In a minute she will say ‘good morning’ and the ghosts
will scamper from my skull back to Biafra
where, like every day, the conquerers will kill them
and wipe the bayonets on oil-stained grass.

The sun will race everywhere when she opens the curtains,
its beams, at this prime distance, bringing me warmth
more bearable than gun barrels burning flesh from hands
that tried to push the noise and the light away.

My distance from the sun will make me welcome
its particles, the way we welcome ambassadors
who bring this message from so many lands:
Our oil supply stays safe, and in good hands.

Five minutes after firing stops, birds sing.
The smells of coffee, butter, fresh croissants
and the sounds of Jan Sibelius do their work
expecting my greeted skull to say it’s fine.

© Alan Reynolds, 1998 – 2016
I have worked and reworked this poem over the years, trying to write something that expresses my reaction to what I feel is the madness of being well adjusted in a maladjusted world.
There are too many examples of the maladjusted world. Here I went back to one which had a name and face many years ago, Biafra, conflating it with today and any day. Maybe I chose Biafra as my ‘scene’ (and Finlandia as my title, especially when listening to the music) because of Kurt Vonnegut, who wrote so movingly about that country when it was one: The Republic of Biafra, May 30, 1967 – July 17, 1970: ‘The tune of Biafra’s national anthem was Finlandia, by Jan Sibelius. The equatorial Biafrans admired the arctic Finns because the Finns won and kept their freedom in spite of ghastly odds.’ Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons: Opinions, 1974. p. 140.

Yet More Killings

Can I be frightened? Yes. Shocked? Every day.
Each hour brings news I don’t want to know.
It’s not the knowing but the happenings I hate.

Murderers ruin survivors’ lives and leave
Earth worse off than they found it. There’s no Why.
The good among us vacillate and grieve.
We ask each other why must children die
for madmen’s twisted searches for the power.
The power eludes us all. Thank gods for that.

Each minute that we mourn takes us an hour
further away from Heaven. Lives go flat.
Bright colours fade, reduce to black and white.
We follow demagogues who bring the night.

Apathy is a Developing Response

Apathy is a developing response.
Ask the young what should be done about some ‘X’
and they will answer with a certainty admired
by falling rocks which don’t so straightly plumb
the depths as do the certainties of youth.

In middle age, amongst their bouts of rage,
the folk, perplexed by living the long riddle
they call their lives, will entertain first doubts
about positions they once firmly held.
And then they’ll hold them tighter, fear letting loose

and a fall into ‘senescence’ — as we call
that acceptance Buddha lauds and Calvin hates,
where the answer to what one’s required to do
engenders daily less hot animo
and more and more a careless ‘I don’t know.’


Is apathy an acceptable response?
It feels better (because feels less) than other options
Which are available to us readers of the news
Where some police shoot children, and where kids
Kill lots of people with their parents’ guns.

It seems, to guns as news, that we adjust,
But more headlines beat on us every day
With floods, hate, lies, and thefts on grandstand scale.
We see wars, and photographs of screaming grief,
And unmitigated everyday small meanness.

Anthropogenic warming. Globe goes Bang!
Put on blinkers. Turn off all reports of spying.
Take pills of higher strength. Ignore the signs
Until it all hurts less, until you’re happy.
A little, sometime. Nearer apathetic.

