A Writer of Sorts
I wanted to write a poem about the refugee crisis. I wanted it to be a savage criticism of the political situation leading up to the mass migration; the horrors of war; the hate and mistrust the refugees faced on arrival and the terrible deaths reported on.
I saw the footage of the boats sinking and the the pictures of dead children and couldn’t do it. I simply couldn’t write it. The best I could come up with was the last thoughts of man about to die amid the noise and screaming and twisting metal. It’s short and I worry that perhaps it’s in bad taste.
I don’t think the gnashing and wailing of the proposed poetic deconstruction of the situation would get the individual horror across. I suppose it’s so short because the amount of time between realising what is what’s happening and death is so swift.
of a better life