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Mother in a Refugee Camp       by Chinua Achebe No Madonna and Child could touch Her tenderness for a son She soon would have to forget… The air was heavy with odors of diarrhea, Of unwashed children with washed-out ribs And dried-up bottoms waddling in labored steps Behind blown-empty bellies. Other mothers there Had long ceased to care, but not this one: She held a ghost-smile between her teeth, And in her eyes the memory Of a mother’s pride… she had bathed him And rubbed him down with bare palms. She took from their bundle of possessions A broken comb and combed The rust-colored hair left on his skull And then-humming in her eyes-began carefully to part it. In their former life this was perhaps A little daily act of no consequence Before his breakfast and school; now she did it Like putting flowers on a tiny grave.   Chinua Achebe Chinua Achebe was born in the Igbo village of Ogidi on 16 th November 1930.   His parents’ traditional cult

The planner by Boey Kim   They plan. They build. All spaces are gridded, Filled with permutations of possibilities. The buildings are in alignment with the roads which meet at desired points Linked by bridges all hang in the grace of mathematics.  They build and will not stop. Even the sea draws back and the skies surrender. They erase the flaws, the blemishes of the past, knock off useless blocks with dental dexterity. All gaps are plugged with gleaming gold. The country wears perfect rows of shining teeth. Anesthesia, amnesia, hypnosis. They have the means. They have it all so it will not hurt, so history is new again. The piling will not stop. The drilling goes right through the fossils of last century. But my heart would not bleed poetry. Not a single drop to stain the blueprint of our past’s tomorrow.     Boey Kim Cheng He was born in 1965.   His life started in Singapore, his secondary education was at Victoria school and graduated Bachelor d

  Carpet-Weavers, Morocco by Carol Rumens The children are at the loom of another world. Their braids are oiled and black, their dresses bright. Their assorted heights would make a melodious chime. They watch their flickering knots like television. As the garden of Islam grows, the bench will be raised. Then they will lace the dark-rose veins of the tree-tops. The carpet will travel in the merchant’s truck. It will be spread by the servants of the mosque. Deep and soft, it will give when heaped with prayer. The children are hard at work in the school of days. From their fingers the colours of all-that-will-be fly and freeze into the frame of all-that-was.   Carol Rumens He was born in Forest Hill, in South London.   She studied Philosophy at London University, but left without completing her degree.   She received Postgraduate Diploma for Stage Writing from City College Manchester.    Rumens was Poetry Editor for the publisher Quarto and the Literary Review.   H