I'm working late here and thinking about the social networks, but only because I've managed to lock myself out of my FB account, and because I can't get on to play it's made me reflect on the way in which our mind energies are gliding and connecting across the globe. Who knew even 5 years ago that so many cultures and social strata would open for perception to one and all and that we'd communicate openly with individuals without the addition of spin. To see and hear how others live in their reality without the input of the middle man: Broadsheet and TV news programmes. Once more we're hearing directly from the perosn on the street, the regular guy. It's great, and long may it last. With that in mind this poem caught my attention, it's from a book of poems by Bruce Harris, an English writer, who has contributed to 'The Linnet's Wing's' in past issues. It's from his new book 'Raised Voices,' which he released in September 2014.
Aliens coming to earth: Advice on timing by Bruce Harris
If you land in the fourteenth century, they’ll probably think you’re God
and, since you’re all green and really quite small, they will tend to think it odd
that you haven’t got beards or angel wings or arrive with a harp on a cloud;
you’ll die of the Black Death anyway; they were quite an unhealthy crowd.
Fetching up in the sixteenth century, you’d be a religious plot;
they’d tie you and your ships to big wooden steaks and set fire to the whole damn lot;
anything made out of nice shiny cloth would be liable to requisition
and, if you do actually have little green balls, they’d be subject to Inquisition.
Coming down in the eighteenth century, you’ll think them a bunch of prigs,
wafting white powder everywhere and poncing around in wigs.
You’ll wonder about houses for coffee and bottles of gin everywhere;
mind, after one or two glasses of that you won’t really bloody care.
Arriving in 1953, you’ll need to be good at sports;
you’ll need to play up and play the game and generally be good sorts.
Otherwise, you’ll find yourself bent right over your spaceship bonnet
with your little green bottom up in the air and a thin cane descending upon it.
Opting for 1967 could well be a comfortable spot
though your little green kids will mumble about love and be going slowly to pot.
ix
You’ll wear ghastly kaftans and sit cross legged, with others of similar mind
and it won’t be the wind between your ears which will slowly be blowing your mind.
Your landing in 1979 will be with a bump and a jerk;
they’ll be jumping and bouncing around your ship and spitting on your paintwork.
Don’t bother too much about dressing up and keep well away from the mobs;
they’ll be desperate enough, in a very short time, to be pestering you for jobs.
Parking up in 1990, you’ll need to watch how you go;
all the white powder lined up everywhere is not necessarily snow.
You’ll be just in time to see La Thatcher succumb to the last attack
and, if you know which planet the woman is from, for pity’s sake take her back.
And if you should choose to opt for now, our time has a lot to give
though you’ll need to arrive with many green notes if you want to buy somewhere to live;
if no-one should turn up to meet your landing, don’t worry, everything’s fine,
it’s just that no-one’s interested much; we’re all far too busy online.
...
This quarter I'd like to welcome Oonah Joslin on board. She joined us for our Autumn issue to edit our poetry section, and I'm delighed to say she has agreed to stay awhile. We published Oonah's work in the past and she has been a contributing editor in some of our earlier issues.
Many thanks to everyone involved in moving her out this quarter, most especially to our contributors who place their invaluable work in our hands for publication.
My best,
Marie Fitzpatrick