Saturday, August 11, 2012

The Syrian Olympics, a poem

                The Syrian Olympics

I must be a sour puss, a spoiled sport, railing against lads
swimming in the river Thames, or piloting single sails,
hitting tennis balls across nets at Wimbledon while Syrians
fail to step out to neighborhood cafés for bread and tea
just in case shells shatter the glass, severing the arms
of the owner’s son, or the heart of the intrepid, last
customer who missed the convoy to the Turkish border
and decided  to live as he has always done on Saturday
morning, blue and bright like a diamond, flesh in shards,
coffee percolating on the stove and abroad, watching
boys and girls leap for joy, their medals won.

                        Indran Amirthanayagam, August 11, 2012

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