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Poetry Page 13

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Internationalism
Or:
the way that capital
can fold itself around a place
and squeeze
the life from it

It may have been the mythical core
of our being thrown from a car window
into the verge;

we may be the bit
left over, the seeds that
stick in the teeth.

And workers can be tough to chew up
and spit out, the intelligent flesh strung
together with sinews and moral fibre;

the heart strings;
that catch in the throat.

But maybe it's the bits beneath the radar of
international capital or those that for reasons
of competition have to stay out of work that
will predict the future.

Or the ways that our bodies record consumption.

There is no international norm unless it is
that
there is no international norm and the
only transcendent is human and kind.

Ian Davidson

Written to mark the 25th Anniversary of Cymru Cuba by the Anglesey-based poet and academic.

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