Elaine Feinstein’s latest book, The Clinic, Memory: New and Selected Poems (Carcanet, £14.99), offers rich insights into this distinguished writer’s world and preoccupations.

One of her recent poems, below, tackles with typical humanity, and historical parallels, the current refugee problem  in Europe.

THE NEWS CHANNEL

Shall we listen to the news?

~

In the little streets which smell of chocolate

round the Golden Square in Brussels

there are armed police

What news.  There is no news.

~

Once I inherited fear in the stories of

borders and slippery mud on river banks,

bribes and guards and angry dogs.

~

Now we watch on household screens

as fences of razor wire cross

quiet European fields.

~

When my grandfather spoke of Odessa

He remembered the music in street cafes,

Acacia trees, and summertime on Deribasovskaya.

~

In tents across Europe now they remember Syria:

The ancient stone, the grand restaurants.

~

My grandfather did not want to serve

in the hated Tsar’s army – these men too

are sick of a long war and carry children

~

but we are afraid of them

because they are numerous.

~

What news.   There is no news.