YE ARE MANY hailed from overseas
by megaphone, the poet rising from his couch.
But were they ever, your people, leonine?
Diasporic on their home turf, even,
like ex-pats in training; swept out
from slum-clearance, unregenerate
mall denizens. Picture them biro’d in
with small defiance, misdirected pride
answering for squandered strength.
Say we have greatness in us; show it
where it is. That it is greatly
to be feared is shown elsewhere, in mirror-
visor, reinforced perspex riot-shield;
the sabre swung from horseback, cleaving the ruck.
* * *
Returning to the poem that made me want to write poetry: Shelley’s The
Masque of Anarchy. More to come, I hope.
Dominic
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