Para Thom Woodruff Hoy a las 9:36 A.M.
These are the final versions of the three poems I wrote. The e-mail is from a poet friend in France.

Moi et les trois chats joyeux =*>:) devil= =*>:) devil= =*>:) devil=

—– Forwarded Message —–
From: Anne
Sent: Monday, 16 November 2015, 9:04

Lives have yet again been taken in such a barbarous way Sue, everyone over here is touched, as I am. Your engagement in this horror rapidly inspired your wonderful poems, and moved you to rant. A proper and just reaction. I’ll stand up and be proud to join the small army of ‘Two Angry Old Ladies, Sue. Always ready to negociated a peaceful solution to conflict in the past, not war-thirsty in any way, I cannot find any forgiveness for these attacks in my heart, and where does reciprocal love and hope come into the equation here?

The terror of the people who’ve lived through these recent attacks, and those past attacks in January, the fear and the confusion of children who are unable to understand all this, are just a beginning, and those who find it in their hearts to ‘understand’ these terrorist attacks are beyond my reasoning, and I cannot grasp the idea , the suggestion even, that the terrorists have been provoked by our attacks on their country, and have simply replied to these. Our attacks were a follow-up to their aggression. Terrorists are not waging war as I understand it. No identifiable uniform, no flag-flying, only stealth and back-stabbing techniques, etc. do not amount to courage and commitment in my book.

I find the silent manifestations very touching, but life will soon take back her dues after the three days of mourning, Sue. People living in Paris, and elsewhere, are returning to their former occupations already, in spite of restrictions imposed by the police concerning gatherings, groups of people, openings of cinemas, concerts and theatres etc. So just a few short lines in support of fellow poets who have left their words in the hope of keeping the memory of recent events in people’s hearts and minds. A fellow PWF. xxx


How little comfort,
those tiny flames,
the long lists of friends’, and loved-ones’, names,
the flowers left in memory of
fallen victims,
all placed there with love.

Candles soon flutter,
and their flame dies,
snuffed out
like so many worthwhile lives.
Flowers don’t last, petals blown away,
while poems read and remembered, may……………………………………Anne Séité.

—– Original Message —–
To: John Horvath
Sent: Monday, November 16, 2015 6:56 AM

Speaking of PWFs, how are you, my friend?

Okay, Friday the 13th knocked me over, threw me for a loop, sent me into hysterics, etc. Wrote the following three poems in the order presented, flung them to Internet and Facebook. Soft-hearted, gentle poet friends had no comment, wrote poems filled with forgiveness, love and hope. Furious, ranting e-mail Republican Trump lovers thought the first poem made me “a helluva poet.” Anne Seite, in Rousoff, Brittany, went along with my rants and added two of her own (which makes us “Two Angry Old Ladies” and if I weren’t so tired that would be a fourth poem).

Sue Littleton – November 14, 2015

There, at the rock concert,
the stunned victims looked into the eyes
of strange insects /arachnids dressed like men —
yet they were not really men —
there was no communication,
no humanity,
just these two-legged hornets/black scorpions
without compassion
or empathy
man-shaped creatures aware they too would die,
joyously enveloped in the esoteric beauty
of dealing death,
while the fancy guns danced danced
in their hands
and spat flame and bullets
into unprotected young bodies.
The music stopped
in a cacophony of screams
and the staccato whiplash of shots
that went on
and on.

Then there was Yesterday,
such an ordinary day —
so different from Today.
Yesterday it rained and afterward the sun came out.
Here, yesterday, Spring was bouncing around the City,
flinging exuberant birds into the gardens,
until Night came
and the strident news reports
showed scenes of blood and death —
echoed the shriek of sirens
and the whisper of silent ambulances
passing through the empty streets
of the City of Lights .

Today, we awoke to a World in shock.
Today is not like Yesterday
and Tomorrow . . . what will tomorrow be?
who knows?

Sue Littleton – November 14, 2015

After the explosions,
the crowds at the football stadium are orderly;
they abandon the area as individuals,
without protest —
some cross the vast green of the playing field,
yet not one runs or shouts.
There has been no panic, yet all know
this is not an ordinary occurrence.
The sound of hundreds of voices raised in song
holds us in thrall.
They are singing,
singing the French national anthem.
The words of Le Marseillaise swell and fall
as they leave.

Sue Littleton, November 14, 2015

The desire for vengeance ignites in the hearts
of onlookers everywhere –
We are filled with anger and hatred
and we want to shed blood in return for bloodshed
–or so we are convinced
until in the distance the camera eye
shows us a swathe of sky-leaping flames
as a voiceover informs us
that the refugee camp in Calais
is on fire.

Is this what we had hoped would happen,
that desperate people,
in their struggle to escape the hell of their strife-torn lands,
should be here in their self-made limbo of Calais
and should awaken to the awful heat
of uncontrolled fires?

I think not.
This is not what we want;
these miserable souls are not the guilty perpetrators,
even though a few may rejoice at their pain.
Instead, requests for volunteers are quickly answered,
food, shelter, clothing is offered.
If there is to be vengeance,
Remember “Vengeance is mine,”
and leave it to Him to choose how and when.
Just be there
to give a helping hand.

Moi et les trois chats joyeux =*>:) devil= =*>:) devil= =*>:) devil=

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