Piece Work

Just bits you sell in passing as you fall.
Few SM fans extend to drilling teeth,
but you don’t stop. It seems to be your call-
ing. I command you: Stop. Come lay one wreath,
just one, to lay your longings out to rest.
They’ve run from dawn to vespers. There’s the bell.
You’re always in to put yourself to test,
but shadows lengthen. Longings likes yours dwell
too long in skulls like yours, and drive men mad.
El Cid would dream like you, but then would act –
while you but scream in slumber. If you had
his energy, you’d long ago have packed
your weapons, and have died in one last bout.
The theory: Go inside. Grab. Fetch it out.
The theory (go inside, grab, fetch it out)
can soothe you. Save you. Try it here tonight.
I’ll help you practice, and, as one, we’ll rout
the demons who still make your smile too tight
when people who don’t know it talk of war.
You’ve learned well not to flare out these last years.
You simply walk away. You don’t get far.
When you look in the mirror I see tears.
You lock your heart when they laugh at lost lives,
and I applaud your stillness. Stoic. Sane.
But later, when you oil and whet your knives
and rust their hinges crying, you’re the bane
of my senescence. Come. It’s time to wrench.
Display it flayed upon the market bench.
Display it flayed upon the market bench?
Yes. I’ll tell you what. Step down this way,
into our memories. Yes, that’s the finch.
The bigger boys had burned its beak away.
You would have killed them had you had a gun;
but thankfully we didn’t, and the brick
you broke upon one’s instep let us run
away to grow up. Yes, this is the trick
you learned in school of asking people Why
each time they talked of action. You’d oppose
with questions (better every year), defy
each thoughtless action. Still would, I suppose.
You like to lay your verbal traps about
and mark who flinches at your barker’s shout.
And mark who flinches at your barker’s shout.
Yes, you’re a barker. Biting’s not your style.
And war’s the weapon you would do without.
Turn the other cheek. Walk extra miles.
You don’t believe in that? What else is left
to you, who are convinced that evil grows
in ratio to righteousness of men
who shoot, but look no further for a rose,
or other reason, to be friends. When war
won us (well, lost us) – forced us to confront
the evils you had hated from afar –
you did your worst, effectively, to shunt
opponents to the Styx. You drench this stench:
this once was you. You sell it now to quench…
This once was you. You sell it now to quench
a craving you developed (in those caves)
for being left alone. We ought to bed a winch
in the quarry (yours, mental), hoist those knaves
that taunt all your remaining summer nights.
Remember Spring? Colombia? You liked to sing,
and tease the colonel’s wife to shed her tights,
one of the pairs you’d parted with to wring
revenge from his, the colonel’s, side.
And all because you saw him maim that bird.
‘La vida’, as your actions broke his heart,
‘no vale nada.’ Courts found it absurd
that you were charged – and set you free to flood
your thirst for patronage, and theirs for blood.
Your thirst for patronage, and theirs for blood,
and that in northern cities for escape,
could make us rich. And better yet, it would
have done, you vigilante in a cape,
but you decided drugs could harm a child
and children, like small birds, should be set free.
Now action-tuned, you turned yourself loose. Wild.
You bombed the plane we guarded on the Key.
They would have killed us both. You got them first.
‘Off the offal’, was your crazy cry.
In many tongues you overfed this thirst,
became too facile helping others die.
When Roma called, you auctioned off your hate.
Note down who pays your price and hefts its weight.
Note down who pays your price and hefts its weight.
Our lives hang in the balance. Be alert.
You’re foreign here, like everywhere, and rate
a special sanction. Worse than death is hurt,
and hurt is what is driving our host’s plan.
You think his wife’s attractive, but it’s she
who urged his group to hire you. Over flan,
that follows goose and brandy, she’ll decree
how many ounces of your flesh they’ll chop
away in retribution for expenses
you’ve cost her family. As their profits drop
they cut their losses. Lost flesh recompenses
their pain. You use the knife, and hear the thud;
note how the drops behind them turn to mud.
Note how the drops behind them turn to mud,
and turn, and tunnel. Down and down and down
to where the boatman waits. He lets you hud-
dle in the bilge, hide underneath the gown
the bishop gave for passage on the Styx.
Now we are here, and Death is here, and Life.
And something Else, that throws one die to fix
your pattern for the future. There is strife,
and stridency. Subterfuge, and, then, tender
remonstration. Candles light. We glide
away, no oars. A hand of unknown gender
takes yours, takes mine; it lifts us safe inside
an ancient hall. Tall monks expectorate
the little puffs of dust they wet, then wait.
The little puffs of dust they wet, then wait
to watch re-dry, grow up: stalagmite men.
Approaching you, these golems hesitate,
then strip you bare, and bind you fast with tin
and copper wires. You don’t resist. Your breath,
too shallow now to cloud a looking glass,
expires without a sound. You welcome Death.
You wait in vain. A score of hours pass
and Nothing happens; No-one’s here.
No human hand unbinds you, then you’re free.
You’re free, and hate no more, and birdsong clear
as God’s, or Julie Andrews’, do-re-mi
leads you to a window. Hold the sash
a while, for decency, before you dash.
A while, for decency, before you dash,
isn’t long. You fear no golem’s hands,
or mob reprisals. Nothing makes you rash,
and singing birds suspend thin silken strands
to guide your steps as we stride from the cave
and out its mouth to glory. I shed tears,
but you are taciturn; you do not rave,
or get us into trouble. You’ve no fears.
No fears. No more. And also, no more hopes.
You sell your time as worker bon marché;
ignore the barks of meal dogs hanged from ropes.
You’re catatonic, want to stay that way.
You, once the warrior, let all battles pass –
to spend your income on a looking glass.
To spend your income on a looking glass
is motored by a very meager plan:
you want, here, after all that’s come to pass,
to check if you can see the inner man.
I find you can’t. To me I look the same,
and you (who’s that?) remain romantic, lost;
and little changed, in visage, from the game
you’ve played (played us) each time a coin was tossed,
and every time a birdcall called us out.
Your armor’s rusty, and you’ve lost your thrust.
It’s time to cut from battlefield to pout,
to sell out memoirs to the upper crust.
They’ve always had our soul. We need the cash,
to see if, now you’ve lost it, you look flash.
To see if now you’ve lost it you look flash
requires more money than a monk can muster.
The wage you earn retiring market trash,
a quarter what the major pays his duster,
is what we used to get through in an hour.
Use your skills and give your back a break;
I could use the money and a shower.
This city, and this world, are on the take;
but you, of all Earth’s fools best in the know,
persist with head down, hoeing with a rake.
Reciting lines like litanies, you go
through time entombed, with both feet on the brake.
Look then! Has your grace gone to higher class
or simply thinner? Thinking soon will pass.
Or simply, thinner thinking soon will pass.
Fat chance you won’t give power one more whirl.
The mayor’s duster will not let his nas-
ty wishes shame her. Poor and stupid girl!
He calls this virgin, ‘Whore.’ What’s that, a sty?
Your eyelid twitches. Knife back in that sheath!
The mayor’s lynch friends vote to crucify
this righteous girl, then burn her, on the heath.
No, these are not just words. They really will.
It’s custom here; and you are garbage — low,
not lethal anymore. You will not kill,
though your inaction ushers in Hell’s glow.
Don’t let reason leave, to heed this call,
as did career and family. They are all.
As did career and family. They are all
you ever had. God knows I miss them so.
You take the knife, the knives (the knives!) and haul
their edges over leather till they glow,
surprise the mayor’s henchmen cleaning guns –
surprise the mayor too, by striking low.
The river’s dark at noon down where it runs
beneath the heather bridge. The current’s slow,
and heartbeats stop. The bravest one is yours.
Yours starts again. The town makes you new mayor.
Of all you were, the little that endures,
the piece that works, is not the righteous slayer,
but the parts you flog, ignoring birds that call –
just bits you sell in passing, as you fall.
The theory? Go inside. Grab. Fetch it out.
Display it flayed upon the market bench,
and mark who flinches at your barker’s shout
this once was you. You sell it now to quench
your thirst for patronage, and theirs for blood.
Note down who pays your price and hefts its weight.
Note how the drops behind them turn to mud
the little puffs of dust they wet. Then wait,
a while, for decency, before you dash
to spend your income on a looking glass
to see if, now you’ve lost it, you look flash,
or simply thinner. Thinking soon will pass,
as did career and family. They are all –
just bits you sell in passing, as you fall.


