The Whole Picture

Maybe I'm getting a little too philosophical at the moment.  There is something about social media that has that effect on me, I think.  Scrolling down your news feed you dip into tiny, fragmentary moments of other people's thinking, obsessions, amusements, passions...  the major life moments nudging up against the inane, compulsive memes of dogs eating sweetcorn.  I have just been thinking a lot recently about that weird juxtaposition - the rubbish and the luxury versus the oppression and darkness.  How do I respond?  How do I stay sane?  How do I help?  They are real questions!  Please feel free to offer your answers!  This poem feels a bit like a sketch of a poem really, a first clustering of thoughts, and maybe I'll work on it some more.  Then maybe I can free myself up to just have a bit more fun again!

While this world

is cluttered

with degradation

and the fumbling of the feeble

against the

wrath of the strong,

who am I

to take time and space

and follow an inclination

with this trivial tripping

and ineffectual song

and artful twittering

and insignificant pondering

and meandering remembering

and whimsical wondering?

And while some topple disingenuously

at the tap of a footballer’s toe,

others aim to draw the angry blood

of ancient foe.

As the son of one kills

the son of another

and the mother of one

shields his younger brother

from the deluge of the poisoning thought

that he has taught himself is true

and then when he has been missing for weeks

she finds him on youtube

and the video speaks

to call comrades to arms

against an enemy

as intangible to me

as a raging, blood-boiled sea.

So who am I

to watch this

fictional news

and pretend there

is no entertainment value here

and switch the channel

with the simplest press

to find a cookery programme

to relieve the stress

and check the latest reviews

of films and songs and theatre shows

that represent the world

as a place where, surely, love grows?

And while

the Palestinian woman

in this Instagram

sits in her devastated room

and clutches a blood-stained tea-towel

to her temple

and weeps her rocking soul

in silent ululations of grief

I hunt for an adjective

to objectify the narrative

for it’s only a picture

and all I can do is just 

like it 

and scroll on down.

I can engage with it or not

as the whimsy goes.

Today I might write a poem for a friend,

just a lousy poem,

or perhaps a little prose.