Skip to main content

New Poem by Jason Monios

A CHESS BOARD EXPERIENCES BAD WEATHER

On the labour strikes against foreign workers in the UK, February 2009.

Rain drives down, a perfect tilt diagonal,
forty-five degrees. Snow heaves itself
across, a spirit-level’s eerie grasp
of fluids and forces on the horizontal.

Rain and snow in simulcast, refusing to mix
until impact shatters their self-belief, the illusion
of selfhood, the repressed bigotry latent beneath
histrionic claims of nationality.

Outside Sellafield the rain and snow still fall
separately. Workers strike, refuse the right
of other men to work along with them.
A working man will stop another working,

throw his pottery chip into the urn
alongside his countrymen, any and all countrymen
as though he has more in common with his boss
who is English, than with his colleagues who aren’t.

How many pawns bedeck a standard chess board
and how many kings? How many pawns are tricked
into laying themselves down, numbly creating
paths with their coats for queens to walk upon?

Fight your war, shoot each other in the streets,
strike against each other, never blaming
your superiors, your generals, your bishops, rooks and kings.
Blame those who reveal your self-defeating
fratricides, not caring whose hands are on the strings.

Jason Monios lives in Edinburgh. His poetry has appeared in Acumen, Magma, Poetry Scotland, New Writing Scotland, Horizon, nthposition, Umbrella and The Guardian.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A  poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.

Poetry vs. Literature

Poetry is, of course, a part of literature. But, increasingly, over the 20th century, it has become marginalised - and, famously, has less of an audience than "before". I think that, when one considers the sort of criticism levelled against Seamus Heaney and "mainstream poetry", by poet-critics like Jeffrey Side , one ought to see the wider context for poetry in the "Anglo-Saxon" world. This phrase was used by one of the UK's leading literary cultural figures, in a private conversation recently, when they spoke eloquently about the supremacy of "Anglo-Saxon novels" and their impressive command of narrative. My heart sank as I listened, for what became clear to me, in a flash, is that nothing has changed since Victorian England (for some in the literary establishment). Britain (now allied to America) and the English language with its marvellous fiction machine, still rule the waves. I personally find this an uncomfortable position - but when ...

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart?  A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional.  Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were.  For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ?  Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets.  But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ?  How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular.  John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se....