Long Sudan Poems
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Peace is possible. Let's embrace it fully and globally.
Note: The symbols for other languages will show up as ?.
Peace
By Michelle Morris
28/01/2023
Peace is possible
It isn't just a symbol
We need to embrace it
Within ourselves
Between each other
Between our nations
Whatever language we choose
Let us choose peace
Arabic (Chad, Sudan, Syria)
Salam
????
Bengali (Bangladesh)
??????
Santi
Chinese
Hépíng
??
English (South Sudan)
Peace
French (Burkina Faso, Burundi, Central African Republic, Chad, France, Republic of Congo)
Paix
German
Frieden
Hebrew
???????
Italian
Pace
Japanese
Heiwa
??
Pashto (Afghanistan)
????
Persian
???
Russian
???
Mir
Somali
Nabad
Afrikaans (South Africa)
Vrede
Spanish
Paz
Ukrainian
???
Myr
Xhosa (South Africa)
Uxolo
Zulu (South Africa)
Ukuthula
If I keep saying it in as many languages as possible, maybe it will reverberate through the Universe and people might embrace inner peace, and start to treat each other better
Peace be with you and in you
Peace be with me and in me
Peace be with us and in us
Peace is possible
Let's embrace it fully and globally
Let us embrace it together
Now
Blessings, love and light
© Michelle Morris, 2023
lookbacks
It’s the time of year to look back - so let’s look back at 2025.
I made some mistakes this year
Like wearing a pristine white dress on the dirty, crowded, metro
and another time, I tried glittery four-inch heels on Paris’ cobble-stone streets. That last was a tragic idea - think romanticized cigarettes.
There were sad things
A champagne flute full of Dom Pérignon Rosé, deserted on a studying student’s desk (it was test week) and I had to say goodbye to my favorite, threadbare, Miraculous-Ladybug pajamas.
There were beautiful things too..
I saw a light, late-night snow, in early November Paris,
several Louis XV gilt-crystal chandeliers dangling, like angels, in a ladies' restroom, and thousands of white Christmas fairy-lights, strung across the top floors of a fog-covered construction site - giving it the look of heaven.
And little miracles
Like Michelin-star meals served on a paper plates and Yves Delorme lace table-cloths draped over plastic folding tables.
Those last two were here - at 6th street - this very weekend.
My Grandmère and the archdiocese of Paris, have little holiday lunches for orphan groups every weekend in December. The group I saw were 70 little-ones from Sudan and Gaza. I doubt that I ever saw so much cuteness in one place - so I mingled.
I sat at one table where a five-year-old was gawking at the lavishly decorated ballroom.
“Who do you think lives here?” I asked her, before joining in and pretending to gawk-around.
A nun, chaperoning the table, translated my question to Arabic.
“Hanan,” the girl replied excitedly, before lapsing into wide-eyed silence.
I looked to the nun who explained that Hanan, in many Arabic fables, was ‘the Sultan’s Daughter.’
I couldn’t stay long, and as I left I looked back at the happy little faces.
“I want one”, I said, half to myself.
An elder-nun, who I suppose was guarding the exit, said, somewhat indignantly, “We don’t sell them” - as if I’d been serious.
(I’m not in a position to own a cat).
“I don’t want to buy one - that would be morally bankrupt,” I answered with equal indignance.
“I want to steal one,” I added, before leaving her there with her sour face.
.
.
