This poem has been difficult to write, choosing the right words not at all easy, and I had feedback from various people before settling on the final version. What else can be said?
It has just been published on the webzine, I Am Not a Silent Poet
Suicide bomber, how do I love thee?
Suicide bomber, who cannot be loved,
Kalashnikov brandishing terrorist,
how did it come to this unholy state?
What poison suckled in your mother’s milk,
passed on in your father’s sperm or spittle,
what lack of gently lilting lullaby
would bring you to swing your sword and behead
a man of charity or journalist?
What want of purpose or identity,
what dread infection breeding in your creed
could make you call the innocent guilty,
execute your brutal, wanton sentence
on the uncomprehending evening streets,
the crowded café, market, concert hall?
Not only hideous die-hard anger
of your contorted ideology
drip, drip, dripped into the harsh terrain
of the uncompromising heart and mind;
not only the churning, callous ferment
of alienation’s cancerous growth,
the resentment festering in your guts,
but some measure of each of these, then more.
How did it come to this unholy state
that some god or prophet could call ‘divine’
the grim wreaking of havoc and of pain,
the merciless snatching of cherished life?
The love you cannot know you sacrifice
and fool yourself with presumed Paradise.
© David Urwin 2015