Infection - Jihad

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The news is dominated with the rise of IS in Iraq and Syria and to a lesser degree the spread of the deadly Ebola virus from West Africa to Texas. Whilst not related the two news items do bear a number of similarities, not least of which is a spectacular lack of action until things had got out of hand. This chain of thought led me to write the following poem;

Infection - Jihad

I creep, my insipid movement, invisible.
Who would notice me amidst the crowd?
Slowly, as I meet, I become; we,
and in turn; we become a force majeure,
invisible, but our strength grows.
Minute by minute, hour by hour,
the infection spreads
until the time is right.
Then we explode onto the scene,
overwhelm order and normality,
tear at the very fabric of the host
within which we, the disaffected,
hid, rubbed shoulders and spread.
Our aim; 'to dominate',
to destroy all that is not, us.

John Carré Buchanan
01 October 2014

The Breakfast News

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I was in the Gym this morning and the TV was playing the breakfast news. The all too familiar image of cross hairs hovering as a smart bomb destroyed a compound played out on the screen. This gruesome clip was accompanied by the anchor’s sombre but upbeat soundtrack.

Having witnessed the sort of damage the ordnance being used causes, I was suddenly aware of just how biased reporting can be. I don’t condone the actions of IS, they are horrendous and they need to be stopped, but I couldn’t help wondering why watching the deaths of numerous people could be considered reasonable breakfast fare whilst the death of one was not. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to see the images of hostages being murdered any more than I want to see exploding smart bombs but both pieces of film footage were designed for the same political / propaganda role and I personally don't want to see either.

This train of thought led to the following poem, which aims to remind the reader that all death caused by war is tragic, and should never be celebrated.

The Breakfast News

The unfortunate kneels in front of his assailant
dressed in orange.
Rhetoric flows as cameras turn
and then,
and then the world recoils in terror.
Images banned, taken down,
the action condemned.

Grainy crosshairs in black and white
float on our screens
hovering over a nondescript compound.
Suddenly the image flares
and fades back to a pall of smoke
clearing to reveal ruins and smoldering vehicles
overlaid by a gloating anchor's voice.

Injustice?
One solitary death, gruesome
condemned by those it aimed to terrorise
yet a compound, filled with mutilated corpses
and screams of the injured
sanitised by distance and a grainy shot,
is somehow seen as good.

John Carré Buchanan
29 September 2014

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Work We Go.

There is a romantic image of troops setting off to war in which marching men pass through cheering crowds being bombarded with well-wishes and flowers.

In my experience departures on Ops were more likely to be a lonely, thought filled, walk in the middle of the night. If the Quartermaster had done his job correctly he would have indented for cold and wet weather to maximise the benefit!

The walk would be followed by brief periods of frenetic activity interspersed with a lot of hanging around, soldiers call this; 'Rush to Wait'.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Work We Go.

He silences the alarm before she digs him in the ribs,
dresses swiftly in the dark and creeps downstairs
taking care to avoid the squeaky stair.
Quietly he steps into the cool nocturnal gloom.
His breath hangs on the chill night air.
With practiced ease he swings the Bergen to his back.
Turns a key in the lock and pauses,
eyes glued to the unlit glass
mind focused on the sleeping heads inside.
He turns, shrugs and fades into the shadows;
absorbed by the night.
All that betrays his presence
is the measured sound of boots upon the road.
Other humpbacked figures appear and disappear
fading in and out of light cones
cast by lamps which illuminate
coils of razor wire on the fence top
as it runs on in to the mist.
At the barrier he shows his ID and joins the throng.
Rush to wait......
Time ticks past, an hour in her arms;
lost.
He knows not when, or if,
he will hold her again.
Name called, he boards the bus,
fills from the back, sits, eyes closed,
sleep envelopes
a warrior off to war.

John Carré Buchanan
12 September 2014

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.



This poem is linked to Poets United.

