May 29, 2017

Future-Less

Photo by Hartwig HKD

Photo by Hartwig HKD

I worry for my boys, and yours
in a world of knives and guns
and groups of boys
pretending to be men

Once they might have played
on the swings, or watched the stars
Instead they plot to win wars
on streets yards from their homes

All the while groups of men
also play at war
in pursuit of oil and coin
and distant enemies

As if the cries of a mother
on the other side of the city
in another corner of the world
don’t matter

The blare of gunfire
the rain of bombs
the streams of blood
aren’t on our doorstep —

So we continue blind-folded
revisiting the failures of the past:
the march of nationalism
whipping up fear

What matters, you see,
are empty mansions
trust funds and jetplanes
I’m alright, Jack

Not the old, young or infirm
not trees and the air we breathe
not poverty, sanity, equality
nor lofty ideals of a better future

Are they mad?

Control is everything
A reshuffle of the deck
means new winners and losers
Why throw the dice?

And I think of
Damilola
Stephen
Lee
Jo

And more
Always more

Those who would have led
beautifully long lives
but didn’t
because we failed them

Join the conversation! 2 Comments

  1. I agree we failed them. It’s hard to imagine how much darkness has been released in my struggling country, how much hatred, such love of violence, so little love. Thanks for this beautiful poem.

    Reply
    • It makes me feel worse about myself when all hope gets sucked out of the place we call home. I think we can be resilient for a while, but it gets wearing. But sometimes, shining a light on the dark, exposing it to air, and discussion, that helps in the long-run. I hope we’ve turned a corner here in the UK. We’re still divided, but it did me good to see that the negative campaigning here, the thrall of the tabloids, does not hold sway over everyone. Here’s to the politics of hope, and to seeing kindness and understanding grow x

      Reply

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About Nillu Nasser

Writer of literary fiction. Book hoarder, barefoot blogger, tea drinker.

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Poetry

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