I've mentioned the Operation Paperclip before. It was a top secret strategy to bring into the USA and the UK useful Nazi scientists of dubious virtue. Among those so sanitised were Wernher von Braun and his V2 rocket engineers. The fact that they had used slave labour to build the V2 was glossed over. Once in America they were sent to White Sands. The OSE was simply relieved that the Soviets had not managed to capture them. They spent the end of the 1940s testing V2 rockets with monkeys locked inside them. The Soviets were doing similar things. Neil Armstrong, when he first set foot on the moon, said it was a small step for a man. This weeks poem is about of all this.
A
Small Step for a Man
As
usual the Americans were busy,
semi-secretly
murdering monkeys,
no
say, one way passengers,
locked
into war surplus V2 rockets.
It
kept the newly naturalised Nazis happy,
hidden
out of the way at White Sands, Arizona.
Still
the Soviets top trumped them,
proudly
sending a stray dog into space to die.
There
was no stopping either of them after that.
It
was like Noah's Ark in reverse.
How
many animals could they send to their deaths?
So
let's not forget the monkeys,
the
rabbit, the rats, all the fruit flies
and
the amoeba,
who
came to realise
that
small step was far too steep.
I have been working on this poem for some time. It has benefited from being left in a drawer for a couple of months. When I came to look at it again I could see the flaws.
The photographs were taken at a reclamation yard in Somerset that used to have an old missile amongst its stock. Here is the wondrous Annabelle Chvostek. Any chance of a tour of the UK?
I wrote today's poem over the course of a day, returning to add and alter lines as the day unfolded. The inspiration came from being stopped by a traffic accident. As I reflected on the time I spent in the traffic queue looking out of the window I made my thoughts into this poem.
Night
slips into dawn,
Russian
blues to greys.
Each
brake light neon red,
a
stilled steel wave
stopped
on the crest of the hill.
Most
solo driven,
lonely
bubbles of plastic and glass,
whose
digital clocks countdown
until,
at some point, we move,
to
crawl past the cones.
I
try not to see the trembling woman
but
glimpse her new complication,
a
wrecked car,
yellow
metal skin ripped open.
In
two seconds I have passed by.
The
day is light,
the
open road leads me
back
into the details of my life.
As usual there is no title. Perhaps I should be one of those poets who simply number their work. It would be easier. I am not sure if it is complete. I intend to put it away for a couple of weeks then see what it looks like. Here is 13 minutes of superb music from Brooke Sharkey.
I've been working on this post's poem for some time. Ever since the election in fact. Again it's based on real life experiences. I just want to say that I really respect the people who work as care staff. Without their committed, conscientious and kind work this country would grind to a halt. They deserve to be recognised and paid a decent wage for the long, unsocial hours they are expected to work. This poem is not about those people.
Sunday
Before the Election
I
need the toilet
is
how you greet me
two
staff take you
the
other inmates stare
thousand
yard - no one at home stares
at
the screen which dominates the day room
with
its Songs of Praise rerun
you
return
sit
I
need the toilet
Are
you sure?You've just been
staff
cover annoyance
sigh
take
you
the
hymns continue
you
return
sit
I
need the toilet
You've
just been I saw with my own eyes
I
need the toilet
I
ask the staff
apologise
somehow
the tv has changed to rolling 24 hour news
Theresa
May is telling me I need to tighten my belt
you
return
two
minutes sitting
with
me trying to tell you about the family and
I
need the toilet
they
take you again
mouths
flat lines
I
watch the screen
you
return
and
tell me you need to go to the toilet
I
have run out of words to talk at you
I
have run out of any stray detail of my life
or
of my children's lives
that
could possibly hook you
and
draw you back to us
from
the screen Theresa points her finger
I
kiss your head
and
leave
I have been listening to Tanita Tikaram again this week. Here she is with probably her most famous song.
