Virtual Silence?

Poppies

By Liz Lochhead

My father said she'd be fined

at best, jailed maybe, the lady

whose high heels shattered the silence.

I sat on his knee, we were listening

to the silence on the radio. 

My mother tutted, oh that it was terrible,

as over our air

those sharp heeltaps struck steel, rang clear

as a burst of gunfire or a laugh

through those wired up silent streets around the Cenotaph.

Respect.

Remembrance.

Surely when was all said

two minutes silence in November

wasn't much to ask for the dead?

Poppies on the mantlepiece, the photograph

of a boy in a forage cap, the polished

walnut veneer of the wireless,

the buzzing in the ears and when

the silence ended the heldfire voice

of the commentator, who was shocked,

naturally,but not

wanting to make too much of it.

Why did she do it?

Was she taken sick - but that was no

excuse on the radio it said,

couldn't you picture it?

how grown soldiers buttoned in their uniforms

keeled over, fell like flies

trying to keep up the silence.

Maybe it was looking at the khaki button eye

and the woundwire stem

of the redrag poppy

pinned in her proper lapel

that made the lady stick a bloody bunch of them

behind her ear

and clash those high heels across the square,

a dancer.

Who tells us to be silent at 11am? 

I noticed how pushy twitter became this morning. How rude is it not to observe a virtual silence? VIRTUAL SILENCE? I mean, what is that?Does it mean silence from the woodpecker clicks of the iWorld? Can we click keys whilst being silent, if I put my phone on silent?   IT did make me think of a beautiful line of poetry by Liz Lochhead though; 'listening to the silence on the radio'. The idea of the brash lady wearing the poppy behind her ear in defiance. Who instutionalises time?

I took time to think of my Nana who was buried on this day, but I didn't do it at 11am sharp.

I'll be fined at best, jailed maybe.

So take time to think of your loved ones, it doesn't have to be 11am on a Sunday because the world says so.  

I had to type this poem in myself, it is my little gift to you as it can't be found anywhere on the internet. The academic in me feels she should reference it. Showing admiration for the poet whilst doing so. I always go back to this poem especially when I am stuck. Either that or I look at my foot. 

KINSMAN. J.(ed) (1992) Six Women Poets. Frome & London: Oxford University Press.