a poem by James MartinI do not recogniseMy cityI do not recogniseMy countryNot becauseI do not have oneBut because I have too manyWorldwideBut isolatedI do not have the polesOr the canvasTo build my own tentOnly a sleeping bag to roll upThen move onAnd fleeThis dead city of mindThis barren country of mindThis long tall history of mindWith its flagsAnd its booksAnd their songsAnd their wordsWhich can only fill holesIn its ash-ridden bordersAnd not the vast depthsOf its fathomless heartStill aliveAnd yet distantLike the faint beat of its wavesStill here –In this blown speck of dustCaught in its bright piercing light