Piece Work was published in ENVOI 126, June 2000. (ENVOI)

A Short Piece

Of the night sleeps I remember none are short
as this one, stopping on the second line
of counting sheep to stare into the dark.
Outside, a baby’s screaming like a cat.
I pretend it is the other way around
and blank out themes I wrestled with in ‘Piece Work.’

One’s killing to save peace. It only works
for spans of time that are extremely short.
A chamber of the sort that takes a round
expels a load that tracks a laser line
from a man I’d called my neighbor towards the cat.
My eyes trace glaring red-blacks through the dark

into the trees. The morning starts off dark
and worsens with each step I walk to work.
On a tree I see a poster for a cat:
a child is missing. There’s another short
note penned below it: felt-tip single line
that the cat and child no longer are around.

My partner in our workplace shuns my round
of questions. Answers leave us in the dark
as they must for now; we only have the line
we gave each other when we came to work.
The lines of customers grow thin and short
and thinking comes in quietly as a cat.

We two, who once were proud of how we’d cat
around, when times were easy, have come round
to valuing what’s important now we’re short
of options, and we rage against the dark
together, as if rhetoric could work
a miracle. We want a party line.

‘Peace at all costs’ and ‘Do not cross this line’
compete, and we consider if the cat
survives its boxing; we ask whether work
will be an option if bad forces round
upon us and extinguish peace. The dark
unites us and cuts hopes and whining short.

We load our weapons for the coming round
of vigilance, hold lines against the dark,
and think our war successful. Peace is short.

Child Armies

I am not well. My soul’s not dead but sick.
It cries for leeches; bloating, would be bled,
or freed in modern fashion from the toll
extracted here by Caesar’s rule; and there
by children scratching at the scabs they grow,
or would, would warlords let them once just be.