Ebola - Too Little, Too Late

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I used to ship ore out of Guinea before my accident, as such I have friends and business acquaintances in the area and I keep an eye on what is happening in the country. It has always staggered me that despite so much of our industry being based on raw materials from Africa, we do not appear to take much interest in what is happening on this continent.

The current Ebola catastrophe is a case in point, it started in December 2013 and agencies such as MSF and the WHO have been calling for action for months. It is only now that the situation is untenable that the rich countries of the world are beginning to be shamed into action.

I wrote this poem to express my anger and also raise the question; is a crisis in Africa actually too good a thing for the West to stop? Cynical maybe, but ....

Ebola Too Litle Too Late

It started with the sniffles
but soon became much worse,
when blood erupted from her eyes
and internal organs burst.

By then her kids were sniffling
on their way to school
and others in the village
where dying, blood in stool.

The doctor, a shaman,
tried to lift the curse
but the spirits were too angry
and he only made it worse.

For months the world ignored it;
Africa’s just not vogue.
The infection secured its grip
A dark satanic rogue.

The infection spread like wild fire
clinics were overcome
and even the best trained medics
eventually succumb.

Families raided hospitals
to take their loved ones home.
They didn't realise a casual touch
would see them all entombed.

When foreign medics fell sick
world interest began to rise.
Whisked back home for treatment
a few of them survive.

The risk of cross infection
makes a handshake unwise
for hid within a proffered hand
Armageddon lies.

International borders close,
curfews are applied,
travel is restricted
yet still, people die.

Farmers can’t tend crops
The market stalls are bare.
With no planting for next year
there won’t be food to share.

Soldiers join the police on streets
As looters begin to riot
Anger and resentment rise
As fear ferments disquiet.

Hands reach for machetes
infected blood flows.
Meanwhile the world dawdles
as the African death toll grows.

Oh, it will come and bite us
When it lands upon our shores
Or a lack of raw materials
puts our industry on all fours.

But default on trade agreements
or fail to pay off loans
and the rich will get still richer
on a pile of African bones.

John Carré Buchanan
15 September 2014

The Drum

Whilst swimming this morning I became aware of my pulse beating away in my head, this triggered a thought process which resulted in the following poem, I hope you like it;

The Drum

The drum beats,
B-boom, B-boom,
its steady rhythm
constant,
metronymic,
filling the body
with a soft, deep, pulse,
B-boom, B-boom.
At full charge,
or a mere murmur,
it matches the pace of life;
as the drummer beats
the backing track
through the whole gig.

John Carré Buchanan
04 September 2014

Treaties (1914)

Image Source: Brooklyn Eagle in July 1914

Today marks 100 years since Great Britain declared war on Germany.

'The Great War', sparked by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, was perhaps the inevitable outcome of a series of alliances and treaties.

The war claimed approximately sixteen million lives, and a further twenty million were wounded. It also set in motion events that would change the social and political landscape of Great Britain for ever. Sadly despite being called 'the war to end all wars' human kind does not appear to have learned it's lessons.

Treaties (1914)

Princip fired twice
and the couple died.
Tempers flared,
war declared,
treaties, alliances kicked in,
allies fell in.
Men fell in,
to the mud,
the gore,
the war supposed to end all war.
At home;
women stepped up.
Land tilled,
bombs filled
and on the fronts
their loved ones - killed.
In a war supposed to end all war.

John Carré Buchanan
03 August 2014

Mogadishu - 09 December 1992

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This poem is a different take on ‘the beach’ theme for the next open mic.

It is a sad fact of life that people have different objectives when undertaking a common venture. This was demonstrated on the 09 December 1992 when the US Navy Seals and Marines landed on a beach near the international airport at Mogadishu as part of Operation Restore Hope.

Prior to the landings the ‘powers that be’ briefed the world’s media and local warlords on the impending operation. This lead to an absurd situation; where highly skilled warriors attempted to make a covert landing on a beach under the glare of the lights and cameras of the world’s media.

