Ramadan
Colleagues munching bap and burger
thought Ramadan was that juicy winger,
his scorching pace soon snaffled up by City.
Giving stuff up, they say, is murder –
and two weeks into Lent they bring a
secret snack to work through sheer self-pity.
A new year, and my next door neighbour
vows to refrain from cakes and ale,
aiming to be a size twelve by the summer.
Abstention is an earnest labour –
but she is tempted, bound to fail –
so frankly, resolutions are a bummer.
The barbecues are smeared with ash
and fat hands drip with ketchup sauce –
yet times are hard, and cannot get much tougher.
So many people, strapped for cash,
attempt to change their usual course –
all budgeting with care, prepared to suffer.
They feel so good about themselves
but still bemoan what they have lost:
their stomachs fill with hunger and with fear.
And when they view their empty shelves,
they feel the pain, they count the cost,
and wonder why I do this every year.
But this is jahada: desire’s defeat
through self-denial, a cleansing rite –
a noble cause; no hatred-fuelled slaughter
But standing with you in the heat,
to give my heart and find the light,
and let you drink my final drop of water.
Jeff Gallagher lives in Sussex. His poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Rialto, Acumen, New Critique, Cannon’s Mouth and High Window. He also featured (briefly) in an Oscar-winning movie.