Every morning I awake with the haze of
Promise hanging above my head
The morning dew is punctuated by the
Sharp light as the day yawns and offers so much
Anything can be filtered through the parameters of possibility.
That creative spark feels revitalised, feels fresh,
I feel like I have my little portion of genius
My own allotted quota of talent,
Held hostage somewhere in my gut
Or in my heart.
It’s in there and it’s never so ripe as in the
First breaths of the day, as though it plans
To sneak up on me and run amok through
All natural sensibilities.
I switch on my computer, lock into the internet
Immerse myself in rolling news, gossip blogs,
Status updates, online auctions and opinion pieces.
And the fog it slowly seems to lift
It clears and fades away, to leave a view
Of the horizon as far as the eye can see.
Only with this salience of vision
I can feel that little burning ember, that spark
Dying inside just a little bit.
But then I think –
Maybe it was never there at all,
And all I’d been trying to do
Was cling onto the fog
And chase away the harsh clarity of the day.
Sunday, 27 March 2011
Monday, 7 March 2011
The Retirement Home for Deposed Middle Eastern Dictators
Into the evening air had crept a chill as the sun was busy unfurling its crimson wings over the horizon stretch. Scattered seabirds casually grazed on the sand of the shoreline, occasionally making a swooping pass over the benign waves of the azure sea.
On the sheltered balcony a calm respite had taken hold of the small group sat in pensive surveillance over the landscape before them. Ordinarily they bickered and argued about their respective politics and pasts, but often at this late-evening stage they were content to sit in languid introspection, smoking cigars and passing between them carafes of fine wine.
It was here on the secluded outskirts of the Red Sea coastal town Sharm-el-Sheikh that the deposed dictators of their respective homelands had been settled; a tranquil and isolated setting for their imposed retirement from the world stage. Having now fallen from their former glories each had become more refined and exuded a quiet wisdom, yet still managed to establish some semblance of influence, as though desperately clinging to some vestige of power.
By and large the retirement home staff were happy to indulge in these odd whims that arose from time to time, usually extending to little more than stating a preference for a vintage wine to be ordered in or a certain meat to be procured. Perhaps, in retirement each man envisaged his own individual role in the home as being still somehow significant to the outside world.
The former Egyptian president Mubarak was happiest challenging either Ben Ali of Tunisia or the ex-monarch of Jordan, Abdullah to an afternoon game of chess on the balcony whilst Bahrain’s Hamad Al Khalifa was more inclined to sit and read religious scriptures for hours on end.
The old eccentric Gaddafi was altogether a more lively presence. He would wile away hours watching the rolling news displayed on the TV and constantly refresh the social media feeds on his laptop computer, as though keeping a continual watch over the technological influences that had been utilised to bring about his downfall. Whilst the others had succumbed to a lethargic benevolence, Gaddafi still harboured bitterness for the “rebel dogs” who had sparked the uprising; his feelings towards the leaders of the West who had betrayed him matched only by the ire directed at Al-Qaeda, who he claimed were still chemically corrupting the minds of the Libyan youth. Often at times of quiet contemplation such as this evening, Gaddafi would still be less peaceful than the others; his eyes would fidget over the assembly of seabirds dotting the shoreline like his new society of minions to repress.
On an almost daily basis they sat together engrossed in the news bulletins as if faithfully awaiting a sudden call for their reinstatement to power. All of them were silently glad to see the reports of carnage and civil war plaguing the city streets of their countries, as the struggle for aggressive dominance continued amongst the people. They mumbled to themselves about this being the real liberty they deserved, as families became militant and attacked their neighbours, and rebel groups fiercely defended their own territorial strongholds.
The group would, in these moments of fleeting congeniality, exchange silent glances with an almost smug telepathy. Each of them was eagerly awaiting the day when those who in their violent greed had conspired against them, would repent their sins and travel from far and wide to kneel before them and beg for forgiveness.
On the sheltered balcony a calm respite had taken hold of the small group sat in pensive surveillance over the landscape before them. Ordinarily they bickered and argued about their respective politics and pasts, but often at this late-evening stage they were content to sit in languid introspection, smoking cigars and passing between them carafes of fine wine.
It was here on the secluded outskirts of the Red Sea coastal town Sharm-el-Sheikh that the deposed dictators of their respective homelands had been settled; a tranquil and isolated setting for their imposed retirement from the world stage. Having now fallen from their former glories each had become more refined and exuded a quiet wisdom, yet still managed to establish some semblance of influence, as though desperately clinging to some vestige of power.
By and large the retirement home staff were happy to indulge in these odd whims that arose from time to time, usually extending to little more than stating a preference for a vintage wine to be ordered in or a certain meat to be procured. Perhaps, in retirement each man envisaged his own individual role in the home as being still somehow significant to the outside world.
The former Egyptian president Mubarak was happiest challenging either Ben Ali of Tunisia or the ex-monarch of Jordan, Abdullah to an afternoon game of chess on the balcony whilst Bahrain’s Hamad Al Khalifa was more inclined to sit and read religious scriptures for hours on end.
The old eccentric Gaddafi was altogether a more lively presence. He would wile away hours watching the rolling news displayed on the TV and constantly refresh the social media feeds on his laptop computer, as though keeping a continual watch over the technological influences that had been utilised to bring about his downfall. Whilst the others had succumbed to a lethargic benevolence, Gaddafi still harboured bitterness for the “rebel dogs” who had sparked the uprising; his feelings towards the leaders of the West who had betrayed him matched only by the ire directed at Al-Qaeda, who he claimed were still chemically corrupting the minds of the Libyan youth. Often at times of quiet contemplation such as this evening, Gaddafi would still be less peaceful than the others; his eyes would fidget over the assembly of seabirds dotting the shoreline like his new society of minions to repress.
On an almost daily basis they sat together engrossed in the news bulletins as if faithfully awaiting a sudden call for their reinstatement to power. All of them were silently glad to see the reports of carnage and civil war plaguing the city streets of their countries, as the struggle for aggressive dominance continued amongst the people. They mumbled to themselves about this being the real liberty they deserved, as families became militant and attacked their neighbours, and rebel groups fiercely defended their own territorial strongholds.
The group would, in these moments of fleeting congeniality, exchange silent glances with an almost smug telepathy. Each of them was eagerly awaiting the day when those who in their violent greed had conspired against them, would repent their sins and travel from far and wide to kneel before them and beg for forgiveness.
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