Incense-misted eyes
throats baulked with pride,
scars reddened by droplets
a hand wiping spittle
from the Breviary’s page;
Drought-mouthed elegies
to ribbons burdened
by weights of guilt,
gleaming handle farewells
accompanied by Bach
to the warrior hearts
swollen with longing,
marking time with
the limping clock;
Yearning, yearning
for visions
wrought into maps,
iron-ore mountains
forged into Tanks
and nights of gasoline
when the Sea
of Ages parted
and Schnapps was Wagner
in our heads.
Tears welled in his eyes,
his breast filled with relief,
another young life saved;
his surgical skills
again exonerated,
despite the excruciating cramp
around his fingers and
stiffness in his joints;
Master Surgeon still after
all these very long years,
shuffling down the corridor
eyes wearied by concentration,
flickering billowing gaslight
making it seem darker still;
He had saved a very precious
young life, that knowledge lit
his footsteps the way out,
out into the daylight;
A great doctor who had
fretted and performed
near surgical miracles,
now face to face
with the anxious mother,
“ Is He..? ”
“ He is fine,there are no complications ”
“ when he fell ill,I thought he might die ”
“ no worries now,I’m sure your son will
enjoy a long and happy life ”
“ Thank you Herr Doktor ”
“ Good day, Frau Hitler,”
Faded, forlorn
the banners of our memories
once held high now cast aside,
cast down,
trodden into the dust
by legions of those
who came after in ignorance;
Even the ghosts have departed
this empty husk
of a once was Power
this paralysed parody
of those Sceptered Isles,
that seat of Mars crumbled
overwhelmed by the deluge
that took from our hearts
those Heroes whose deeds
validated all that we stood for;
All that we ever believed in
is now counted as the small-change
amongst market traders
whom we let barter our very souls
for a mess of pottage ;
Whilst entombed in our sonorous sloth ,
they took from us all that had once been
vouchedsafe by Viking ,Saxon ,Norman
for so long so very long an Age;
In our belated awakening
we find ourselves naked,
caught in the glare of a history
which no longer recognises
nor has need of us
in this our unkempt beggarly state,
of which those who once fought for us
would be ashamed
that all their sacrifice
all their pain
had yielded such a paltry gain.
No record was kept of
the name that they
gave to that bird,
vivid yellow and green
welcoming a primeval dawn,
captured on flickering footage
the memory of it kept
alive in black and white;
no-one recalls any longer
how many villagers were
removed from the site of
that first copper mine;
no written record was kept
of their ancient wisdom and
their cosmology long swept away;
sat neatly in rows
they learn anew
from the gaunt apparition
standing in front
of the blackboard,
bespectacled,
collared
and tied.
The great smell of roasted Arabica beans,
the joyous sound of Haydn on the radio,
the grey-green overcoat slung on the rack,
boots dusted down with snow,
shipping office morning;
early yawning,tired greetings,
pages sifted sorted scheduled deliveries,
traffic reports orders from Head Office,
small talk,
family matters,
wallet-sized photographs,
his of Hannah and Gregor
both in Year5 doing well;
an absence of hurrying scurrying down
below in the yards,old hands talking
about the rail no longer punctual;
Daylight passes;
shifts change over
as the train rumbles in,
his thoughts now only of home
and comfort and what presents
to get for Hannah and Gregor;
trudging past big crates
lowered onto the platform,
out of the corner of his eye
he reads their embossed legend,
” Zyklon B “.
Smoke wreathed distant battlements,
skies flecked with irridescent amber,
fluttering banners and icons held aloft;
in the foreground
clad in burnished breastplate,
circumferenced by a scarlet sash
a warrior’s imposing stature unfeigned,
lacking the air of braggadocio
conveyed in earlier portraits,
pensive eyes glower from
the bearded visage
its contours grown greyer;
his right hand grasps the
ostentatiously plumed helmet,
in his gauntless left hand a
crumpled map torn at one corner,
overhead crows circle,
to his right riderless horses
are being led away,
his own steed lost amidst
the onslaught that some would
of necessity deem glorious,
lest they unlike the artist
cause posterity to question.
Shall I write a poem today?
the tall wire fence is gone,
if I did, what would you say?
the railway tracks are rusted,
the watchtowers have fallen;
what if my inspiration should fail
and words escape me?
the names of their Captains
lie in unmarked graves,
the records of their triumphs have been erased;
how then should I complete my task?
demand History exonerates me
or merely to ask?
It wasn’t any power you wielded
that made them afraid ,
it wasn’t your persuasive argument
which they couldn’t counter ,
it wasn’t the numbers following you
that caused them sleepless nights ,
it was the thought
which lingered in their minds
that they were doing wrong
and were bound to fail ;
and of all the people they could think of ,
who they didn’t want around afterwards
giving a witness statement ,
it was you.
Footnotes:-
Who stands firm? Only the one for whom the final standard is not his reason, his principles, his conscience, his freedom, his virtue, but who is ready to sacrifice all these, when in faith and sole allegiance to God he is called to obedient and responsible action: the responsible person, whose life will be nothing but an answer to God’s question and call.
— Dietrich Bonhoeffer ( 1906 – 1945 )
Protestant theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer stands out among the Christian leaders during the Nazi era, for he was one of the few to actively resist the racist actions of the Nazi regime. In addition to his legacy of courageous opposition to Nazism, Bonhoeffer’s theological writings are still widely read in Christian communities throughout the world.
Ancient timbers
cry out mutely
with their ancient voices ,
re-telling tales of earth
and of fire and of water ;
Their hand hewn craft
emissaries of the Fire
that sped long ago
southward and westward
carrying the Will to wield
without mercy the visceral
vengeful terror of Ages ;
Slaking the insatiable thirst
of mysterious deities
who supped on earth
the fire and the water ,
amid cacophonies of ancient oaths
in the re-telling of tales
whose ancient voices
cry out mutely
amid the ancient timbers.
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