Four Poems by Gordon Scapens

 

FELLOW TRAVELLER

Chained by traffic

I stalk a cattle truck

for five tortuous miles.



Filling a gap in slats

a calf’s eyes unnerve me,

bewildered, frightened, pleading,

the whole world reflected

in its questioning eyes.

Perhaps my stare looks sympathetic,

possibly he thinks me an ally.



Helplessly tailoring excuses

trying to shrug off the spell

cast by guessing its future,

I feel guilty as a meat eater

and for all potential beneficiaries.

We organise our lives

to make remorse seem alien

and dinner table isn’t all truth

but reads the truth in us.



The calf is ignorant

about its ultimate ending

but is hoping for safety

like I look for security

I never quite reach.

We have that in common.



It’s as though I knock

on the door of the future

facing the wrong way.





RUSSIAN OPPOSITION



When they come for you,

flourishing accusations,

identical for everybody,

they have persuasive means.



There is accommodation

where you will learn

what you have to say

facing their compulsions.



They have ways of questioning

that are not always known

and you will have the urge

to whisper for your salvation.



They can prove so easily,

but only to themselves,

that you were always

greedy for their downfall.



Your identity will be lifted,

you’ll be given a number

and face-covering hood

to flesh out their aims.



There will be no trial,

and if you should survive

to the other side of daylight,

the future will not be revealed



just like their names.

Moscow rules are rigged

for ease of elimination.

You may already have had

your last smile.





LOSING THE PLOT



The bad news trespasses

from its containment on TV

around armchairs and tables,

under a spell of its own force,

and nudges equanimity aside.



What you are left with

to carry through your day

to its natural conclusion,

when you close your eyes

and try to rest,

are images that measure concern

like a wound measures pain.



This can be translated as

the world’s tolerance and respect

has been buried so deep

you wonder who you are

when compared with the rest.



When the answer is peace

nobody in positions of power

will ask the question.

Why is this such a mystery

when everybody shares

the pain of the world.?



Life is a continuous extension,

the past determines the future.

When lessons not yet learned

touch a map, the map closes…..



Earth has too many people

and not enough human beings.





A HUNGRY PRAYER



Limbs, with skin like parchment

over bones seemingly dripping

from a wasted body,

is all too easy to explain.

The boy stammers a prayer

to the failed hand

of his dead mother.



Starvation takes no prisoners.



The distance in his eyes

is punctured with tears,

and lacking in hope,

is filled with an horizon

measured to his fate.



We’ve mislaid sorrow

that should be felt

because there’s a safety net

for our own poverty dwellers,

the rest have forged lives

that sustain them

at an acceptable level

but too much unnecessary waste

would keep those starving people

surviving and nourished.



Our throwaway excess

is the weight of help

to make all life valuable

in a land of death.



We can’t ignore

a hungry prayer.

 

Gordon Scapens - is widely published over many years in numerous magazines, journals, anthologies and competitions, most recently First Prize in the Brian Nisbet poetry award. He lives in Preston in the United Kingdom.

His book ‘History Doesn’t Die’ was published in 2023.