Beslan, What If…
Marie Delgado Travis
Tom Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest 2009 (view all the winners)
Highly Commended
BESLAN
Tonight I will hold you, Alana,
And keep you warm.
You were the smartest girl
In your class and know the
Word "terrorist" does not exist
In a third grader's vocabulary.
I will hold you tonight,
Pretty little girl in pigtails,
Chestnut brown hair,
Gentle eyes.
Your mother cries that
She did not protect you.
But you realize she was
Not given that choice.
The hostage-takers—who
Said they believed in God—
Would let her leave with
Only one of her children.
You understand your
Baby sister,
Not yet two,
Wasn't nearly
As clever as you.
I will hold you in my arms
And sing you lullabies.
Brave nine-year-old.
The captors—who
Said they fought for
Freedom—shot you
As you tried to escape.
Your apartment building
Steps from the school.
In your room, favorite
Games and books.
I will hold you, child
And rock you gently.
Sweet little girl.
You know that red is
The color of crayons
And toy balloons,
Not the splatter of
Children's blood.
I will hold you
Tonight, Alana,
And in my own way,
Keep you alive.
We'll play
Dolls together.
Matrushka—
Doll within doll
Within...
WHAT IF
What if...
At the stroke of midnight
All of the magicians on the planet
Shouted, "We've had it!"
And just upped and quit,
Pulled a disappearing act...
Poof! Vanished! Into thin air,
To their top secret lair,
Their hidden den
In the nether glen,
Never to reappear
In public again?
I humbly suggest that
Life without magic
Would be
Boorishly boring,
A burdensome bother.
A bummer, a bugger,
A hum-drum
Plain humbug,
No bun, pickles, onions.
Handkerchiefs would exclusively be
For the blowses of noses,
Whoopee cushions couldn't emit
Loud and embarrassing noises,
Flatulence would sound, well, flat.
White doves would unexpectedly
Cancel flights
And lie languidly
Reading Variety
In backstage cages,
Waiting for cues
That would never come.
Jokes would cause jeers and boos,
Not cheers and silly laughter.
No one would predict the future,
Not before, during, after.
Or read minds,
Not even blank ones!
The magic word
Abracadabra
Would fail to open
A single sesame seed,
Let alone a trap door.
In short, life would be awful,
Appalling, absurd.
Hardly worth getting up from bed
In the morning at all.
But more mysterious,
Much more devious,
Sleight of hand would
Easily and effortlessly
Get out of hand,
Used, misused, abused,
By the underground mob
In underhanded ploys
To rip off, rob
Unsuspecting
Girls and boys,
Of their favorite
Blankets and toys.
Bandits would pilfer
Black capes and top hats
To make themselves
Completely invisible,
When filching coins from
Children's piggy banks.
How miserable!
What rats!
Magic wands would fall
Into the greedy hands of
Unscrupulous businessmen
Always scheming to make
More and more money,
While paying
Fewer and fewer taxes,
A special kind of wizardry
—Creative Accountancy—
Where one plus one
Is fully guaranteed
To equal three, thirteen, thirty,
Or anything you'd like it to be.
Wands would double as pointers
At annual meetings
To amaze, astound,
Confuse, confound,
And give trusting stockholders
The imprecise impression
That earnings and profits
Are far better than expected.
Smoke and mirrors at the yearly
Dog and pony show.
Straitjackets and handcuffs
Would have no master keys.
Fun house mirrors
Would leave us
Permanently wavy.
Chinese torture would
DLIVE US CLAZY!
Women sawed in two
Would stay that way:
3D jigsaw puzzles that
Can't be reassembled,
Not with Velcro,
Nor even Super Glue.
Black would only be haute couture
For ex-CIA agents, nuns, mourners,
Penguins, crows and stylish spiders.
And no matter how
Hard one meditated,
No one could be levitated.
The Laws of Gravity
Would Always Apply.
Swords pushed through crates
Would really penetrate
And at any instant,
Tickle or injure
The magician's assistant.
Yuk! What a mess!
Yes, life without magic
Would truly be tragic.
A mature, grownup,
Predictable place.
Where a spade
Could only be called
A spade.
And an ace
Would be just that—
An ace.
Nothing more, nothing less.
The Queen's purse would
Turn genuine diamonds
Into worthless zirconium.
And the King would whack
Poor Jack on the cranium
With his club,
When he was mad at him.
Luckily, Jack's quite a card,
His head's laminated cardboard,
Which can't crack,
But sometimes bends,
And that sure can smart.
Everyone at court
Would cry as if their
Hearts were broken.
They'd shuffle,
Snort and sneeze,
Causing a
Terrible racket!
Such annoying noise
May be okay
For the hoi polloi,
The little people,
The common folk.
But frightfully
Gauche and dèclassè,
For hoity-toity royals,
Wouldn't you say?
Not to put too fine
A point on it,
But life without magic,
Miracles, gadgets,
Make-believe,
Where there is
Literally
Figuratively,
Nothing,
No tricks...
Zilch, nada
Not even a rabbit,
Or a ripe banana,
Up one's sleeve,
Seems awfully routine,
Drearily dull,
A rut, a drudge,
A senseless, useless habit.
Too bland, too mild,
For the reasonably
Mischievous,
Medium spicy, saucy child.
In fact, no fun at all—
Not even for the typically
Average, tasteless parent.
So if one day you receive an
Urgent, person-to-person collect call
On behalf of the Venerable
Brotherhood of Magicians' Union
Requesting your donation,
Remember the potentially
Dangerous consequences.
Please be courteous
And extra generous.
All contributions are, of course,
Completely tax deductible.
Thanks in advance
For your kind participation
In the Annual
Fundraising Drive
To keep Magicians
Contented and Well-fed.
To keep Magic Viable,
Vibrant, Alive!
Applause!
Kiss kiss!
And if you
Believe all this,
Gee, you're awfully
Sweet and gullible!
