Category Archives: political poem

Political poem: Jerome Betts, ‘Call for Obliteration’

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Crackpotus thinks that war is fun
(Of course, he never fought in one)
And so he bombed his little heart out…
Oh, chuck the cruel crazed old fart out!

The 25th amendment’s what
Is needed, not a sniper’s shot,
Until, his time come, all can cry
Damnatio memoriae!

*****

Jerome Betts writes: “This squib was prompted by the civilian casualties caused by the War of Donald’s Ego and the increasingly callous madness of his accompanying tweets. The second stanza supports a remedy advocated by a growing number in the USA, unlikely as it is to be put into effect  by the spineless sycophants that make up his Cabinet of Horrors. It would be nice to find words to really hit him where it hurts, but the nearest I could come up with is Damnatio memoriae, a modern Latin term for an Ancient Roman practice. Might it just puncture the hide of a POTUS obsessed with attaching his name to buildings and institutions?”

‘Call for Obliteration’ was first published in The New Verse News.

Jerome Betts edits the verse quarterly Lighten Up Online. 

Illustration by David Horsey, Seattle Times.

Using form: George Simmers, ‘A Triumphal Ode’

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decorative

A TRIUMPHAL ODE
Humbly Inſcribed to the Occaſion of The moſt Joyous and Auspicious ARRIVAL of
ANDREW MOUNTBATTEN-WINDSOR, Eſq.
at His Majeſty’s PRISON of BRIXTON
Composed with all due Solemnity & Pomp
and designed to be ſet to Muſick by
the late Great GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL

All the echoing prison round
Let great tumultuous welcome sound.
Let each incarcerated fellow
Loud and jubilantly bellow.
Let there be no dereliction;
Convicts, show your true conviction
In strong words and in minatory songs
That he is now where he belongs.

Let there be all kinds of musical cacophonies
Let there be mighty rattling of warders’ keys
Let there be synchronised humming of drug-transporting drones
Let them sound, the unharmonious ringtones of contraband phones
Let noise be noise in our unanimous celebration
Of this long-overdue incarceration.

He comes! Let every crooked eye be fixed on
The arrival of Mr Mountbatten-Windsor at Brixton.
He who for so long has sinned with impunity
Let him now be welcomed into the criminal community.
Here with the weaklings and the wicked,
Here with the druggie and the dickhead,
Here among the child molesters,
The frauds and Just Stop Oil protestors
The terrorists, the traitors
And the far-right agitators,
The ponces and the nonces, plus the mugger and the blagger,
The cracksman with a jemmy and the psycho with a dagger,
All citizens of this prison world, the scum of every slum
Rejoice and raise a happy voice that he at last is come
He, born second in line to the throne, now come to live
In the world where the snout baron rules, and the man with the shiv

Let him, the ex-royal, the ex-envoy for trade
Come here among his kindred, to the future he has made.

*****

George Simmers writes: “The Epstein revelations have muddied the reputations of many eminent men, and nobody looks grubbier than Mr Mountbatten-Windsor. The distasteful stories and compromising photographs have told their story. The only way is down. This Ode looks forward to celebrating an event that the British public is anticipating eagerly.

“It is doubtful whether prosecutions will follow for many of Mr Epstein’s guests. Their morals may be questionable and their reputations have suffered, but illegality can be hard to prove – it was Mr Epstein himself who did all the luring and procuring. But Mr Mountbatten-Windsor, because of his distinguished family connections, was lured not only with massages, but also with financial inducements. At the time when he was an official trade envoy of the British government, he had access to financial information (such as details of a forthcoming budget) that could have been very valuable to an investor like Mr Epstein. Documents in the voluminous Epstein archive suggest that such information was indeed shared. Mr M-W could therefore be prosecuted for the very serious offence of misconduct in a public office. This ode looks forward to the time when this foolish man is made to answer for his misdeeds.

“Such are the delays that have slowed the British court system since the hiatus of the Covid years, that legal experts estimate that Mr Mountbatten-Windsor’s case is unlikely to reach a court until 2030. It’s a long time to wait, but in the final eventuality, I hope that this ceremonial ode will be sung joyously by a massed choir. I imagine it set to music by that eminent composer George Frideric Handel, who was very good at such things. To those who object that Mr Handel is dead, I would point out that there is a psychic in America who has made productive contact with the shade of Mozart. Several peasant concerti have apparently resulted. I’m sure the lady could persuade Mr. Handel’s ghost, too, to come up with the goods. I imagine something a bit like the Hallelujah Chorus, but maybe even more jubilant.”

‘A Triumphal Ode’ was first published in Snakeskin.

