La marche de l’extrème
Droit-gauche, droit-gauche
Chaque pas frappe le terre
Agaçant l’Europe
En train de convaincre
Les gens de leur peur
À fin de rappeler
À la foule la Terreur
Qu’il saurait ce soir
S’armer, dirigée
Persuader l’armée
De se reveiller
Et cracher par terre
La voie retrouver
Droit-gauche, droit-gauche
Vers le pouvoir du Pays
Choose certain death and ostracism
Exile self-imposed; ‘tradition’
Loss of home and family
Born of faith’s supremacy
So young, with minds not fully fed
In fear of first missteps, unled
Some seek to live by others’ rules
And hope to never have to choose
While those whose choice was thrust upon
Unwary shoulders, far too young
Have just enough experience
To recognise their own good sense
And knowing that some errors will
Occur despite intentions, still
Are less afraid to persevere
And build the life they want right here.
Though actions have their aftermath
There is no righteous, clear-cut path
Please do not fear all consequence
Change is not dangerous; though dense
And unenlightened elders may
Feel life no longer goes their way
As age and distance emphasise
The loss of youth before sad eyes
Unready to relinquish reins
To those in throes of growing pains.
Decisions to abandon trust
Give up hope and freedoms; lust
For life of lesser contemplation
Out of social obligation;
Turn to ends more violent
Ignore suggestions, kindly meant
And quick condemn all other views –
Is this the path you wish to choose?
Consider this, before you do
For truly, this choice rests with you:
Such suicide invites abuse
Of others that may follow blood
For love, for family, for feud
Will throw themselves away; – jihad
In mourning for those gone before
Their minds made waste, still immature
And more than one will idolise
The first to die – if death you prize
Above the life you hold in hand
So understand, if you have planned
To be the martyr for your tribe
And leave the others still alive
The minute you take up this course
Imagining rewards; Firdaws
You lose control of what is shown
And once you’ve gone, the whole thing’s blown:
With ashes scattered over sand
Your image will be used to brand
Misinformation into truth –
Deserted and abandoned youth.
Jennifer made such a pact with her John,
swore that their love would live on and anon
together they’d dwell, in some cottage on high
but little she knew that her pact was a lie.
For John had another, a charming young gel,
with whom, as it happened, he too’d vowed to dwell:
Poor sweet Josephine was barely out of school
but well-versed in the art of turning men to fools.
She’d wrapped John around like a bandage on thumb.
Jenny could do nothing, but feel rather glum,
as of this attachment, her John had stayed mum;
so being a bright girl, she chose to have fun.
Jen went to a party, dressed all in her best.
The music was loud, and so were all the guests.
Such boisterous antics you never did see
as what passed for dancing at Jenny’s party.
Now Jo was frustrated, she’d heard of this soiree,
but John wouldn’t take her, she swore he’d be sorry.
As she raved and she ranted, dear John got an inkling
that Jo wasn’t quite the sweet flow’r he’d been thinking.
So John took a leaf from a book known to all
womankind whose minds turn as from summer to fall,
and he called up his Jenny, but got quite a fright
when a deep voice responded – and after midnight!
Now Jake was a boxer – quite muscled and mean.
He looked fierce, but treated our Jen like a queen.
He revelled in taking her out on the town,
and showing her off in her best evening gown.
It happened one night that the foursome did meet
and awkwardly stood for a while in the street,
while Jo sized up Jenny, and John stared at Jake,
until Jake whispered low – now that runt I could take!
Just give me the word, Jenny dear, and ’tis done.
This fool should have kept you as his number one,
but he preferred flat-chested chit over there –
the one still in pigtails, who waxes her hair.
But Jenny said shush with a smile and a laugh.
What’s done is now done, no need for a bloodbath.
He’s seen what he’s missing – and for the last time.
Now let us move on – weren’t we going to dine?
The couple swept off in their silks and their furs,
and John saw his Jen finally had got hers.
He turned to see Jo with her face turning pink
clearly about to let fly with some stink.
But instead of attempting to stem her mid-flow,
John just gave a sigh as he turned round to go,
and Jo stood astounded to see that her fit
was being ignored by dear John – what a git!
So put out was our young miss by male restraint
that she flagged down a taxi and left John to paint
the town red on his own, for she cared not a bit
that her leaving was dumping him right in the shit.
For Jo’s mother had taught her, while still in the cot,
that while young, there’d be more fish to catch with a yacht.
So Jo set to fishing, and this with a will,
and John was left high, dry, and feeling quite ill.
I gaze upon this lighted dial
And wonder how you take this while.
Where are you now? What do you there?
Have you forgot me? Do you care?
And why am I still waiting here
When you have made it crystal clear
That you don’t give a fig for me –
Nor time spent in my company?!
So why I wait’s a mystery.
Would that I cared as much for thee!
So here and now I’ll end my poem.
And as for you – I’m going home!
Katherine Shirley 