This inquiry
This inquiry is a matter
Of public importance,
Namely, events on Sunday
Thirtieth of January
Nineteen seventy-two.
I would ask each of you
To think back for me:
Where had you been,
What did you say,
What did you do?
First, I suspect
You were a child,
At church, perhaps,
Full of smiles,
Or bursting
For the toilet,
Desperate
For a game –
Those hopscotch stones
Bouncing
Off your bonnet.
And you, maybe,
A boy leading a line,
Keen-eyed, adolescent
In local-league
Winter sunshine.
Looking at girls,
Biting your nails
Because bigger boys
Had bags of nails
Aimed
At your head.
And you I can picture
As a girl
In love, unfurled
Like a flag
That will break
For that one
With her gang
Of snipes
And back-bites,
Had your man
In her sights.
Many of you here
Were not born
In nineteen seventy two
When events in Londonderry,
Derry if you prefer,
Left fourteen dead,
Others wounded,
Devastated.
But I want to re-visit,
To place myself there.
Tell me
Did you ever plan,
Make a
Calculation
To resolve
A situation?
To win a job,
House, land
Did you persuade
With a carrot,
A stick
Or a baton?
Did you ever disobey
An instruction,
Or order;
Go your own way,
Take decisions
Because old ways
Were going nowhere,
Because people in charge
Had no idea,
Because you
Were bolder.
So did you rush in
To danger
To rip out
A problem,
To search
For an answer –
Your boot-prints
In a house
That wanted you out?
Were you ever
Terrified?
Did you ever lip-read
Abuse of your name?
Want to give up
As brick and flame
Were thrown:
Kids laughing
At your bloody nose,
Your teeth in the road,
Somebody owed,
A score,
Needs settling?
Have ever you lain awake
Mad in your bed
Thinking about
Someone who said,
Or did,
That thing
To thwart you, to hurt you?
Did you fantasise,
Circumstances
Of their demise,
Their downfall? Well,
Take this self-loading rifle,
Put its butt to your shoulder,
Run up to the Rossville flats;
Kneel down on a pavement
And feel what it’s like
To finish something,
To really finish
Someone’s father
Someone’s son.
Someone
Innocent.
Have you ever never
Admitted you’d done wrong?
Clung on,
Because you feared
If you confessed –
Even on your knees
Before Jesus on that cross –
The mob
Would hiss at you,
The authorities
Would rinse their hands of you?
Have you ever had
A pat on the back
From a colleague
Or friend
You covered
With words
That could have been true,
Though you weren’t sure?
Or did you just lie
Because you heard
Others were lying too?
Have you ever carried out
Quick investigation
But found the truth
Wasn’t right,
Didn’t fit
Considerations,
Practicalities?
Didn’t give
Good people
You believed in
What they needed?
Have you ever written
A book, a film or a poem
About the nature of evil?
Do you preserve that word
For other people?
Have you ever stood up like this
And pretended to be a judge or a lord?
I am not,
I am middle-management,
Middle-aged,
I go to work in a suit most days.
Lord Saville has shown
That Bloody Sunday was
For the bereaved
A tragedy,
For Northern Ireland
A catastrophe;
That specific men
Were ill disciplined,
Broke orders,
Killed, maimed,
And lied about their victims.
I only visited Londonderry once:
I saw city walls and cathedrals,
I even learnt some songs.
But those are not the rights and wrongs
That keep me awake;
It’s the stupid little harms
I’ve suffered
Or done
To myself,
Others,
Loved ones.
If you wrestle an angel
You may get a blessing
From your inquiry.
But come the morning
James, cross the river,
Open a hand and share
In the milk and the honey
Or the vinegar and the spear.
It’s true,
I really could place myself
Right there.
“But what’s done is done
And what’s won is won
And what’s lost is lost and gone forever.
I can only pray for a bright, brand new day
In the town I loved so well.” (Song)
2010