Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
Antony Di Nardo
58 years old
Antony Di Nardo's poetry appears widely in journals across Canada. Two chapbooks, "Speedwell" and "Three Poems," are published by Tibbits Hill Press of Quebec. He lives in West Beirut where he teaches at International College.
Tonight in West Beirut & You don't shoot the messenger
Tonight in West Beirut
Fire wears its other heart, the unaccustomed one. It’s seven o’clock Thursday evening off Hamra and Sadat, the concrete blocks stand between me and the sea and me and the darkening sky though the one I’m standing on has me elevated as above a canyon with an acoustic where echoes amplify the human voices below of gunmen calling out positions before another round of bullets breaks into the unexpected dead of night, my heart on fire.
I thought I might be counting the infinity of stars tonight or measuring the sliver of a moon, I thought of reading you Vallejo, or another Spanish poet of the civil war, a glass of wine between us, but the canyon’s changed its voice tonight and has something else to say – I listen to the purpose of the bullets, the report of single-minded gunfire, the awe within their vowels that ricochet and rattle against the matter of a heart.
Beirut, May 10, 2008
You don’t shoot the messenger
It’s almost twenty years ago when they gave Their word and said let’s stop stuffing arrows In our hearts that make them explode.
They all agreed it ruined one’s complexion. They agreed some people had better things To do like change the light bulbs
Burnt out in their heads or gravitate Once again to wearing sandals that freed The ankle from boot camp drills
And two-day marches to the green grocer Who was always running out of their favorite Apples and bananas because they didn’t grow
Like they used to anymore and beside they realized Sandals had a better chance of sprouting wings Like Mercury on his many missions to Mars.
But it seems they forgot their promises of rosy cheeks And they flip-flopped on their word — I’ve seen them pick their teeth with arrowheads
