It was always one of the main aims of Poetry24 to publish material drawn from international news. This week, we not only achieved that, but also enjoyed a poem with its roots in News International, or at least the Murdoch's appearance before a committee of MPs. Anthony Baverstock's We didn't start the pie fight, charts the art of pie-throwing, as a means of public protest.

On Monday, Joshua Baumgarten's We will all meet as one, when the word can eventually overpower the gun, offered a fine tribute to the recently assassinated Argentine folk singer, Facundo Cabral, while prize-winning poet, Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro, considered the nightmarish legacy of the Japanese earthquake, with Fukushima for two.

Chris Lawrence highlighted events in Syria, where public protests against the Assad regime continue to be met with brute force. His Damascus reflects the turning of a 'blind eye' by the west. Lynne Stanford exploited some clever wordplay in a debut poem, Hacked, and Martin A. Bartels, another newcomer to Poetry24, touched down quite beautifully with Landing.

Three new names have been added to our list of featured poets since last week. Word is getting around, it seems. Lynne Stanford told us, "I was directed to your site by the current issue of Mslexia.  I had been worried that political poetry wasn't getting heard, but the standard of your site is excellent."

Whichever route you take to Poetry24, be sure to bring your poems with you.

Have a good week.

Martin.

1 – 9 – 7 – 0h,
over forty years ago,
Thomas Forcade threw a pie,
walloped Otto, porno guy.

Shortly after, Aron Kay
splattered Bryant, anti-gay,
Andy Warhol,
Captain Kirk –
pieing in the sky.

‘Save the planet’ Keith was smacked,
‘Stuff the planet’ Clarkson, whacked;
pies are flying left and right,
off the planet, David Icke.

Charlie Colson, Watergate;
Calvin Klein, but by mistake;
Carl XVI, the Swedish king;
Jeffrey Skilling (meant for him).

    We didn’t start the pie fight,
       but you’ll know you’re busted
      when you taste the custard.
    We didn’t start the pie fight –
      Well, perhaps we mighta,
      just to spite you blighter.

Bernard-Henri Lévy thought
thinking men should not be caught;
Horowitz was not amused,
similarly disabused.

David Shayler, British spy,
custard in his prying eye;
Movie-maker Godard laughed,
pie’s arrest defused.

Milton Friedman paid the price;
Emma Thompson: “Very nice.”
Rambo took it like a man;
Mocha pie for Moynihan.

One Canuck against G.M.
pied the P.M., Chrétien;
William Henry Gates the Third,
facial-creamed in Belgium.

    Whee! Did you see the pie fly?
      Don’t behave too snobby,
      or become too cocky.
    Whee! When you see the pie fly,
      better grin and bear it,
      cos you’re gonna wear it.

Guru Maharaj Ji’s god –
Why not stop the flying glob?
Was it written in the stars?
Ditto Father Léonard’s.

Parizeau and Péladeau,
Pettigrew and Duchesneau
Yankee’s fielder Swisher twice,
thrice is on the cards.

Widdecombe and Mandelson;
Messianic Vorilhon;
Comic artist Tommy Yune;
Politician Pim Fortuyn.

Clair Short. Allan Rock.
Willie Brown. Murdoch.
World Bank Wolfenson.
Still the list goes on and on . . .

    Who’s gonna stop the pie fight?
      Everybody in it’s
      clearly out to win it.
    Who doesn’t love a pie fight,
      a bit of hue and cry
      and seeing custard fly and fly and fly . . . ?

© Anthony Baverstock


Phone hacking: Man charged over Murdoch pie protest
------------------------------------------------------------------
Anthony Baverstock is from Colchester, reputed home of Humpty-Dumpty.

In the room adjacent you are undressing
and I imagine the wall between us is more
transparent than my heart. I trace the

shadow that marks the differences between
us (postpone for a moment the need to determine
who is light and who is darkness--both states are

preferable to the nothing in between). In this house
I wonder at the walls, how they could have been
built so much thinner than my own. At night,

deep at night, I lay awake imagining I am
on the roof mystified by starlight, lost in the
lack of self, the dark matter and the dark

energy, the dark at all, where I become the
shadow. This starlight itself is our distant past,
the place where we began. I am helpless against

the onslaught of memories. Between you and
between I there was the catalyst of love, the
spark that traveled one hundred thousand

light years to become us today. We were astronauts
training for space travel, hitching a ride on a
shuttle bound to skim Earth’s fragile atmosphere.

We catapulted fiercely upward in the poignant
attempt to grasp those altitudes previously
imagined only by poets and smitten nerds;

the moon, the stars, Jupiter's satellites, mere space.
We methodically composed a future without end
and now, stalled on this eternal landing strip, are left

embarrassingly unprepared for the inevitable
anticlimax. After all of it... after the one step, the giant
leap, the missions and the thrust, after the spectacular

and the tragic, after the epiphanies of hearts left
momentarily unbound by gravity of thought or
promise or debt, after we soared beyond all

expectations, we confront the persistent disability
that we are tethered here, after all, by our most
mundane realities. There is no app for reinvention.

