War poetry of our times

Poetry publisher and writer John Davies has one hard and fast rule at Pighog Press: no unsolicited submissions. “I still get four or five a week,” he told the audience at WORDfest’s Open Mic event on Wednesday night.

But the occasion that he broke that rule led to that night’s launch of Antony Owen’s poetry pamphlet, The Dreaded Boy: “I was tipped off by Bernadette Cremin that this poet would be an exception to my rule and when Antony’s work turned up, I read the first two lines and I just knew that she was right.”

Antony Owen’s voice makes an enduring impression: barrel-chested and bell-like, it fills the room like a rising tide. His cross-cultural advocacy for the victims of war underlines the compassion and breadth of his vision: civilian or soldier; woman or man; victim or damaged survivor, he looks them all in the eye, names their suffering and commands our respect.

There are no labels, no icons or symbols and nowhere to hide. Bleak? Yes. Without hope? No. He speaks the truth of a poet’s calling, from a deep, shocking place. He speaks for the unheard, the broken, the dead and departed, whose shadows were cast into history, never to be seen again, but who reappear in his words.

Footnote:

“It’s a wake-up call to my generation,” Antony tells me afterwards, as I struggle to take in what I have just heard. Still dazed, I take a standard trade press book launch photograph, since I had put my camera away during the readings so as not to be a distraction.

Hindsight has 20:20 vision and this morning I have a picture that is at odds with the real message. For the record, here it is, with my thanks to Antony.

Read the poetry: one pound of the fiver cover price goes to the The Karen Woo Foundation.

Hear Antony live: 100% of his energy goes to restoring humanity.

Peter Crosskey