The guardian of democracy stands, leaning hard,
thigh-deep in a whirlpool,
toes gripping the shifting streambed as torrents
of words and images rush past
in twin roostertails.
On one side a glittering fan of pop droplets,
briefly lit and tumbling
(today we know the name of the pregnant sister
but not the name of the unborn baby’s father.
We could call the child something reminiscent
of the Colosseum, like Small Fodder),
and on the other a sopping spray
of copied copies,
the yawns and sneers of cynical producers
(the meaningless squeezed yields yet less),
pundits’ venomspit and drivel.
(Look, at the end of the day, we need to reach out
and send a message, so that the boots on the ground
will get some traction going forward.
Am I asking myself a question? Yes, sure.
Will I get an answer? Not likely, George.)
We have burnished our contempt,
spun our centrifuge of fear.
There is no hook, no net, no spear, no weir
that can pull sustenance from this stream,
even if we knew something of the G-forces,
or the heat of the bearings.
Even if the salesmen and TV judges
and the self-debasing attention desperadoes
would stop shouting,
the Colossus will not find his nutrients here.
He will clamber ashore, finally,
and camp at the periphery of our mad maelstrom,
a hulking bronze, still somehow
innocent and earnest in his verdigris,
hold his camera over the crowd,
and snap away blindly, in hopes
of catching something to remember us by. ~
~~~~~~~~~~
Douglas Logan
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