yet another journey

we rise in air through the dark rain
below us the great rivers and the sea
for miles around there is not one tree
glowing lights illuminate a hellish plain
we're in this speedy crowded aeroplane
above the clouds there's nothing to see
we're held together despite all degree
each heart is feeling the same even strain
so what the rain and cold follow us south
we're each for home and a short sleep
and then it's back to normal steady bore
the insincere greetings from each mouth
don't matter we've promises to keep
although we're all exhausted to the core

an obscure wood

what we don't have we won't need to keep
the job each does matters more than a bit
we need to pause to rest and just to sleep

what we don't have is the kind of sharp wit
that takes the pain and turns it to a knife
but what we have is a tired mind that's split

between the thoughts of anger and of strife
and those that mean to many so much more
but we are balked by the base need of life

we think ourselves together rich and poor
as one large body born in long-distant past
around for long enough to know the score

the lines which we into the river cast
caught their fish and so we can soon eat
but that sort of satisfaction doesn't last

the myriad tasks this morning have us beat
we'll ask for help far more we will implore
it's grim out there on that too-silent street

what matters isn't what we did before
but how we manage at each simple task
the things that are completed we adore

but we still will not answer when you ask
why we do this and not the other way
we pause and drink deeply from the flask

because we really have nothing to say
the night will lift when it is surely time
for it to lift and then it will be day

we'll have to justify the noisy chime
be ready to fight in all the blasted wars
and cleanse ourselves of all this heavy grime

but now we cannot even see the stars

Salamis

The stories we are told feature rich muscle boys
(you bulk up big if you spend each day in the gym),
who with swords, spears, and suchlike murder-toys,
and after chanting their great battle-hymn,
proceeded to show invading foes the joys
of battling men with huge reserves of vim.
At least that is the tale that we've been told,
it's hoary now and certainly very old.

So they were brave, and they stood at the pass,
and their press spokesfolk knew how best to spin
the story, so that when they lay dead in the grass
they scored a kind of virtuous late win
and who says otherwise is condemned as an ass.
So others fought with them at that grave hour,
but from the page their efforts we will scour.

And when some fellows make a picture show
to hearten friends and remind them of brave deeds,
we see these heroes bathed in the noble glow
of men who had transcended human needs;
they fought in honour, trading blow for blow,
planting our liberty (or at any rate its seeds).
That's not what really happened there, of course,
but someone thinks we need a fellow on a horse.

Now freedom's a thing which no good man will lose
but with his life itself, or so it has been said;
there are some fellows (no names now) who'd choose
thralldom instead since it beats being dead.
But they're the folks whose path we cannot use,
and so we cut the cord and burn the thread.
We'll laud our heroes to beyond the skies,
though, frankly, we'll have to spin lots of lies.

But we're told nothing of the humbler type
the artisans and craftsmen, the hoe men
come from their fields, and boats, and ripe
with honest sweat, to take up the old job again.
without histrionics, screams, or other tripe,
the just ask where to row and pull and when
to drop their oars and grab their spears and swords,
common they are, but they fight as well as lords.

Sure, you can write an epitaph or two,
name heroes, speak of mothers' quick-dried tears;
allow their actions to pass in full review,
and speak about them all for years and years.
Until no one will ask 'what did they do?'
but think of how they conquered all their fears.
They're large now that they were in real life,
each of them a hero, even to his wife.

But Aechylus tugged on a long wood oar,
he saw a battle and he took his part.
His play's the thing, it will not lull nor bore,
he was the master of the playwright's art.
There's blood indeed, offstage, and guts, and gore,
but still the enemy's shown to have a heart.
He took his place, beside the common folk,
who fought together to resist the yoke.

The moral here, if I'm allowed to preach,
is not that epitaphs are no great guide
(or that their job is to instruct and teach),
we know they fought by the mountain's side
knowing that victory was past their reach;
we know that they took the most somber pride
in holding on even well past the breach.
It's certainly a major point of honour,
if you fight on knowing that you're a goner.

We're fed on lies proclaimed historic fact,
we're told that we should honour these brave souls;
we're told to exercise restaint and tact,
acknowledge that these men had noble goals.
we can't our praise and honour now retract
although their bodies have been cast in holes.
It angers us, though, that the rich and proud
should have their virtues so proclaimed aloud.

Victory came from quite ordinary chaps,
men who did their jobs, and then went home;
we don't see their burials marked on any maps,
no one in their honour has put up any dome.
They ran their race, they reached the final laps,
but they didn't stray or run or roam.
Instead they fought just to defend their land,
victory came from the hard rowers' hand.

The official commentary

We've come up with a standard answer
when any of our crimes are brought in view,
it spreads throughout the nation like a cancer,
it covers every briefing like the dew,
we use it with the skill of a great dancer:
'It doesn't matter, Clinton did it too.'

We're pushed and prodded to admit our crimes,
we're asked and asked exactly what we knew
and when we knew it, we abhor such times,
we liked it when hard questions came but few.
Meanwhile, our spokesman, like a slug just slimes:
'It doesn't matter, Clinton did it too.'

The priest who blesses at the sacred grove
answers most quickly when we there halloo;
he looks remarkably like one Karl Rove,
past master both of lies and ballyhoo.
He bellows until he's turning almost mauve:
'It doesn't matter, Clinton did it too.'

not what we ask for

who doesn't want the miracle to start
magic will not solve any of our woes
none claims to be the one who knows
each of us forgets their assigned part
the whole thing's thrown into the mart
we do not follow where the river flows
and cannot cross at the last place it froze
who would ask questions has no heart
before the day returns we hate the night
and when it comes desire the night again
we're never satisfied unless we truly itch
and then we can bewail our constant plight
declare that none can understand our pain
because in some regards we're truly rich

deep and dreamless

 enough to anger the calmest of souls
the names of vampires we have all forgot
each of us cowers in our nightly holes

there's a light dancing round the poles
strangely appearing on the empty plot
enough to anger the calmest of souls

under each bridge ahead the trolls
have eaten nothing and begun to rot
each of us cowers in our nightly holes

the saviours of our future space patrols
are now inactive sleeping on each cot
enough to anger the calmest of souls

beneath us lurk no more sleeping moles
we've got rid of the entire slinky lot
each of us cowers in our nightly holes

none of us inhabits now our proper roles
not the sober certainly not the sot
enough to anger the calmest of souls
each of us cowers in our nightly holes

after a long journey

it's what's not there that you remember best
the staring vacancy that can't be truly filled
you never gave much attention to the rest

rivers of harsh words that have been spilled
in righteous anger in sharpest condemnation
but do we pause to remember all the killed

they spent that day in their normal situation
and then they were not in the hottest blaze
we use their memories as our great incantation

but otherwise they're all cast into deep haze
it isn't that we're callous or don't care
but we have better ways to spend our days

the music that we hear's gone out of tune
but what's that to us when we bear the tax
of every promise made under the moon

we've gone and let ourselves become too lax
but there are better ways to show our might
we'll stretch our enemies upon the racks

we'll burn their eyes with our actinic light
we'll make them give up and then plead to die
because when we do it we do it really right

to get to truth we'll send out every lie
to act on our behalf and to help obscure
what should be most apparent to the eye

for normal scepticism we have found a cure
on the warm shores of a far tropic bay
we test to see how much they can endure

we really must be given our rightful way
our writ must everywhere be free to run
we'll bring the world to its true judgment day

our anger must blaze far hotter than the sun