It must have been extremely nerve-racking for the men involved.

Mogadishu - 09 December 1992

Silently they cross the sea’s gloss black surface.
The dinghy propelled swiftly through the darkness
towards the shore line.
Beyond the surf;
the matt blackness of the beach rises to dunes,
silhouetted against a moonlit sky.
His heart quickens, this is it,
His mind’s eye sees the next steps;
through the surf, the silent dash across the beach,
senses alert to the slightest sound or movement.
He grabs his gear, readies his weapon,
prepares to tow the boat through the surf,
eyes, ears, vigilant.
A glance left and right to ensure the team is ready
then break from the cover of the inky water
to cross the narrow stretch of sand.
Suddenly his world erupts in dazzling light.
Night vision destroyed, his ears tune in,
voices, running feet.
He prepares for a firefight but this is no enemy.
Questions shouted, cameras, lights.
He stumbles to his feet rushes up the beach
searches for cover.
The media horde chase – press in – shout questions.
Here in the darkness stealth comes to an end.
Here on a beach near Mogadishu
he digs in, his life risked;
for the sake of a photo opportunity.

John Carré Buchanan
20 July 2014

Beaches

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I wrote this for an open mic with the theme; 'The Beach'. I believe it is self explanatory.

Beaches

Suddenly the trees parted
the road just stopped.
Lying there in front of me
a pristine curve of golden sand,
turquoise water fringed with lace,
lapping gently under graceful arches
topped with palm fronds.
Paradise.
But look closer.
Look amidst the tide line.
Amidst the Raffia, drift wood, coconuts, shells,
fishing net, buoys, lighters, syringes,
a lone, tar covered, flip flop.
Look closer.
Small clusters of bone and feathers
grouped around piles of plastic.
The rotting carcass of a hawksbill turtle
head and fins entangled in faded blue nylon.
Look closer still.
Tiny coloured grains pollute the sand
kill tiny creatures
PCB's, dioxins, benzine,
leach into the sand, the water
poison micro organisms
which underpin the food chain.
Poison plankton, poison fry, poison tuna,
poison man;
and the TV ad asks us to fund cancer research.
How perverse.

John Carré Buchanan
19 July 2014

Sculptures In Eden

A few weeks ago I visited a friend who lives in a lovely house set in a beautiful garden. On stepping out of my car I was immediately aware of birdsong which seemed to fill the air.

Whilst we sat and chatted over a coffee, I couldn’t stop admiring the garden which had a number of stunning sculptures in it. The garden inspired me to write this poem.

Sculptures in Eden

Manicured lawns drop toward still water
tightly constrained beyond the tree line.
An Acacia shaped Hawthorn leans casually
to cast dappled shade and invite a picnic rug.

Light, dances in the watery mantle of a sculpted orb,
ethereal images flicker deep within the crystal ball.
A robin briefly joins the axe head on its pine-butt plinth
his steely facsimile glints in its gleaming cheek.

This glorious opera house, filled with bel-canto
is a living metaphor for the flooded vale below.
A tranquil oasis, envisaged and sculpted by man
yet filled with beauty crafted by a greater hand.

John Carré Buchanan
27 May 2014

For Pam

The Robin

Today I made yet another trip down to the idyllic Moulin Huet Tea Room. Whilst I was there I was inspired to pen a short poem about one of the garden’s residents, who was intent on letting everyone know that he owned the joint. He also graciously allowed me to take his photo.

I hope you enjoy the poem.

The Robin

The Robin owns this place
it's clear for all to see
if he isn't on the bench
he's perched up in a tree.

He hops and jumps and glides about
to search the leafy shade
for morsels of his favourite food
a banquet ready-made.

His pips betray his presence
before you see him clear,
with fiery flash, his Scarlett bib
announces; 'I am here.'

Then the little fellow pips
with voice both loud and true,
as if to say; 'well ok;
I'll share my place with you'.

John Carré Buchanan
02 July 2014