Tags
Britain, Colonialism, Ovid, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, post-colonial, ROME, satire, Virgil
SALUTE
that dress uniform
so ill-fitting
looks quite ridiculous
this moment in timeperhaps, it
never did fit, this
you must be prepared at least
to acceptas I write, poet stashed in a border province,
no gleaming Virginian golden Imperial Eagle
whose lines
out of marble chipped
with proposed gravitasthat I find
preposterouswhich is what I suppose you would expect
from one lounging Ovidian, my verse sprawling
like a jump-up township, “informal settlement”but you in your uniform
defending an honour synonymous
with carnageyour lies on this Continent
in this country aloneshould cost you nothing less
than eternal damnationbut who
am I, are we
to judge,as karma would have it, you judging yourselves
with terrible irony, worst
of condemnationssome literary scribe of
post-
colonial kinddrafting your epitaph
(the English
so powerful, revelatory,
beautiful)just stand in your scarlet
and give the salute
