Sam Byrne
2nd June
Somewhere deep in the ridiculous, there is the sublime.
Today, the sublime is being pushed
by flash-bangs, tears, and gas.
The word riot is shoved about,
as if it stands for nothing.
Flames snap at the edges of a flag
that has worn out its meaning;
no stars are left to fall back on
in the promise of a dream
that has festered
for much too long.
Behind this, more important still,
are people picking at bandages,
to realise there is no skin left to heal-
no medicine yet invented can seal
gaps in flecking rags-
the bone is raw right through.
From up top,
we see the stars showering down
in bursts of sheer white
on flagstones, facemasks, bruises-
a path is cleared out by a choir
of batons and trucks and bullets.
The commander steps forth into the field,
escorted by a retinue of the bold
and the decrepit.
Their heels turn up tarmac
as the crowds are parted
by figures in plastic and rubber,
like a burning, blistering sea.
The waves leave behind debris;
band-aids, empty cans and ruck-sacks.
Marching ever onward over
this hellish litany of possessions
and clapped out dreams,
the cameras keep pace with a spectacle
taking place under the auspices
of the angelic drones above.
Before the boarded windows
and white-washed arches
of a church he has not known,
he raises scripture
well above his brow.
To his right, the sign out front
states that ‘All are welcome.’
The camera crew is informed
that the sublime is occurring.
They capture the whole thing
in physical form, and transmit
the divine to the folks at home,
while their crosses are clutched
between crossed digits.
Two or maybe three blocks past this finale
the crowd has stopped,
but does not dissolve.
Their tsunami is still breaking
against bloody shores.
The event is over.
He is escorted back
to the luxuries
of pristine walls,
gold doors,
and a hard-wired connection
to his base
after brief,
sub-titled
statements.
The square is left to the wind
and silence.
Sometimes, the sublime does not waste itself
on moments.
Sometimes, it is terrible,
and it stands for days,
waiting,
demanding to be heard,
shouting louder than life for an end
to systemic violence, segregation,
injustice, oppression,
death;
to anything and everything which prevents
beauty from being born.
But often,
it asks only for a lungful of
breath.
This poem was written in response to the Black Lives Matter protests that are still on-going in the U.S., and the institutional response to these protests. My worry with this poem is that it will come off as performative lip service, rather than anything meaningful or helpful. It is simply my interpretation of events as they filtered through via my TV screen. I’ve tried to keep myself deliberately distant from the events in the poem as a result. My main inspiration here is fairly straightforward; a reading of the poem and a google search of the date in question should turn up the relevant information. I will speak to the theme underpinning the poem, however; hypocrisy. The response from people in power to the protests has shown up their true colours more clearly than lip service and press conferences possibly could.
The Telecoms’ Man
Pole-shinner, I saw you shimmy up sticks
When I was five years old,
And in the time since you could not help
But have a hold on my fragile imaginings.
An extraordinary figure, the way
You soundlessly acquiesced
To the rigging’s safety was something
I could never comprehend.
To trust so fully that flimsy thing,
A strip of wood I knew to shake in the wind,
You were either brave or damned,
But the birds made no judgement.
Methodically thumping boot on metal,
Letting the stirrup halt your strain,
You spooled cord back to ground level;
The task was simple and over in minutes.
But I could only see you,
A man out in the blue
At the mercy of the sky.
Even now, fifteen years away,
I picture myself, at times, in your habit;
Though posed the same,
My footing comes loose-
Yet with each meter fallen
The ground comes no nearer.
Here, I am a clipped sparrow, a stunned bug,
Nicked neatly clean by a lucid arrow-
A worthy prey to gravity’s plummeting pull,
And shooting down, the deep atmosphere seems full
Of blurred climbers, clad in neon yellow.
This poem is something of a meditation on growing up. As a child I always remember being daunted by the scope and scale of the adult world. It seemed to be this far off bastion where everything was done with great competence and sureness. As I got nearer to finally stepping off the bus and into that world, so to speak, I became aware of the conflict between the view I had of things as a child and the reality that most things are a sort of balancing act, and one which can go wrong without too much difficulty.
Poetry by Sam Byrne
Hi! I’m teaching English by the sea, currently without a class to teach. In my spare moments I work on developing a convincing Yorkshire accent, cultivating bad facial hair when no-one is looking, and sometimes I wonder what I’m trying to say. In all cases, I’m getting there by inches.