© Martin A Bartels

The Shuttle Ends Its Final Voyage and an Era in Space
------------------------------------------------------------------
Martin is a poet, author, artist, and songwriter living in the Washington DC area. He is currently president & CEO of the humanitarian organization, Seed Programs International. His poetry can be found HERE.

I’ve had my heart hacked
by a man I can’t stand.

Initially he was fishing for information:
my likes/dislikes, birthday. My dress size.

Then he’d crash into me (with supposed serendipity) saying
things like ‘Great shoes’ and ‘Your hands are so cute.’

But as he surfed my software, his hardware got involved.
He began editing: messing with my heart strings.

He exported the pain of loved ones I lost
and recycled the fires of my anxieties.

He cut my gut feelings, my sneaking suspicions
about his tall tales and crawly taloned fingernails.

He also downloaded ... created this romance
of idealistic dates. And sex. Kisses.

He deleted my boyfriend - made me love him instead.
Now all that I have is what he saved.

So I’m starting afresh with a brand new heart,
and I’ve installed a firewall. This time I’m guarded.


THE END

© Lynne Stanford

Phone-hacking spotlight falls on Met PR man, Dick Fedorcio
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lynne Stanford was born in Perth, Scotland, and her first words were 'Hong Kong'.

Assad has a nation
that has joined the Arab
spring,
people gather and protest
unarmed and fearless,
yet face paramilitary police,
he is afraid,
fear a key to his power,
and will not yield,
by shooting his people,
their deaths caught
on shaky mobile phone
footage,
a social history
of atrocity,
is it unnoticed,
no western intervention,
history has woven a
political web,
and no one is willing
to be the fly.

© Chris Lawrence

32 killed in Syria protests, Damascus moves: activists
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Chris Lawrence lives with his muse in West Kirby and writes, having been published in many journals internationally and can be found on twitter @clawfish.

a pink sunset has been observed after
Fukushima tears in my cheeks
I am not sure about this landscape
other color ranges
from violet and gray
I miss the game of the shapes of clouds
this twilight contains the highest level of millisieverts
since the recall
800 mSv per hour
a scan of my abdomen and pelvis
an x-ray of my spine
lies on the terrace table
reads: 15 millisieverts of radiation
Melba made grimaces
and laughs at my concern
there is an echo of iodine, strontium and cesium
if I ever get a hamster I'll name him Strontium
she move the shoulders to look flirty
I smile because for me she looks absolutely beautiful
Even thou this is worse than Chernobyl
even thou I notice a new blister on her neck
we hug and suddenly
I want to know if she is an atheist
I try to pronounce the sentence
nothing comes out of my mouth
amazing sunsets around the world
breath taking sunsets in other parts of the planet
a pink sunset
here in Fukushima
a cry sunset

© Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro

Thyroid radiation found in 45% of children in Japanese province
Radioactive meat circulating on Japanese market
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yolanda is the author of the novel Caparazones (2010) and has won prizes including National Institute of Puerto Rican Literature Prize in 2008. She is a Director of the Puerto Rican Word Festival.

Why is it that I only hear
About the great men amongst us
upon the day
of their slaughter.

Beings who actually
Seemed to understand what it meant
To be
God damned human.

To talk about them
In the past tense
Is pain enough
I don’t need metaphor.

I am angry today
Because murder has stolen
From our mist another
Diamond soul.

Our world seems to spin
On an axis of pain

Some, try to see further
Than the circumference
beyond the difference
of our scattered ways

why are they repeatedly stolen from the world

add another name to list

Facundo Cabral
Juliano Mer Khamis
John Lennon
Martin Luther King
Ghandi

A list that seems to stretch back
to the beginning
of time
a list that reaches out towards tomorrow
As if death needs the angels for his own arsenal

The streets of Argentina tear
For the troubadour who
Sang for the soul
and is now
abruptly still.

The tongue can be silenced
But the song can not
Be murdered.

Today I also feel as if
I’m not from here of there
Or from anywhere.

© Joshua Baumgarten

Final farewell for Argentine folk singer Cabral
--------------------------------------------------------
Joshua Baumgarten is an ex-pat New Yorker living in Holland. He organises the Irrational Library evenings - nights of poetry, rock n roll and casual chaos, and performs as a Standup Spoken Word artist.
He says: "Sometimes it is hard to get ones head around the large scale and it is only when it is broken down to the one, the individual do we or at least I feel pulsed. So was it when I heard about the murder of Facundo Cabral. Someone I had never heard of before, but after researching the life of the man and listening the songs and the laughter and cheer from the audience, I realized once again the world has devoured another..."saintly" soul. With no religious overtones."