POEM - SNIPER

SNIPER


They have no sophistication, that mortar mob.
A basic grasp of Newton’s laws of motion
And a sense of direction
Is all they have.
They stuff their ugly faces ‘til they bulge
And grease runs down their chins.
They swill it down with slivovich
Then fall asleep.


From time to time they amble to their sandbagged pit.
One scans with glasses the field of opportunities
And belches out an elevation
And a range.
The others hold their ears and giggle
While the least drunk one drops in a shell.
When it bangs they yell
Like silly boys.


Somewhere it falls; it makes a noise and, if they’re lucky,
Blows off a head or arm or leg – or two, or three,
Or breaks a window.
How very crude.
I stand tall, a man of honour and iron discipline.
Lightly camouflaged against a non-contrasting background,
With a wall on which to rest
And to protect me.


My near friend, my dear friend, my companion in arms
Lies close to my face and I survey the other world like God,
Ready to – how shall I put it?
Take what I like.
How can I convey to you the elegant sublimity of what I do?
It is pure, honest, dignified, and, above all, free of malice.
I have no hatred for those who come within
My magic circle.


I do not kill for pleasure, indeed I often do not kill at all.
I choose my target within my target – such is my skill, my artistry.
Such is my power that I can be generous,
Almost kind.
The left knee of a moving target, a young boy who knows I’m here
And runs to challenge me then lies jerking (and screaming, no doubt)
He’s learned his lesson all right.
He’ll show respect.


Snap! Old woman through the head, dead before she hits the street.
Snap! The babe in arms, the mother – not a scratch on her.
Snap! An irritating little dog.
My power is supreme.
I have gained so much from this experience, this mystical experience.
I have become a man at one with the verities of life.
Ignore those scum in the mortar mob.
They are mere thugs