Rage, Anyway - Poem by Fiona Murphy

rage, anyway

FIONA MURPHY

mine is the rage of the schoolyard— 

where the biggest one takes takes takes— 

and the small ones fold in on themselves, 

paper-thin, bones bitten clean, a lesson in silence.

mine is the rage of the office— 

where the bully fattens on silence, 

where silence is mistaken for consent, 

where power learns to sharpen its teeth on the backs of the quiet, 

where the quiet choke on their tongues until they forget 

how to speak.

mine is the rage of bodies on concrete— 

bodies curled under doorways, bodies hushed into statistics, 

bodies called queue, called burden, called illegal, 

called wait.

mine is the rage of the forcibly displaced— 

the refugee who sleeps on the pavement of a country 

that calls itself free, calls itself fair, calls itself full. 

rage of the tent by the river, of the hotel lobby turned prison, 

of the waiting, waiting, waiting— 

papers pending, asylum denied, deportation imminent. 

rage of the border, the wire, the sea that swallows, 

the city that spits them back out.

mine is the rage of Palestine— 

of bombs that do not see children, 

of water that does not come, 

of silence that chokes, chokes, chokes— 

of silence swallowed whole.

mine is the rage of knowing knowing knowing 

and still watching it happen— 

of marching of chanting of saying look 

look 

LOOK 

—& still the bombs fall, 

—& still the wreckage spreads, 

—& still the bulldozers move in at dawn.

mine is the rage of systems where bullies lead— 

where bullies write the laws, 

where bullies pass the judgment, 

where bullies shake hands over the broken, 

where bullies smile through the screens & call it progress.

mine is the rage of the so-called neutral— 

where the Irish government tempts fate, 

winks at war, signs deals behind closed doors, 

softens sovereignty for the right buyer.

mine is the rage of trying and trying and trying— 

of hands lifted, of letters written, 

of bodies gathering in the cold, 

of banners raised, 

of feet pounding the street, 

of knowing that even as we stand as we rage as we scream 

not this time not again not like this 

the next war is already being written, 

the next wreckage already drawn, 

the next grave already dug.

mine is the rage of knowing it does not matter— 

and the rage of refusing to believe that. 

mine is the rage of trying anyway.

AUTHOR BIO

Fiona Murphy is an Irish anthropologist and writer based in Dublin. She works across poetry, ethnography, and creative nonfiction, with a focus on displacement, memory, and solidarity. Her work has been published in academic journals and creative anthologies. She is co-editor of Anthropology and Humanism.