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World of the News

~ For the universal in today's top stories

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#99 Inconsistencies Shroud Ebola Survivor

August 19, 2016

Features the same – no new pockmarks or Gothic cavities,
But her face looks different in almost every photograph:
Soft and smiling in a maidenly way;
Plain, drawn, dunned;
Professional poise – jaw set firm to produce the seeming smile;
Suburban respectable complete with regrettable hairdo;
Puffed up with pain;
Epitome of relief (visibly tired but no longer pitiable).

The many faces of Pauline Cafferkey are also expressions of the Ebola virus passing through her body and brain after she contracted the disease while volunteering as a Save the Children nurse in Sierra Leone in 2014.

On three separate occasions during the past two years Nurse Cafferkey has been confined to the high-level isolation tent in North London’s Royal Free Hospital. On two of these occasions her condition was designated ‘critical’, i.e. likely to die.

Strict protocols – in theory to prevent Ebola entering Britain,
But in practice these were applied inconsistently:
Returning volunteers muddling in with everyone else at Border Control;
Belatedly siphoned off separately for medical screening;
Reading their own thermometers because not enough staff;
Allowed to proceed even if reportedly running a temperature;
Hugs all round the baggage carousel – no more ‘no touch’ policy;
Home on the Tube or next plane to Glasgow – told to avoid crowds afterwards.

In keeping with these inconsistencies, the public profile of Nurse Cafferkey is suitably ambiguous: on the one hand a medal-winning hero whose dedication to the lives of others nearly cost her her own; on the other hand a risk to public safety recently charged with ‘allowing an incorrect temperature to be recorded’ on her return to Heathrow, and ‘intending to conceal’ from public health officials the raised temperature which turned out to be the first sign of haemorrhagic fever. read more

#98 Desolation Angels (1956 & 2016)

August 18, 2016

Jack Kerouac atop a mountain, exactly 60 years ago
Turning off the two-way radio to write, he said
Though not much to show for it and no fires started neither
Only six months after his descent, new found
Fame chasing him down so fast he burned up.
Angel of the Road less desolate in solitary watching for fires.

Fireman said lady, lady don’t lay there.
Leave now or we’ll both die in this wildfire.
Cremated in his Californian home, husband
‘Bob and my animals who can never be replaced’. On TV
The widowed angel speaks firmly through a well-kept mouth
And clear blue eyes where desolation has yet to set in.

#97 Moulded Yourself Into A Soldier

August 7, 2016

On 21 July 2016 Dean Carl Evans (22) from Reading died fighting with a Kurdish People’s Defence Unit attempting to re-take the Syrian city of Manbij from Islamic State. Afterwards another British volunteer praised Evans for having ‘moulded himself’ into a soldier during two tours in northern Syria.

Unprepossessing

Unfit for the Army
Asthma let you down
As your undershot jaw would lower
The score on Take Me Out

Unprepossessing

Less of the specified failings
More an awkwardness all round
That question remaining unanswered:
Just what to do with your mouth

Unprepossessing?

Yet you took hold of yourself
Flying out twice to Syria
Now killed in action
With the Kurds against IS

Fatal self-possession

Put paid to any personal
Doubt or insecurity
Though odd if for your counterparts
The motives were much the same

How strange if for your foes
The motive’s exactly the same.

#96 Tragedy Sweeps Down On Another French Town

August 1, 2016

Two youths reciting their catechism in the parish church.
The old priest on his knees; their knife at his throat.
‘It was like a sermon around the altar in Arabic’,
Recalls the nun from Rouen who got away.
‘The horror,’ she went on to say,
The priest ‘given the knife’ as she ran for her life.

Teenagers infused with what they claim is righteous anger –
Even if one of them is flinching from the camera-eye throughout his video manifesto,
Praying that the blood of this holy relic of a man will give them a new lease on life.

Did he have to die to release them from boredom?
Deliver them from nothing in particular – that is,
From the fact that they are nothing in particular?
If only they had managed to look up at the gory scene already
Taking place only a few feet above the tableau they created.

Family and a few friends gathered round the busted body of Jesus,
Suspended in time, extended for all to see. Hands nailed, legs broken,
Close to the drawn-out climax of his public execution.
(Crucifixion: the first thing you learn is you always have to wait.)

The one set higher than the other; though on different planes,
As rituals these two seem much the same. Again, seeking to
Substantiate themselves our two teenagers set about slaughtering an old man
Who repeatedly drank the blood of his own Saviour during more than half a century in Holy Orders –
That elevated state which allowed him to transubstantiate.

