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Freedom Freedom. Freedom. Oh dear Lord what is happening to the true north strong and free? Police lined up with anger, defending the fascist state. Politicians hiding behind vast walls of glass and concrete. Voices of opposition silenced by the thugs of hate. Lines of mounted terrorists enforcing military rule. Signs of desperate smoke-screens that the liars have blown. You have the right to speak up, but only if you agree. With sticks and stones in hand the government speaks its mind. Freedom. Freedom. Oh dear Lord what is happening to the true north strong and free? War Photo The following poem is the first in a series recited at the Ottawa Arms Trade Fair in early June 2010. It was offered kindly by Ms. Atwood for the event, and it appears in her recent collection, _The Door_ (McClelland & Stewart, 2007). It's a poem one can hardly bear to read aloud. War Photo The dead woman thrown down on the dusty road is very beautiful. One leg extended, the other flexed, foot pointed towards the knee, the arm flung overhead, the hand relaxed into a lovely gesture a dancer might well study for years and never attain. Her purple robe is shaped as if it's fluttering; her head is turned away. There are other dead people scattered around like trees blown over, left in the wake of frightened men battering their way to some huge purpose they can't now exactly remember, But it's this beautiful woman who holds me, dancing there on the ground with such perfection. Oh dead beautiful woman, if anyone had the power to wrench me through despair and arid helplessness into the heart of prayer, it would be you - Instead I'll make for you the only thing I can: although I'll never know your name, I won't ever forget you. Look: on the dusty ground under my hand, on this cheap grey paper, I'm placing a small stone, here: o by Margaret Atwood OUR DESERT PARADISE The Reaper and the Predator fly high Above the badlands of Afghanistan, Transmitting pictures to space satellites— Thence to computers at an air force base In far Nevada, where La Vegas’ lights Remind the soldiers at the terminals Of the high stakes that they are fighting for. They scan the world for Taliban in “real time,” And fire missiles from the swarming drones With one click of a finger: Bride and groom, And all the wedding guests, are blown to bits, And toss like dice upon casino wheels— Like virtual al Qaida, on the screens That shield our gamblers from humanity. |