As brash and forthright brought to bear,
space barely left to air a view,
so at our door the need to deal;
call supple minds to exercise
the art of subtle, writers’ trade.
When flames lick freedoms, burning books.
arresting words to be curtailed;
take breath and ponder what’s at stake,
as martyrs have, their truths accused,
parading bullies make their stand.
They lie about, around, unbound
where weaker words have bitten dust,
detailing what we want to hear –
recorded stories, winners’ tales,
most popular when known on side.
Half-hidden, half-revealed, the veil
drawn back to cause enquiring pause,
for between ink and silence call
out what lies, leaves aggrieved, yet vexed,
unease at queasy cost implied.
The heart of the poem pulses,
as being must, bean seeds, fresh thought,
where weeds have bound in stranglehold.
This garden lies, as Eden did,
a site, the sight, where blame the choice.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com