George Simmers used to be a teacher; when he retired he then amused himself by researching a Ph.D. on the prose literature of the Great War. He now spends his time pottering about, walking his dog and writing a fair bit of verse. He is currently obsessed by the poetry of Catullus, and has self-published a slim volume of translations. He has edited Snakeskin since 1995. It is probably the oldest-established poetry zine on the Internet. His work appears in several Potcake Chapbooks, and his most recent general collection is ‘Old and Bookish‘. Another may be on the way.

Anzac Day, 25 April: John Gallas, ‘Anzac Snap’

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‘The soldier is F. Come (NZ), to be killed soon after on the crest of Chunuk Bayir.’

Churchill sat in a smoky chair
and watched the London rain:
We’ll chase the Turks to Hell, he said,
and chase them back again.

The Beautiful Battalions sailed
under a seething sky:
they landed at Gallipoli
to do his work and die.

We’ll be in Consty-nobble soon
and drinking pink champagne,
and then we’ll get our medals, boys,
and sail back home again.

But X was full of dying men
and Y was full of dead,
and Heaven, boys, was full of shells
that whistled overhead.

O Johnny Turk keeps shooting, boys,
so keep your heads down low:
we’ll be in Consty-nobble soon,
cos Churchill tells us so.

I just stood up to see the sea.
It’s quiet, boys, I said,
and something whistled through the sky
and hit me in the head.

The farm is still at Paterau,
the sheep graze by the sea,
and men ride up and down the bush
who’ve never heard of me.

O History is made by men
with nothing else to do.
They watch the rain, and have ideas
to try on me and you.

But glory isn’t Names and Noise,
it isn’t Arms and Men:
it’s living out the little life
I’ll never live again.

*****

John Gallas writes: “A ballad for the Aotearoa/NZ dead at Gallipoli (Gelibolu). The epigraph is a photo caption from a book that, along with the accompanying picture of F. Come, set me writing. In common with lots of Australian/NZ commentaries (eg. Peter Weir’s film ‘Gallipoli’) it is less than complimentary about the Top Brass, and attempts to represent the soldiers themselves as people from farms and towns who would never come back. Gallipoli remains a potent historical event to NZers: the debate between splendid sacrifice vs foolish waste, world solidarity vs nothing-to-do-with-us, significance vs time-to-forget-it is ongoing. 

“The Blue and Red Pencil drawing by David Barker (Gallipoli, 1915) represents an anonymous ‘cheery’ EnZed soldier. Like Come, he never got back to his farm; he was “At the landing, and here ever since”. The drawing is on p.53 of my collection ‘Star City‘, from which this poem is taken.”

*****

John Gallas, Aotearoa/NZ poet, published mostly by Carcanet. Saxonship Poet (see www.saxonship.org), Fellow of the English Association, St Magnus Festival Orkney Poet, librettist, translator and biker. 2025 Midlands Writing Prize winner. Presently living in Markfield, Leicestershire. Website is www.johngallaspoetry.co.uk which has a featured Poem of the Month, complete book list, links and news.  

Sonnet: Saad Kayani, ‘Sonnet’

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I see no pretty things to write about.
Industrial smoke obscures the summer skies.
No novel image schemas to lay out—
no logical entailments to devise.
I’ll write instead of how efficient, say,
a cluster bomb can be, the skill it takes
to mow the grass on which the children play
and monetize the rubble that it makes.
But better artists beat me to that muse:
the medalists whose medals killers win,
the columnists who weave the daily news,
and spin, and spin, and spin, and spin, and spin!
I’m dizzy now—no pretty things to say.
Poetry is for fascists anyway!

*****

‘Sonnet” was first published in Snakeskin.

Saad Kayani lives in Toronto. Recent poems appear in Shot Glass Journal and Neologism Poetry Journal.

Photo: “GAZA Crisis July 2014” by Syeda Amina Trust® is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Nabati poetry, fragments attributed to Mohammed bin Salman

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I am the one who climbs the difficult heights,
and does not fear the steep ascent.
If I aim for glory, I reach it—
or I perish in its pursuit.

I walk the path though the night is long,
carrying the weight of what must be done.
If hardship comes, I meet it standing—
for the honor of my land is not undone.

*****

Although he is said to write verse, I don’t know of a complete poem in English translation by Mohammed bin Salman that can be treated as a citable literary text.

What does exist is looser and more elusive: occasional verses attributed to him in Arabic media (often quoted in speeches or cultural settings); lines in the Nabati tradition (vernacular Bedouin-style poetry), where authorship can be fluid and performance-based; translations that circulate online, but without firm provenance or consistent wording. With MBS, you’re not dealing with a published poet but with a cultural participant in a living oral–literary tradition.

