The Syrian People
picture by Zdzisław Beksiński
walls to scrawl graffitti on
slabs of stone for carving
if you crush it it sings a song
changes colour with a stamping
meat to hang upon a hook
wire conducting electricity
balls to kick around the yard
to reduce to pure simplicity
wet cloth to dessicate
sweet sounds to silence
flaps and buttons to be tugged off
obscenities to be licensed
unruly features to be trimmed and then
punished, then punished, then punished –
the guilty corpse, the damned – to be
punished, dissected, turned inside out
so all the world can see
the filth, the bowels, thirteen years old
the backwardness
which asks to be free
Qunfuz 
Great poem. Powerful rhythms, a touch of rhyme to add to the music, sustained yet shifting metaphors with a complex tone blending anguish, sarcasm and resistance. I like the quietness of ‘asks’, not ‘demands’ – bringing a gentle quality to the ending. Which also subtly implies that the regime itself asks to be free – that somehow it knows its inhumanity cannot last. I hope you find an open mic and read it, Robin. Poetry does need to be voiced, and heard. And this poem couldn’t fail to move an audience.
Naomi Foyle
August 31, 2011 at 2:06 pm
thanks, Naomi. I’m going to be in Malta in a few days at a festival. I’ll perhaps read it there.
Robin Yassin-Kassab
August 31, 2011 at 3:50 pm
Do.
mlynxqualey
September 4, 2011 at 3:10 pm