liberty responds. Mohammed,
do
I detect more huddled masses
bound
this way? By just
what
means do you propose
to
find your peace with me?
Attah answers.
Gold are the leaves
in
your gardens now; one day
they’ll
be oil. I can’t tell you,
though,
if still your torch
will
burn, or if — no:
on
second thought. On turning away
from
blankness, we chose to drill
for
rhyme, a capped-off, ripped-out
punchline,
a crime that still attracts
the
heaviest of fines in these
benighted
times — what, with
recent
world events being
as
they are. Yes! We reel
the
rhythm in. This plane
is
slowing now, now lowing
for
land in thicker atmosphere.
Can’t
you smell me? Mark
the
sweat of sweet jihad-line?
That
smell is war, Francina.
Absolutely
nothing can turn us away.
Again, she turns to say
what’s on the minds of millions
soon. I
remember things of all
their
years ahead. Yes, I recall
how
it all ends: a hatred
that
knows no bounds, followed
by
years of monstrous weather;
the
fjords turned to deserts – just
think!
– with ice upon new sands;
the
cruelest of burning-men
sends
his coals of rage out
broadly,
smouldering, flashing
in
the great leap forward; while
all
the ornatest chess-pieces
lie,
awaiting rebirth, in
what
remains of cool, green grass.
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