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Poem For Times Such As These (Free verse) by Nicholas Jones

The cold war ended. The west was convinced they had won. History, according to the arrogant reactionary Fukuyama, was over. Stability. Ten years with no conflict. Tell that to the people of Chechnya, Or the Bosnian Muslims, or the Albanian Kosovans, and they'd laugh. Or shoot you. But the point still stands. The west thought they had won. Final victory. But now we're shit scared of anthrax, dirty bombs and WMDs (theirs, not ours). We remember the nineties. We all mourn their passing. Then things were better. The IRA stopped blowing things up. (Tell that to the people of Manchester. Or Omagh). Peace processes. The Good Friday Agreement and the Oslo Accord. The history of human society is one of enlightenment, away from savagery Towards freedom, or so said the right-wing theorists who knew nothing. Yet at that time, the signs were there, but everyone was too arrogant to notice. Clinton responded to the attacks on American Embassies by sending a missile To destroy a pharmaceutical factory. Nice one, Bill, kill some civilians. But they were only Africans. Unimportant. And Saddam was left in power Because to end his regime would have destabilised the region And damaged the global oil industry. That war, like the one that is to come, Had nothing to do with human rights, or else Iraq and Turkey Would have been forced to cede territory to a newly-created Kurdistan, And the Palestinian Authority would have had power over its own country. The west armed anyone who was not a communist. That included Fascists, Like Pinochet, and countless others. All the signs existed in the nineties. Discontent across the world. Al-Qaeda attacked the WTC. No-one was interested then. But were surprised when they had another go with a more ingenious plan. Arrogance is the worst thing for a superpower. See Vietnam and Afghanistan, American and Soviet misadventures. There was no peace for ten years, Just western ignorance. People kept on dying. Civil war in Africa killed millions. Liberal Democracy in itself is not the highest thing we can aspire to. And in a few months, an illegal war, fought for economic reasons, Will kill thousands. Iraq will be bombed and people will die. There will be the inevitable mistakes. Like friendly fire in the Gulf, The convoy of dangerous tractors in Kosvo, the Chinese Embassy in Belgrade, Or the Afghan wedding feast. And people will read this, and say, that's not a poem. That's just an imbecilic essay on global affairs. But things have to be said. There are many types of poetry. This is one of them. Cope with it.

Nicholas Jones 16-Sep-04/11:46 AM
I've never read much Hedd Wyn. If anything, the title of my poem could refer to Glyn Jones' novel 'Times Like These'. What I have read is in translation; my grasp of Welsh isn't strong enough (yet, I am still learning) to understand poetry, or, rather, I feel I can understand the words only on a very literal level without picking up the cultural baggage they carry.

Gillian Clarke renders the final verse of 'Rhyfel' as

Like old songs they have left behind,
We have hanged our harps on the trees again.
The blood of boys is on the wind,
Their blood is mingled with the rain.

Which I suppose is a fairly good description of what appears to be the current state of the world.




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