None of us poets know quite

what to write, although many do

thoughtfully, yet it’s never quite

right, not really… apart from the

risk of labels such as virtue

signalling

Words in a time of war carry weight

and most of our words don’t weigh

quite enough in the face of Gaza

poetry isn’t going to cut the mustard

somehow, no matter how heartfelt

somehow

I’m on Insta and scroll for comfort

I find Ruhama, from Boston,

Mother of four, Middle Eastern Cook

she’s Jewish and lately, I hesitate

to tick like and instead I push ‘save’

secretly

She’s not responsible for Gaza any more

than I am, or you are. For a while I did

watch the reports on Insta from

Middleeasteye, but frequently now

there’s a ‘sensitive content’

warning

I have no problem watching videos where

planes have dropped thousands of feet

startling passengers, tossing them around

bloodied crew and oxygen masks amok

in fact I’m deeply engrossed in their drama

vicarious

I want to look, to force myself to witness

what’s happening, not to be a wimp

not put my head in the sand become an

Ostrich scroller only looking for food content

or a comedy diversion from Tom Sainsbury

selective

But I want to look away, avert my eyes

rather than watching mothers wailing

their babies bodies dismembered, burned

buried, bombed, brutalised, babies

we’re talking about babies

babies

The words of poets seem, well, less

than adequate, no matter how adequate

their form, intent and language, because

how can a poem adequately, accurately

begin to convey

what

is

happening

today

in

Gaza