This wee poem is a bit of a ranting ramble.
But I’m sure it reflects how many of us feel here
in Northern Ireland with regard to Richard Haass
and his recent attempts to help us resolve our past,
how to give voice to the many silent victims of the Troubles
and our insatiable love of flags.
I am mystified, by the burst and stolen balloon of the Haass talks.
Once, so full of buoyant hot air.
Mystified by the silence of our leaders, upon “Haass” as if,
like death, they are unable to speak of it.
Has Haass been?
By Randall Stephen Hall. 20.3.14 ©
www.randallstephenhall.com/
Has Haass been?
Has Haass been and gone?
Gone and done it?
What happened to Haass?
Has Haass gone?
Has the swan sung
To only be replaced by the fat lady?
Eating chips and a dirt burger
As usual?
Riding her old stubborn mule
Smoking an untipped cigarette
Towards Easter
And the gates of our divided community?
Golgotha gated, over-rated
And taking up the time
Of the likes of Richard Haass.
A poached intellect from America.
Sunny side up.
Fried, over here and swimming
In our local juices.
Saliva rhetoric
Salt and fat dripping, from our tongues.
Only for number one.
Only for number one.
What happened to Richard Haass?
Was he over here just for the blast?
Who clamped his hands
Upon our double yellow?
Bonnie buis and very mellow, he seemed.
Dreaming up a shared future
For all of us . . .
From the thin gruel of our past.
U.S.A Celebrity chef with a new recipe.
Wanting us to take a sniff
And maybe a spoonful.
Only to have the full meal
Taken from under our noses.
With the aroma and anticipation
Still hanging in the air.
The air of a northern nowhere.
I don’t see.
I just don’t see
What our politicians
Did for me . . .
For me, or for Richard Haass?
Who deceived whom
And who sang the tune?
What failed to fly
In that wee tight Belfast room?
Patronised people once again.
There we were, just looking on.
At such profound potential,
Now singing us . . . no song at all.
These ideas, like drowned kittens.
Stuffed in a bag and shoved
Where the air can’t supply life.
My God!
Oh, my God!
What have “youse-uns” done
With your dark wee pocket knife?
But, the time has passed.
Did Richard Haas just blow it out his ass?
I don’t think so . . .
But I know who did.
And I know who still contiue to do so . . .
For up upon a hill
Up upon a height.
There they spend their time
Both day and night
Just talking . . .
Just talking . . .
Just talking up . . . themselves.
They think they have the right.
They never hunt the elephant
In the room.
These balloons never burst
Or bust a gut for you and me.
Never “up the anti”.
Attempt to set us free
From their need for our votes.
This joke of long standing.
They continue to blight the land
With their poor parenting skills.
The baby needs a feed!
The baby needs a feed!
But they haven’t the bottle.
They run from their duties
Like a distant Victorian father.
Like manys an average Ultan.
A badly drawn, Desperate Dan.
All rough stubble,
Standing in an empty field.
Expecting the sun to rise
Only for them, and them alone.
Neither walking the walk
Or talking the talk.
Their sticky, silvery words trail away . . .
Like repressed and blind wee snails.
Mollusc, monkish.
Going around and around.
Only making money
With just no sound
For me . . .
Or for us.
They constantly fail to catch the peace bus
From Stormont.
Manys a money making mollusc
Hides in his or her shell.
Smelling the coffee
Yet, refusing to waken up
To our new Spring morning
Nor accept their lost jobs and votes
As a necessity to peace and progress
For Nornia.
These snails still ride the mob
To ensure their regular employ.
And the joy of the open tap,
Dripping honey
Upon their shells, boys.
So who will make a fuss over Haass for us?
Turn over tables to exile the money changers
From out the Stormont temple?
Who will rouse our attention
From the rooftops
That someone has stolen
Our golden Easter egg
From Richard Haass?
Should wee beg
From these foxes
In the maze upon the hill?
Beg for Richard’s egg, back in our basket?
What hack could do that for us now?
To whom can we run
On such a small island
So lacking in imagination?
The miracle fish and bread
From Haass’s head,
Could feed all our ghosts
In this, the land of the passed on
The passed over and unfed.
Yet the dead all wait
For some new spirit to arrive.
Counting the cost
Of their short lives
With a bankrupt, prolonged silence
From the fools on the hill.
All our dead,
Still waiting to be heard.
A broken, four leafed clover bed.
Waiting for the warm milk
From Richard Haass.
Our political standards
Like soiled rags,
Hang at half mast.
A dirty and rusting
Barbed wire washing line.
While our leaders . . .
(Our leaders?)
Fail to grasp, take hold
The sharp, stinging nettles
And curling brambles
Growing from out our dark shambles
And para-militant corners.
My conclusion is
Our lost leaders
Haven’t got what it takes.
Like limp, rubbery garden rakes.
All handle and no hoe.
No Martin Luther Kings here.
Oh no . . .
Just a basket of snakes.
But snakes can be healers too.
Should they choose to use their tongues
To lick our wounds.
Instead of sucking up
To their local number ones
Both the Taig and the Hun.
A rare united front.
No Mahatma Gandhis either
No human humming birds.
Their parliamentary coloured plumage
(Whatever the shade or colour),
Revealing nothing but the absurd.
They’ll rattle all their china.
They’ll always let you down
With sweet tea and excuses.
But Richard Haass has gone . . .
Gone . . .
And they have got his crown.
This Easter
Local robber barons
Are still around.
Was I just dreaming
As they spent millions
Upon millions, of pounds
For just a bunch
Of forget me knots?
Richard who?
Richard why?
Richard what?
Richard how?
Richard when?
Richard what if . . . ?
Richard Haass has been and gone
And they all “done him in” like . . .
Who will free Richard’s rag
To fly?
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