Unable to ‘do this in remembrance of me’,
Perhaps they do it because they have no remembrance.
Traditional, ritual enactment of life and death,
Describing the self-serving alongside selfless sacrifice,
Reference points for the elevation of everyday life,
Tried and tested ways of moving beyond the banal,
They don’t get it; they just don’t get it. read more

#95 Un/Certainty And The Widow Sertcelik

August 1, 2016

When he didn’t come back, of course you were……

When you found his body in the makeshift morgue, of course you were…..

But now what are you?  Now that the call your husband answered with his life

May have been as crooked as the coup he died resisting.

‘In this house there are three more lives to give for this country.’ Sema Sertcelik remains resolute. Her taxi-driver husband Akin (41) died for a noble cause: in defence of Turkey’s elected head of state, President Erdogan; in defiance of the attempted military coup which might have toppled the government on the night of 15th July 2016 but for the thousands of Turks who came out onto the streets of Istanbul and Ankara to stand in front of the tanks and block their progress.

Some of these demonstrators stopped soldiers’ bullets with their bare hands. There is silent footage of them dancing with rifle shots on the Bosphorus Bridge – swept off their feet, hopping on their haunches like Cossacks and ending with the signature move known as ‘biting the dust’. Akin Sertcelik was among those who bit the dust.

If further sacrifice is called for, the Widow Sertcelik will not hesitate. Same goes for her children, she tells a BBC reporter. But Irmak (17) and Hamza (10) say nothing.

Maybe they don’t agree. With thousands of arrests and hundreds of news outlets suppressed in the weeks following the failed coup, perhaps they consider their mother unduly loyal to an opportunist president who has seized the moment afforded by the failure of the coup and used it to incapacitate a whole range of political opponents; in flagrant breach of the democratic principles which he exhorted others to defend at all costs.

Or is it that Sema’s seeming conviction is only the flipside of suspicions she herself has come to share, but doesn’t dare admit to? read more

#94 Song Of The Impatient Brexiter

August 1, 2016

Uninvited…..can’t complain. Repeatedly ignored……what good would it do?
In thirty-odd years, we’ve learned to make a life out of little things;
That’s what the lesser people have come to – if not you, also.

Normally we stand back to let you do the talking. Not completely different
From before, though in days of yore the bastards were
Our bastards – that was something to even the score.

How shocked you were when the numbers came in. Had to laugh
When we saw your face. Took it we’d Remain in our place, didn’t you?
Set yourselves up for a put-down; now you can’t accept the message with good grace.

Don’t make a point of saying you’ve ignored us.
Dog bites man, sanfarian: you try telling yourself what you already know.
And the new ‘listening’ sounds like therapy – dear God, deliver me.

We’ll end by saying simply this:
If you can’t act accordingly……
Just let us alone.

#93 Words Over The Body Of Mohamed Lahouaiej Bouhlel

July 19, 2016

Embed from Getty Images

Though I can’t condemn you more – no one could

I’d gladly understand a little less

But in anger way past anger, bitterness beyond bile

I too might fail to wrestle the beast in me.

Yet it’s one thing to see la bête humaine

Another to explain quite how you came there

Relative poverty and petty degradation –

Backstairs in hotels where smoking’s a misdemeanour,

Airless in apartment blocks where the sun makes no concessions,

Arrested for small crime and once upon a time

Driving asleep at the wheel,

These count for little against you playing

Space Invaders – carry on le camion,

Bleeping the lives of others like dots on screen.

And what about the sex you used to fix yourself?

The dating app, the roving eye, a bare

Chested selfie shot against the salsa sky.

Scenario for an Amy Winehouse song, already awry.

‘Holy warrior’, how could that be you?

Whichever one you were at any time, the other came too.

The parts don’t match, p’rhaps that’s the only point.

No single mode makes sense of your existence.

For this poor patchwork you brought Perdition to the Promenade?

When you’re the only one, Bouhlel, who should be on the road to Hell.

#92 After The Truck Stopped In Nice

July 16, 2016

Forty-something man sitting on the ground: cross-legged; a little lop-sided. Hair receding, cut short (not shorn) to minimise. Shorts, t-shirt, hooded top; sandals scuffed – they’ve schlepped a few pavements, not just the beach. Wrists resting on bended knees, fingers interlocking.

The position his hands are in seems one stop short of prayer, but this man has already reached a moment of quiet contemplation; perhaps hundreds then thousands of such moments throughout the warm moistening of a Mediterranean night.