A Playlist for this:
daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_25.mp3
Sudan 1993 and an ugly famine reaps its prey
malnourished bodies make it difficult to believe
that women were created from the rib of men
it is the most vulnerable who carry the weight
if you pardon the cynical pun on the grotesque
the lens is open and a vulture remains on guard
carrion in the making seems to die on the right
side of the frame and the wrong side of history
a little bird like face hands buried in minute hands
a grunting beak not afar as if smacking hungry lips
vultures have a serious problem with their reputation
but this particular images reaches down much further
into gut wrenching emotion of insatiable repulsion
for the record it is not the grim raptor who was ringed
but the little girl who wears a UN feeding station band
in all honesty the predator is not as close as it seems
a nearby manure heap serves its overfed companions
but the photo fails to escape the onlooker’s discomfort
however they wish it would fly away on prayer or wings
one vulture a Pulitzer Prize and millions of birdwatchers
although Kevin Carter the award winning photojournalist
followed all rules and was forbidden to touch anybody
for fear of spread of disease like cholera or meningitis
he was pilloried for only taking the shot and despairing
instead of well what exactly should the bird have told him
we are not privy to the fate of the iconic avian marauder
do not know what we would have done in such situation
maybe niggling bird song made us contribute to charity
but the other protagonist died in a red pickup truck with a
hosepipe and the girl’s parents told the press she’d survived
11th July 2020
A glib giant of the river borders
The discerning ears of the ancient Power, we mourn
Where caravans cascade to unseen voices
And the rumbling of avalanche bullets invades our peace
This mind captured it with a piercing eye
From river “Nun”
ere wasting wore garbs of gloom
this savage brandishing of the source of livelihood
Wiwa's blood spills, as the Khaki boys obeyed their paymaster
Profligate bands in union vexed by demons hunt sane men "like partridges"
With arms, murderous Pirates just for greed offers bullets as our prize
Subdued our river for gain never known.
Ruined face-stretching pains like coverless carpet
A reservoir of floods tumbles through the eye gates,
Our rich resources ploughed by strangers,
Where is Royal Dutch Shell? or Schlumberger, where is Chevron, Total
when we are hungry,
when we die, of pollution,
where is Petrobras, Equinor or Agip
when we mourn the damage on our offspring
we are silenced by the tyrants in Aso.
Insipid insanity of blood brothers ignored safety
Our tyrants cared for the gains
and for gains, Wiwa was murdered,
And a Massacre in Odi
Kill them all, says the goggled tyrant,
Take the gains to Zurich, I will spend it tomorrow,
but like Mobutu, he never lived to count the cash
For their greed, we die.
As these Lords watch the drama, smiling at our folly
From the coast of ivory, where children groan in pain for jewels
to war-ravaged Sudan, famished by the same burden
and like Esau, we trade the future for ephemeral
And obliterating while reenacting the trade of yore
unending wars for greed, a blinding greed
Who will save these captives from the taskmasters?
Cocoa harvested in Ghana, Indonesia et al, yet not a chocolate plant
but this coffee is not from Ghana,
the Chocolate bar is sent back at the dollar price
Nigeria is rich with crude
Yet they meander around a refinery from far off climes
Congo is ravaged in war, who supplies the arm?
Oh! for a taste of Freedom
First sighting
It was an early summer morning when my best friend Edwin
threw pebbles on my window to wake me up
I like morning slumber, waking up at six, looking at the alarm
the clock on the bedstand and think of two hours more sleep.
Ewin said there was a big ship at the dock fully laden with
copra; five minutes later, I joined him as we ran to
the harbour to collect the broken nuts.
When unloading, bits of copra fell down; we had pockets
full of it, and the white flesh was still soft and chewable.
Look, said Edwin, and there, on the gangway, stood
the first black person we had ever seen; he had a bag
in his hands that turned out to have booze and cigarettes.
We took him home to our street to show him to my mother
She was working, but my aunt, living on the first floor
took him in; we were milling about till she threw us out.
Two days are gone, a tall -in our eyes- old man, the captain
who came looking for his cook.
He is from Sudan, the captain said, which, meant
little or us and he is black, oh, him, he is in my aunt's flat.
Half an hour later, the captain and his cook walked
to the ship, we followed at a respectful distance to think
a captain!
On the gangway, the Sudanese waved to us he looked
Happy smiling, broadly; it was a day everybody was happy
the crew waited to be fed, my aunt sat in a chair in
her flat smoking ready-made cigarettes.
Truth is heavy.
That is why
only the brave
carry it.
When you speak it,
you stand alone.
Crowds prefer silence.
Silence is safer.
The world is full
of cowards.
So cowards are governed
by fools.
Europe decays.
Africa bleeds.
The earth burns.
And you watch.
Wars are waged
by idiots.
They shout.
You nod.
Children fall
in Ukraine.
In Gaza.
In Congo.
In Sudan.
