The Angry Poet

“Don’t let your anger
get the better of you,
he said as the crease between
his eyes deepened.
‘Don’t let your fire
burn you out.
Don’t cry,
fight!
Fight with words, in song, in protest!
Fight!”
These are the wise words
of my revolutionary friend.

For the umpteenth time
I bend my head.
Pencil in hand,
blank page staring back,
mocking my futile attempts at placid poetry.
Anger flares,
mad fires unquenchably burn,
and my fingers turn to lead.

How can I not cry
these angry tears
when my world is crushing
and waves are pounding around me.
When children are now being used as shields,
dying instead of playing.
When praying with open hands
invites murder.
When I can no longer trust my neighbour.

How can you tell me not to cry,
when man is no longer man
and life is lived without life.
When the cry of a newborn
sends a chill down my spine
When I’m so tired,
so tired of being an adult
without a voice.
How can I not cry,
when man ignores the choice
to listen to his conscience
on corruption, greed, and class division.
When only silence surrounds
the guns and the bombs.


Forgive my rage,
my friend.
Even as my fingers turn to lead
and another angry tear stains this page.

PoP 31 Aug 06