I don’t often get too political. I think it’s a responsibility of the thoughtful poet or bard to give meaning to a chaotic world, or to help understand a state overcome with horror. I worry that I can’t write eloquently enough, that I don’t understand the facts well enough, or even that I’ll say something wrong. I want to be shocking, but often I’m too meek to try to shock people.
I was moved to write a short piece on the refugee crisis, and it’s just been shared over at I am not a Silent Poet. I did feel nervous submitting it, in case I wasn’t describing the suffering well enough, but then it occurred to me that perhaps I didn’t have to record everything – I only had to write what I thought I could understand. And so I wrote about a refugee, a wounded refugee, seeing the stains of blood as a map of his own life, and the map of the huge distance he is to travel.