A Philippic Against the Social Obsession with Guns
By Hill Roberts
Guns. What exactly are they for? Why are so many in this world obsessed with weapons? Are we to believe that they are of so great a benefit to us and everyone that every Timmy, Dicky and Hairy must have at least one gun? I have no dislike for guns. It is those people who use guns to hurt, maim or kill that make me angry. As for gun control, this is a debate that will have no end. No matter how we shout to ban guns or other arsenal, they will be around and no amount of rules and regulations and laws would prevent “those others” to acquire them by any means available, legally or illegally. I, myself, do not believe that banning guns would solve the enormity of the problems that beset every village, town, city. This is a sad fact but it must be accepted by us.
Five days ago, in Cumbria, England, twelve people were gunned down and twenty-five others hurt and were in critical condition. I know this place so well since this is where my husband was born. I have driven the length and breadth of the beautiful countryside, breathtaking and idyllic in the best of times. The massacre that happened truly upset my husband that he even sent e-mails to Skynews just to let them know how angry he was at the propensity of the man who gunned down people he knew and those he shot, pointblank, in cold blood. The police officers there are now recipients of insults and anger, for their total lack of training and knowledge how to handle such an incident of this magnitude.
I was in Washington, D.C. in August 2000 to compete at the annual International Society of Poets. The letter specified that I was “Nominated Poet of the Year,” so after clearing it with my husband, he agreed that I should go and participate. I was told there were between five thousand and seven thousand participants from five continents, one of the biggest contingent of poets gathered in one place. I prepared all my poems and decided that I’d first read my poem about those two teenagers who killed their classmates and teachers in a small town in Jonesboro, Arkansas, USA, on 25th March 1998. I wrote “The Virgins of Arkansas” soon after the massacre happened. In those days, it wasn’t common for school kids to shoot their fellow classmates, so that when this slaughter did happen, the world sat up and took notice. Copycats followed after this tragic event, of course, and a long list of random shootings in the States and other parts of the world became a “normal event.” I know it sounds horrid to say it in a matter-of-fact way, but it is indeed realistic to say so, in this regard.
So, on my first full day in Washington, I chose, for the first round of competition, “The Virgins of Arkansas.” Of course, the majority of the American poets listening to it sat there, coldly, nonchalantly, with their blank stares, stubbornly denying the tragic event that had happened in Arkansas. When the second voting came, I didn’t even finish in the top five, ha! ha! ha! Still, I told myself, there will be two more days to compete and who knows?
Here is the unabridged version of my poem, written in 1998...
The Virgins of Arkansas
In one fell swoop, they lay bloodied.
A terrible clean swipe from two angry buddies.
Hundreds of rounds of ammunitions and guns
camouflage gear contemplating more rounds;
A simple fire alarm triggered them to gather,
as school children assembled unaware of the bother,
Golden and Johnson spraying them with calm,
Targeting pretty girls, their teacher’s protecting arm;
Amidst all the chaos, the stillness of the playground,
Two young teenage boys effectively mount,
Planning and toying with a horrendous, unexplained idea,
To kill and kill with profound panacea;
The shrill, the endless screams, the sight of the fallen,
Young girls grapple to save the helpless and sullen,
As these two boys emerge triumphant in their cause,
The bushes behind them begin counting the loss;
The culture of guns, that culture they behold,
Happening so often it’s hard to get bold,
Awful they may seem this accepting citizenry,
Protecting them from patches of harm and endless bully;
Oh, God! those kids, their gentle loving faces,
Disturbed by the sound, a killing bunch of loonies,
Slighted and feeling jilted, young romance eases love,
Humbled and rejected they come back with avenging wallop;
Whose right is it to make these guns laws?
Whose right is it to accept and wallow?
What every citizen needs forestalling a dream,
Is protecting oneself good enough to make a team?
Lobbyists, pray tell, how can one really grasp
the idea that guns are OK, not easy to scrap?
“It is our fundamental right to protect ourselves...”
Is it also right to impress themselves?
No shock, no grit, no amount of pathetic yelling,
It supposes understanding but not its fervent coming,
Can anyone believe a gun can solve and defend
when outrageous silly buggers aim to offend?
Those ways routine, en route to continue,
The savagery, the pain, a quiet retinue,
If hatred unmasks, embroilment its whim,
Tearing fears, all told, no Hollywood can trim;
America, America, you claim to be so sane.
Those goons, those guns, an armoury so vain.
How innocent those lives, blazing firearms uphold,
The virgins of small towns self-inflicting and cold.
This poem can also be found on page 89 of Enchanted Dreams, The Anthology of Poems, The Poetry Guild, 1998. It won the Editor’s Choice Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry, which was presented by the International Library of Poetry in 1999. It was also published in Woodland Echoes, Howard Ely, Managing Editor, The International Library of Poetry.
