Pete St. John, 'Fields Of Athenry'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Fields Of Athenry'

By a lonely prison wall, I heard a young girl calling
Michael, they have taken you away,
For you stole Trevelyan's corn,
So the young might see the morn.
Now a prison ship lies waiting in the bay.

Low lie the fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small free birds fly
Our love was on the wing
We had dreams and songs to sing
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

By a lonely prison wall, I heard a young man calling
Nothing matters, Mary, when you're free
Against the famine and the crown,
I rebelled, they cut me down.
Now you must raise our child with dignity.

Low lie the fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small free birds fly
Our love was on the wing
We had dreams and songs to sing
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

By a lonely harbor wall, she watched the last star fall
As the prison ship sailed out against the sky
For she lived to hope and pray for her love in Botany Bay
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

Low lie the fields of Athenry
Where once we watched the small free birds fly
Our love was on the wing
We had dreams and songs to sing
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry.

By Pete St. John

http://youtu.be/GV_RW9KyRVM

Love Song (Surat, Gujarat, 1992) // Kirun Kapur

[iatrogenicmyth.livejournal.com]

In December of 1992, Surat was the site of the most explosive and
        brutal Hindu-Muslim communal riots since Partition.

From the bedroom they moved to the street.
Just as all the afternoons they'd spoiled
her with balloons, soda pops, bright plastic rings,
there was laughter. After, they set her petticoat alight.

Could've been me, daughter of darkest things—
balloons, soda pop, plastic rings—
They split the whole of her from life.
You're shocked: they were her neighbors and they'd watched

her running circles in the new red top
her mother made, for joy of having limbs
that spin the noisy rosy town around,
fed her sugared almonds from their palms,

said they loved her. And they did. You think
they undid their love or proved they never did
by what they've done. Here's the whole horror—
pink balloons twirling away into the sun.

Think of all the other words you know
love by: mother, god, citizen. Which one
is nothing more than what you'd choose?
You've answered every one with, why.

For I did love my neighbor. Do.
Balloons. Fistfuls of silver rings.
Shiny loves are children's things.
You'll say I've made love meaningless,

that I'm trying to excuse, that I don't see
the girl without her legs below the knee.
I'm only arguing what we can use
of love is not the half of it. You're sure

you are a true neighbor. That you couldn't,
wouldn't. But to know the whole of you—
my lover of soda pop, heart-shaped balloons—
I need the other names for what you do.