In Libya.
Their cries rise.
Your courage does not.
When truth is written,
you exile it.
Not to protect peace,
but to please power.
Demons wear titles.
Madmen wear suits.
Merchants of death
call themselves leaders.
Democracy crowns them.
Cowardice keeps them.
Money buys your silence.
Fear signs the contract.
Dignity is sold
cheaply.
Machiavelli knew this:
a state dies
not by enemies,
but by obedient men.
The world burns
while you watch.
Not because you are weak—
but because
you chose
to be
the Coward.
Israel and Palestine duel, as Iran pulls the strings
Abiding under the rule of the Country with the wings
As Russia looks down Turkey is twisting in the wind
All seeking one crown or just the chance to rescind
As Trump stokes the fire, Maduro concedes to Putin
Netanyahu's situation now dire, separation so thin
And as China stands by harvesting lands procured
Isis continues to try yet no land has been secured
With Libya falling apart as the Sudan follows suit
Each actor and his part following the precise route
Just as the Bible had said as it all falls into place
Man would rather be dead than accept God's grace
Watch that eagle with wings, watch what he'll do
The deal that he brings a peace deal made for two
Then after three and a half years as the Bible said
Realizing their worst fears those of the living Dead
Ezekiel 38
Luke 21:28
When you see these things begin to take place, stand up and lift up your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.
Stranded in war torn Sudan,
Dreading yet another dawn.
In Wadi Sayyidna town,
Hopelessness was weighing down.
Men and women, young and old,
Watched the civil war unfold.
Homeless, desperate, full of fear,
Longing for their near and dear.
Then on 27th April night,
A C-130J took flight.
Manned by pilots skilled and brave,
Tasked to rescue and to save.
They were flying almost blind,
No navigation aids would they find.
Degraded strip, no landing lights
In the darkness of the night.
Infrared sensors scanned the ground;
No inimical force was found.
Using goggles for night vision,
Thay carried out their tough mission.
An enthralling tale had begun;
Six score passengers and one
Shepherded onto the plane.
Headed for their homes again.
Valor of the highest kind,
Audacity was redefined.
The Hercules and its brave crew
Achieved a feat of derring-do.
India's vaunted military might,
Wrote another chapter bright
In our valiant history;
There for all the world to see.
Written by Colonel Ramanan Duraiswami
AMC,Rtd
29th April 2023.
Written July 31, 2015
In a land
Unbeknownst to me
With no compass to guide
No lantern to light the path that I seek
I look to the north star for
Milk and honey or a thousand virgins
Either would suit me
'Cause when you're a stranger in a strange land
No god in particular to seek
You may be praying the name of a foreigner's god
So show some respect every week
You'll need all the help you can get
When you're lonely and sick
Dying and weak
Be it God, Allah,
Or some guy named Pete
You'll look to the sky
In times of mourning and grief
So study up on all the Hindu gods
And don't dismiss false idols
Cause worshipping a toilet seat might be in next week
For those stuck on hypocrisy
Will sink in the sands of Sudan
And die in the jungles of Mosambique
No one will hear their cries
No one would even care
It's too late for that stranger in a strange land
Though they're not ready to die
When you're a stranger in a strange land
Rescind your pretentious motif
When you see a stranger in a strange land
Don't tread on their beliefs
The End of Tomorrow
When you sit alone in your room, enjoying your solitude and someone tells you, this is the time of your life, the trivial will say you can sleep til ten, in the morning if you want to and you think, why not forever
You know there is no afterlife, you knew that when nine years old Santa Claus, was the woman next door
in drag, handing out gifts, paid for by your mother.
When the doorbell chimes and a Christian sadist makes it clear you must believe in Jesus because you are old and can die, any moment now.
When you listen to the soft breaths of the one you love
and hope you will die first because you can't handle
the practical side of life.
Then there is the notion there are two of you, if one dies the soul takes abode somewhere else, in a beautiful garden perhaps, and waits to be a soul for someone else.
Think if you had a choice, to be the soul of a donkey in Sudan for all time, carrying the meager belongings of someone fleeing the endless wars.
The conclusion must be if you are still of sound mind
death has some merits after all.