About Nabati poetry, ChatGPT explains it as:

  • Oral / semi-oral tradition
  • Often improvised or situational
  • Heavy on:
    • honour
    • endurance
    • lineage
    • desert imagery
  • Designed for performance and social signaling, not quiet page-reading

So even good Nabati verse can feel:

  • repetitive
  • declarative
  • rhetorically direct

That’s by design.

Using form: dactyls: Max Gutmann, ‘Junípero Serra’

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Critics of Father Junípero Serra
Maintain that the priest was a murderous churl,
Killing American natives religiously.
(“Serra,” too, sounds like the name of a girl.)

Minor official in Spain’s Inquisition, he
Saw many heretics tortured and burned.
Some people frowned on such zealous conversion modes.
Serra took copious notes. And he learned.

Later, his ministry in the Americas
Opened a chain of magnificent missions.
There, after doing the building, the natives were
Shepherded out of their base superstitions.

Serra’s supporters admit that the shepherding
Sometimes went overboard. “Perfect he ain’t.”
Many who died, though, were first brought to Jesus and
That is enough to make Serra a saint.

*****

Max Gutmann writes: “The poem may be a bit behind the times. In my youth, Serra’s sainthood didn’t seem to me widely controversial, but after writing the poem, I started seeing that that had changed. Shortly before the poem appeared in Snakeskin in November, even the statue of him overlooking a highway I grew up near was removed. Of course, given all the reactionary revision of history going on, this remains a good time for light verse to tell the truth.”

Max Gutmann has contributed to New Statesman, Able Muse, Cricket, and other publications. His plays have appeared throughout the U.S. (see maxgutmann.com). His latest book, Finish’d!: A Pleasant Trip to Hell with Byron’s Don Juan, is forthcoming from Word Galaxy..

“Titelprent voor Nederlantsche Oorloghen van Pieter Bor, 1621, RP-P-OB-79.017” by Rijksmuseum is marked with CC0 1.0.

Les Brookes, ‘Skipping Song’

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Eenie meenie miny mo
Apple orange mango grape
Snap on the news and what da ya know
Looting murder pillage rape

Do what you will you can’t escape
Looting murder pillage rape

Parents who lock their kids away
Binding their eyes and ears with tape
Struggle vainly to keep at bay
Looting murder pillage rape

Yeah lock ’em up they won’t escape
Looting murder pillage rape

We sit like ghouls in front of screens
Watching helpless with mouths agape
As men go mad with war machines
Looting murder pillage rape

Rectangular is now the shape
Of looting murder pillage rape

Darwin showed us time and again
That we’re descended from the ape
But do genetics help explain
Looting murder pillage rape?

Yeah, dig down deep the spade will scrape
On looting murder pillage rape

*****

Les Brookes writes: “The inspiration for this poem came “unbidden”, as Hopkins wrote of his “Terrible” Sonnets. I usually watch the news while having supper and am always struck by the violent contrast between my situation and the howling grief of people, especially parents, in war-torn regions of the world. It therefore seemed appropriate to express this contrast through the innocence of a child’s skipping song.”

‘Skipping Song’ was originally published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Les Brookes lives in Cambridge UK. He writes poetry and fiction, and his work has appeared on webzines and in anthologies published by Cambridge Writers and Paradise Press. Website: http://www.lesbrookes.com

Illustration: “Skipping rope dance 2021-02-09” by Asanagi is marked with CC0 1.0.

Odd poem: Xi Jinping, ‘In Memory of Jiao Yulu’

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Ten thousand miles away your soul has flown;
the rivers, mountains and land yearn for your return.
The people mourn the loss of a caring official,
tears flooding under the empress trees you planted.
Having dedicated your life to the desert,
to the betterment of people’s lives, your legacy lives on
no matter how many years come and go.

The moon shining bright as always,
I think of you and your life’s work.
You toiled long and hard, claiming no credit.
Serving and benefiting the people:
such was your ambition and is also mine.
Many a trickle will add a touch of green to the desert
and create a wellspring of hope.”

*****

Xi Jinping, born in 1953, has been the general secretary of the Chinese Communist Party and chairman of the Central Military Commission, and thus the paramount leader of China, since 2012. Since 2013, Xi has also served as the president of China.

Jiao Yulu was a Chinese politician, highly respected for his hard work even as he was dying of liver cancer in his early 40s.

