 |
| PBS, March 8, 2024 |
Standing at the crossroads, black with traffic
Waiting for the little green man to tell me I could go
When a child, quick as a nightmare, broke from its mother’s hand
Ran beside me, looking back at her, shrieking, into the road.
Without thought I dived, catching at the child
Bringing it to me and to its mother,
Just as you in my place would have done.
Sometimes, my people, your child becomes my child
Your love becomes my love
Your blood is mine.
But now! What are we thinking now, my people?
For years the children have played, been pushed
Into the middle of the road
And we have turned our face away.
But now, when we are forced to see them
When we are forced to see
We turn our face again?
What are we thinking my people?
Let tears wound our cheeks
For what we’ve done.
Let fear wound our minds
That we think so.
Tell me you love them my people, or I am lost.
Show me you love them my people,
Or all we are together is gone.
Mark Svendsen prefers concrete to other more porous materials with which to pave his mind but, even then, cracks eventually appear and poems, like weeds of the mind, take root and must be dealt with summarily. He lives in Zilzie, Australia with his partner. There, she writes music, and he writes things – in an attempt to maintain homeostasis.
