that throw no six.

How it takes the breath

away, the piss, your kiss a dropped pound coin,

your promises latin, feedback, static, gibberish,

your hair a wig, your gait a plankwalk. How it says

politics – to your education, fairness, health; shouts

Politics! – to your industry, investment, wealth; roars, to your

conscience, moral compass, truth, POLITICS POLITICS.

The Falling Soldier

after the photograph by Robert Capa

A flop back for a kip in the sun,

dropping the gun,

or a trip on a stone to send you

arse over tip

with a yelp and a curse?

No; worse. The shadow you cast

as you fall

is the start of a shallow grave.

They give medals, though,

to the grieving partners, mothers, daughters,

sons of the brave.

A breakdance to amuse your mates,

give them a laugh,

a rock’n’roll mime, Elvis time,

pretending the rifle’s

just a guitar?

Worse by far. The shadow you shed

as you fall

is, brother, your soul.

They wrap you up in the flag, though,

blow a tune on a bugle before they lower you

into the hole.

A slide down a hill, your head thrown back,

daft as a boy,

and the rifle chucked away to the side

in a moment of joy,

an outburst?

Much worse. The shadow you throw

as you fall

is the shadow of death.

The camera, though,

has caught you forever and captured forever

your final breath.

Mrs Schofield’s GCSE

You must prepare your bosom for his knife,

said Portia to Antonio in which

of Shakespeare’s Comedies? Who killed his wife,

insane with jealousy? And which Scots witch

knew Something wicked this way comes? Who said

Is this a dagger which I see? Which Tragedy?

Whose blade was drawn which led to Tybalt’s death?

To whom did dying Caesar say Et tu? And why?

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark – do you

know what this means? Explain how poetry

pursues the human like the smitten moon

above the weeping, laughing earth; how we

make prayers of it. Nothing will come of nothing:

speak again. Said by which King? You may begin.

Poetry

I couldn’t see Guinness

and not envisage a nun;

a gun, a finger and thumb;

midges, blether, scribble, scrum.

A crescent moon, boomerang, smirk,

bone; or full, a shield, a stalker,

a stone. I couldn’t see woods

for the names of trees – sycamore,

yew, birch, beech –

or bees

without imagining music scored

on the air – nor pass a nun

without calling to mind a pint of one, stout,

untouched, on a bar at the Angelus.

Achilles

Myth’s river – where his mother dipped him,

fished him, a slippery golden boy –

flowed on, his name on its lips.

Without him, it was prophesied,

they would not take Troy.

Women hid him, concealed him in girls’ sarongs;

days of sweetmeats, spices, silver song …

but when Odysseus came,

with an athlete’s build, a sword and a shield,

he followed him to the battlefield,