These children! They should sit in school or be
away at summer camps: get cramps, feel sick
a bit from biting melons that still grow
along the edge of fields. (When these fields bled
young brother’s blood filled up that ditch, and there
lay sister’s hand, she’s eight years old: the toll

of yet another spat.) These days the toll
of burial bells rings every noon, let be
at dawn, at dusk, at night. And over there,
across the cove on neighbors’ ground, the sick
hunch down: they’re scratching out the stumps of bled
and blasted fruit trees blown away. Here grow

no more the shady tops and trunks. Here grow
instead cracked rocks, some not tilled crops. The toll
among the children’s even worse. Who bled
their eyes of tears, daubed out where there should be
a sparkling glint of healthy fun? Eyes sick
and cynical: lies Lucifer in there,

where babies harbored happiness? It’s there,
among these baby brawler minds we grow
(yes, “we”) as fodder for a farce more sick
than serious or grand, I hear the toll
of hope’s demise, of what these tots could be.
Their bodies grow in spite of us (who bled

resources, poisoned what was left; who bled
these children’s humanness away). Is there
no place they can retreat, no crèche to be
created in once more, and, cuddled, grow
in graciousness, avoid the warrior’s toll
that levies suffocation, makes them sick?

These children warriors we have bred are sick.
Beheading them lets us postpone the toll
that nature wants as populations grow.

Pues, nada

While learning to speak real Spanish fluently probably requires being in a Spanish speaking country, Ben Curtis and Marina Diez provide online teaching services that make the process not only easier but also very enjoyable. They live in Madrid, which is her hometown (he is from Oxford), and they provide a host of online course materials including free podcasts and videocasts. Their choice of subjects and their engaging presentation make following them much more fun than the average reality television show, than any reality television show! You can find their videos on YouTube and via iTunes, which is also a handy way to get their podcasts.  Their websites are good sources, not only for Spanish-language studies, but also for information about traveling to or living in Spain: and

Pues nada is a phrase that you often hear in Spain. Ben defines it as a good manner of making a pause in conversation. A literal translation could be ‘well, nothing’ or ‘then, nothing’ – with or without the commas – which may have something to do with the title of this new poem I am working on:

Pues, Nada

The survival knife, like hula hoops, has faded
from the public consciousness, Rambo entombed
with other myths attractive till The Bomb.

Then nothing. I can’t translate this short phrase.
It stays foreign to me like so many things,
their foreignness increasing as we age:
all things, and me. The knife lies on the floor.

It is useless here where bombs define the street
but, unlike many neighbors, it survived.

I read out phrases that street artists painted
onto the walls that last week were inside –
until The Bomb exposed them – bright green smears,
spray-painted text: Pues, Nada. Says it all.

The Cat of Whimsy – Why not call him that?
No one will read these words I write inside
what’s left of this apartment, and he purrs
when I call him that, or anything at all –
The Cat of Whimsy leans against my leg
then jumps across the big survival knife.

It’s not a game I’ll play, remembering lords,
or were they knaves, who fell upon their swords.

It has gotten light outside, so it’s light here.
One wall leaves little room for in the dark
when the sun starts shining. I avoid the cat
by looking at this paper. He returns.

He is thinking, just like I am, where we’ll eat.
Our appetites, so absent for the hour
or maybe days that followed the explosion,
return and bite us and we go downstairs.

‘Concrete poetry, what Israelis made
destroying Palestine’s American school…’

These lines offend me, word games making light
of what is so damned heavy that my soul
gives up existing. What is left goes down
what was the street last week, the garish paint
affirming that some younger people care
enough to try to use what they have left
to express their outrage. All they have is paint.

The Other Side, both Other Sides, have Bombs –
for here, for there in Gaza, Mexico
and everywhere that we sell arms. Who’s ‘we’?

I count. With cat and knife we’re only three.

‘I would not mind a steak,’ I tell the cat.
‘You can rhyme until the cows come home,’ he says.
‘This is not rhyme!’ I shout. We see no cows.

‘My point exactly,’ says the Cat of Whimsy.
He adds, ‘Pues, nada.’ We are lightening up,
our heads light from the hunger. Was it days?

The cat essays a joke on body parts:
‘My companion’s body parts mosaic seas.’

It’s atrocious, but we’re both atrocioused out.

A sweet old lady – ‘Sweet, she’s got a gun! –
doesn’t shoot us. Shakes her head. Gun-waves us on.

‘With gifts like these: no bullets fired, the sun,’
the cat tells me – I am shaking – ‘you’ll be fine.’