I have stopped short of saying what he’s contemplating. Because I don’t rightly know. On the one hand he is not directly contemplating the thing under the pink beach towel within touching distance of where he is sitting, because the pink beach towel is covering that thing so that no one – least of all this man – has to contemplate it simply as a thing, no longer a human being. On the other hand, the man is only there because the thing is; the thing that is, that used to be human.

Maybe this is how it works: sitting but not quite touching the thing that is, this is the closest he can get to the being that was; and if he sits there long enough, he may even be able to reconcile himself to the fact that ‘is’ and ‘was’ are irreconcilable.

Or perhaps it’s nothing of the sort, and he’s only there, looking with infinite tenderness upon the hidden corpse of a lost loved one, because he can’t contemplate being anywhere else.

#91 Letter To America: Why The World Looks At You Apathetically

July 14, 2016

There’s this guy coming round one side of the pillar and there’s another guy coming round the other side. The other guy can see the first guy but the first guy doesn’t know the other guy is there. Just when you think they’re doing a Keystone Cops routine, cue plinky-plonk piano accompaniment – there’ll be collisions and custard pies any second now, the splat, splat, splat you hear is the sound of the second guy shooting the first one repeatedly, killing him calmly and deliberately; as if this is a state execution rather than a lone ranger raging against whites and white police officers particularly.

How to read your movements, America? The lightning fast transfer from tawdry to tragic – how do you do that? And back again the other way: from killer-cop/cop-killer pathos to the bathos of men in vests who were never the target, talking too much about how they survived the shooting.

Over the years and down the decades, you’ve made the switch, done the commute so often you don’t seem to notice the distance. Awesome, for example, made banal by you bringing it to the mall. Pathetic, originally inviting sadness and pity but latterly meaning paltry and inadequate. Both pathos and bathos, in other words, now joined together in that bastard adjective of yours.

Never mind if their meanings started out drastically different; it’s not the American Way to keep two words open for business when you can size it down to one. Instead you stick to what Henry Ford would have done.

But his kind of compression can cause compassion fatigue elsewhere. America, the world outside….oh yes, there is….that doesn’t know what to make of you, would hardly know how to care for you even if it wanted to; even if some of your cities were on the point of catching fire. read more

#90 Tony Blair Revisited: Echoes and Mirrors

July 8, 2016
Voice thinned out instead of thickening with retirement, the sing-song intonation remains the same; but resonance that went with residence in No 10, has duly gone away.

Open-faced, hand-on-heart, put a beard on him and you could take this for a devotional picture of Our Lord, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ! Is that what he thinks – my cross to bear, I did it for the sins of the world? Or is it only how he’s playing it – playing us? Perhaps for him the distinction is false: what works is what is; and that’s the end of it.

Tony Blair, who stepped down in 2007 after 10 years as UK prime minister, has been brought back to Basra and Baghdad by publication of the Chilcot Report – the much-delayed findings of a seven-year-long inquiry chaired by senior civil servant Sir John Chilcot, into Britain’s military role in the overthrow of Saddam Hussein in 2003 and the subsequent occupation of Iraq.

Chilcot has reported that Blair chose to declare an unnecessary war. This means that the British troops killed in action, one hundred and seventy-nine of them, died unnecessarily; to say nothing of thousands of civilians slaughtered and more than a million Iraqis displaced in the sectarian chaos which ensued after the occupying forces dismantled the state of Iraq.

Anticipating strong criticism from bereaved families, immediately after the high profile launch of the Chilcot Report, Blair held his own press conference at Admiralty House (nice gaff if you can get it), in which he apologised for how much hurt the war had caused, but insisted that on the basis of what he knew at the time, he would do the same again.

Although he had plenty to say (the press conference went on for two hours), Blair’s brittle voice – his, but with the bass taken out – was reduced to a tremulous echo of the tracks he recorded previously, as prime minister.

But no one asks why Iraq came top of the target list post-9/11. At the time, Western leaders surely felt the need to verify themselves in a suitably spectacular way (naming their invasion ‘Shock and Awe’ is just one indication of its essentially theatrical nature). But why, when Al Qaeda terrorists had been identified as ‘networked’, ‘de-centralised’ and even ‘postmodern’, did Tony Blair and US president George Bush attack a regime such as Saddam’s, renowned for its highly centralised bureaucracy? Unless Iraq came top of the hit list not least because in its centralised, partially modernised aspects it resembled the discarded social structure and the semi-socialist architecture which Britain and America had only recently come to despise. read more

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