Sunday, 22 March 2015

A song for Bekaa Valley

They were only babies.

Some of them young enough

To never have known

The outside world.

A place without

airstrikes and snipers.

Where a night's sleep

isn't broken by fear.

All innocence left behind

as they walked the road from Damascus.

A community of makeshift tents

offered a temporary reprieve.

The first sanctuary

their short lives had ever known.

Only they weren't safe.

Their presence unsettled the neighbours.

Mired by indifference,

beleaguered by war.

I faced the children of Syria

on Mothering Sunday.

But I saw no flowers.

Or chocolates.

Just unaddressed cards.

These were no longer babies.

Starting a fresh ...

I kept this blog for the best part of a decade. It was littered with my written thoughts that I believed to be prose, alongside those naive poems I'm sure many young writers are guilty of. 

Then I got a proper job and decided it wasn't wise having the past eight years of my life serialised for the whole world (and my employers) to see.

So I took it all down. A decision I've since regretted. 

Yesterday it was World Poetry Day. And since I was guilty of producing some fairly dubious poetry I figured now was as good a time as any to make amends.

Don't get my wrong it wasn't all bad (I got 9,000 hits - a higher number than most poetry books sell in a year) therefore I intend to resurrect the better stuff. Albeit with a slightly more mature voice. Boy becomes man. Or something like that.