From the Chinese Embassy in the US:
Xi Jinping has always held Jiao Yulu in high esteem and regarded him as a role model. At the time of writing this poem, Xi was the Party Secretary of Fuzhou. One night in July 1990, he read an article entitled “People Yearn for the Return of Jiao Yulu.” The poem was inspired as literary thoughts surrounding the deceased upright man welled up in Xi’s heart. When he inspected Lankao in 2014, Xi recalled emotionally how he learned from the example of Jiao Yulu more than 40 years ago. “On February 7, 1966, the People’s Daily carried a long article by Comrade Mu Qing and others entitled ‘Jiao Yulu: A Model County Party Secretary.’ Back then, I was a grade one student in junior high school. The teacher of political education choked with sobs while reading the article to us. I was deeply moved when I heard Comrade Jiao Yulu kept on working even in the late stage of liver cancer, pressing a stick against his liver to relieve the pain. The pressure from the stick wore a hole into the right side of his rattan chair over time.”

Jiao Yulu is no stranger to the Chinese people. After being appointed Party Secretary of Lankao County, he mobilized the local residents in a great struggle to tackle water-logging, sandstorm, and alkaline soil. Leading by example, he was always at the frontline at the height of sandstorms and in torrential rainfalls to identify the wind corridor, forecast quicksand and gauge flood waters. Amid blinding blizzards, he visited poor families to deliver food and financial relief to their homes. He was devoted entirely to all the people of his county but himself. Despite severe illness, he carried on work till the last moment of his life, and is revered as the “model county Party secretary.”

Rondeau: Political Poem: J.D. Smith, ‘Citizen Vain’

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Who burned his sled? That would explain
The wisps of hair coiffed like a mane,
The name writ large on thrusting towers,
His rating of his works and powers.
Who wouldn’t take up his refrain?

A loser, say, without a brain
And envious he can’t obtain
Fresh wives imported like cut flowers.
(Who burned his sled?)

A nation may endure a reign
Of fire once tended with some pain
Outlasting its appointed hours
Yet starved, for all that it devours.
The question holds fast like a stain–
Who burned his sled?

*****

J.D. Smith writes: “I try not to say or write the name of the moral homunculus who is currently the 47th President of my country, lest my words get entangled in his omnipresent branding. That said, in verse I have occasionally renounced him and all his works. This poem was first published during the 2016 primary season, when speculating on how that troubled and troubling man became that way was still an interesting parlor game with low stakes. While others with credentials in psychology have discussed his origin story, perhaps most notably in this book, as a poet I gravitated toward metaphor. As some will ask a badly behaved person “Who broke you?” or “Who hurt you?”, I began to wonder ” Who burned his sled?” in the sense of some analog to the loss of Charles Foster Kane’s sled Rosebud in Citizen Kane. What early personal trauma made the current collective trauma possible?”

J.D. Smith’s seventh collection of poetry, The Place That Is Coming to Us, was published in September by Broadstone Books. His first fiction collection, Transit, is available from Unsolicited Press. Further information and occasional updates are available at www.jdsmithwriter.com.

Photo: screenshot from that unbelievably offensive AI-generated video that Trump posted of himself as King Trump in a King Trump fighter-jet, bombing American protesters with his diarrhoea.

Political poem: Matthew King, ‘Incendiary Song’

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Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’m setting you on fire
You no longer represent me
I’m immediate desire
Our constitution is suspended
on a fence of barbed wire
Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’m setting you on fire

I’ve cancelled your election
I’ve exposed your fatal flaw
Trapped in your reflection
we argued to a draw
The people want perfection
they love to be in awe
Baby you’re the Reichstag
my will is the law

Our union needs annulment
our wedding was a sham
The preacher stole the word of God
now he’s on the lam
He said he’d bless the devil
he didn’t give a damn
Baby you’re the Reichstag
who do you think I am

Like lightning this befell me
not you but I self-crowned
No court can now compel me
my power is unbound
I dare you try to tell me
my methods are unsound
Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’ll burn you to the ground

I’m rounding up your lovers
each one of them a liar
They tell me they don’t know you
say it’s me they most admire
Now I alone can save them
or throw them on the pyre
Baby you’re the Reichstag
I’m setting you on fire

*****

Matthew King writes: “Many, not on only one side of the political divide, have been watching for a “Reichstag Fire moment.” The thing about historical echoes is you’re never sure what you’re hearing is exactly what it sounds like, but with some things sounding like them at all is bad enough. A hat tip to Leonard Cohen, whose shade I seem to be channelling in this poem, and who would have turned 91 on Sept. 21. Leonard! thou shouldst be living at this hour; lucky for you you’re not, I guess.”

‘Incendiary Song’ was first published in New Verse News.

Matthew King used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto; he now lives in what Al Purdy called “the country north of Belleville,” where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighboring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry. His photos and links to his poems can be found at birdsandbeesandblooms.com.

Photo: Reichstag Fire, 27 February 1933, public domain.