Oh, To Live In Chechnya (thoughts on an afternoon)

by John Togher

Friday 11th September 2009 4:29 am (first posted Friday 3rd July 2009 11:29 am)

The dogs, the dogs are barking,

aiming their frustrations at the sky,

unable to verbalise their wishes,

asking the universe to open

a little on their behalf.

And the boys, the boys are shovelling stones

a futile process of training 

to keep off the streets.

I watch and smirk at their labour.

Radio Four tells me the time, again,

its three pips of intelligent authority

allow a moment to take in the afternoon,

before the news, before some midday play. 

The pips, 

. . . . .

they remind me of the God-shaped hole

I've tried to fill through song and poetry,

through women and whisky.

But that cavern remains a void,

with just the echo of a bugle announcing death.

Oh, to live in Chechnya, 

where the terror zone has lifted, at last.

. . . . .

I'm a great believer in the dream of life

but the call of the bugle and the popping of balloons

and that lone shout of Rag, of Bone,

leaves me wilted on this afternoon

and I think: I have no rags, no bones

to give to help a man earn a living;

just a dream to live in Chechnya, 

where the terror zone has lifted, at last.

To escape the pips, the boys, 

the dogs, the rags, the bones,

just a dream, just a dream

of Chechnya.