The Veterinarian

the veterinarian moves
between the islands of fur
about the calves he says nothing
conversing more in geese
and the swelling part

he is never doubtful
in front of patients

he stands
and he watches

his speech is the dead leaf
blown across a field
his bags leak straw
and moist sawdust

D.S. Long

History of the Revolution

from Marty

The socialists of this noble press are very fond of informing me that there is no difference between literature and political writings. I disagree, but I've found an excellent compromise: a call to the workers to unite and arm written in the foureenth century. This translation is of a letter by John Ball to the peasants of Essex in 1381. He was executed for inciting the revolt after its failure later that year.

"John Shepherd, sometime priest of St Mary's of York, and now of Colchester, sends warm greetings to John Anyone. John Miller, and John Carter. He warns you to watch out for traitors among your fellows in the town; and to stand united in God's name Go to your work. Piers Plowman, and curse Robert the Robber. Take. John True blood with you, and all his comrades, and no-one else; elect yourselves a leader, and follow him and no-one else.

John the Miller, he's worked hard at his trade;
With the help of Christ his wages will be paid.
Keep a watch, or you'll go down
Know the foe from partisan;
Let your wants by need by bound.
Do well — do better — keep from crime;
Aim for peace. Be sure and firm!
This is the will of John True blood and his comrades"

Obsolete Generation

Huddled against the cruel grey wind
They lean on melancholy walking sticks and
Peer, sightlessly from spectacled eyes.
Faces, pale yellow, bleached by the years

Enthanasiacs all — the walking dead
Shuffling towards the satin lined coffin.
In threadbare slippered feet.
The family in solemn attendance,
With flowers.

Victims of impersonality, they are
Shunted off with casual ease
By children, preoccupied with quarter-acre dreams,
Who fear the mortal signs of wrinkled skin
Too large for the withered empty body.

Lacking all but this hollow shell
Their minds addled by
Senility; mumbling to themselves
In their souless institution
While Parliament debates the rise
In Old-Age Pensions.

—Graeme Simpson

A Small Shadow

Chopped down by swift black paws
By the path the dying hen lies in grass

Blood pumping, into the fresh sky
Feet kicking. Neck ripped open.

Yard and bleak henhouse behind.
Stacked bottles bring in morning

Sun. We walk around the victim, observing
That as usual death will not go away. When

We scold and beat our dog and
Walk back sighing, shrugging into the house, a

Small shadow falls on our backs. We
Know that at any time this could happen to us.

—John Gibb

Wulf and Eadwacer

This poem was written over one thousand years ago, and has always been a puzzling fragment. The following is intended to translate the spirit rather than the words.

A Godsend, a gift, a present to my people
Such would he be should he stray into their camp
Thus are we divided, the torrent water splits us, sundered to my grief.
An island holds Wulf
Another holds me
Black bogged, deep mired, guarded by the bloodmen
Savage men, hard men
They would put him to the sword
If he tried to reach me
Thus are we divided.
The sky was full of tear-clouds
My eyes glistened sightless
Roving with Wulf as he struggled afar
Warm was his greeting
Sad was his parting
As he left me once more.
My Wulf! Am I lean as I gaze from the casement?
Are you sure that my shivering is only from
I am sick — is my weakness from want of more food?
No, Wulf, the hunger
Is deeper than bread-need
You visit me seldom
To lighten my grief.
Eadwacer, my husband, do you hear my wailing?
Look now, even now, to the darkening forest
For Wulf carries off our pitiful child.
It is not hard to sunder
What was never united:
The song of us two together.

Marty