Wrong’uns

Wrong'uns

After ‘V’ by Tony Harrison 

‘My father still reads the dictionary every

day. He says your life depends on your

power to master words.’

–Arthur Scargill

The Sunday Times, 10 Jan. 1982

And I love the men and I’ve asked God

to the reasons why. There has been no answer. 

Perhaps it’s a case of quandary or of abidance.

These men. They have the rage to kill me –

their wives, children, friends, each other.

I walk into their rooms with paper and pens.

Shaking their hands, slapping their backs.

We talk football, the structure of a sonnet,

court dates, plot devices. How to make blades.

I sit by the door as all the training dictates.

But it’s too late to run away from all this now.

I’ve looked into their eyes and seen the madness

reflecting between us. The loneliness of wrong.

Sometimes I’m convinced of our redemption.

But who are we conning? Push becomes shove.

Later in the chapel. I sit and read their poems.

I say my prayers and wait for the answers to come.

Their rhymes of mat, cat and rat. Son and gun.

   Sonnets have a structure and a law of iambic rhythm.

   All Gods are jangling keys here. Ignoring the unforgiven.