Fireworks, not by Angela Carter

Because this month has been so full of distractions - The News, Job Applications, Goodbyes - that writing's taken a backseat (at least the writing I can show you - my novel is still in the works). So please enjoy this little poem wot I wrote to process the fact that I'm here thinking about lunch and a blog post and how nothing else is how it should be. The inspiration may be obvious in structure and substance.

Fireworks, Burning bright

Soon in tanabata skies

Yet some infernal hand or eye,

reveals a fearful symmetry:

In some distant deeps or skies

A fire burns, a child dies.

With what wings do men conspire?

What - would His hand cease this fire?

And whose bodies, & whose art,

Could twist the sinews of His heart?

A heart that never struck a beat,

for war-torn hands, android screams.

Are you hammer? Are you chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

So anvil-dense, you cannot grasp

The deadly terrors come to pass.

I think the stars do take up spears

A heaven drenched in angry tears.

Did He smile his work to see:

The sacrificial lamb of East?

Fireworks, Burning bright

Soon in tanabata skies

Yet some infernal hand or eye,

reveals a fearful symmetry.

This poem was inspired and heavily informed by William Blake, whose Tyger dreams bear blunter teeth than the men who suppose themselves Gods. Please, write to your MP. We were born into this world in the same state of living, and no other fortune or fealty should shade our souls from that truth.