The splendour of the human heart in journalists
by Abigail George
For Ken Oosterbroek, Kevin Carter who died too young and wives who never forgot.
Her body feels like ice; winter settling in a river,
The war zones in Africa a prize for a journalist,
Time traveller, star survivor taught never to let go
Of the picture; no flawless double writing to reach you.
Splendour comes in, not estranged, pure, fearless,
Surrendered, not volunteered, a happy weight,
When launched perfectly inspired, coming up for air,
Never unnecessary, never questioning what people do.
Hot, smoking, mouth like silk, words like his boots
Chilling, elegant, dressed and wrapped like
His silhouette in black camouflage, leaving her
Like a date with imagined tears behind her eyes
At the end of the night, the party or the necessary
Educated surprise – how dangerous history is; blind
To the sacred union between a wife and husband,
Their genes and spirit and a layered birthday cake.
Television, the origin of invasion, of home, the atom
Can only imitate the greatest love stories ever told
In every universe, every nation, every digital destination
Between two gentle bodies hurtling through space
That couldn’t stand the thin rain, the cold-blooded nature
Of man illuminated in his haunted heart, his healing wounds
Even in video human beings are meant to make mistakes,
Every heartbeat feels like velvet, every casualty a shooting flower.