Image: Unsplash, downloaded https://unsplash.com/photos/9kbaq1xoIr0 (8.5.2021.)
Bridges, Bombed, Reconstructed
That the enemy walks un-struck
or perhaps that there is no enemy –
no matter how incomprehensible.
That for every one who called it
“our right”, the enemy had one
who joined his line - our lines equal.
That they too went home to soup
and sleepy children.
That their mother, the very same,
sits on a chair at the back of their house,
and if you asked before the judge,
she would not take your side.
That you remember the playground:
one of them, he was in your class –
he was good with marbles.
If we are of the same river, same
muddy banks, same reddening of blood.
That the very best idea we had
turned out to be our worst, and whoever
was watching us did not
hold our hand back.
Interstices
So this is what we do: we find interstices,
diminutive pockets of peace in-between
here and there, tricks of light on the way
to our own destruction.
It is almost how one slows down, avoids
the wasp, the hole and walks in-between
the hammer, pitchfork, whatever form of
death is the current fashion,
Interstices. Not homes unless by home
one means a way-station, an abandoned
wagon where some bad might go down,
sometimes. But without the
Trumpets. A pocket of quiet. No badge.
Although the language seeps its violence
into our homes: peace, a continuation of
hurt, this time by means of
Linguistics, by little tricks of light along
the way from here to there - and we are
to believe that this is it, as we are safely
tucked into our beds
By the benevolent hand of the state.
The Black Lamb & The Robin Cold
I was angry with my brother,
Now my brother is lost.
A little red thing on his vest,
His coat in the branches
Of the old apple tree, flapping.
I dreamed: an invisible worm
Crawled out of his pocket,
His skin an item of clothing
For ghosts, the clear-eyed beast
That inhabits us, moves our hands,
Shoots our pistols at dawn. Mother
Now weeps in the chapel,
The door slammed shut. I was angry
With my brother, now lost.
I remember the green: we played
From rising day to past bedtime.
He will not play. His head
Resting against the apple tree -
When will they come: the prince,
The priest, the king, the lord, to burn
My bad hands in their holy place?
That in death, I may join
My brother lost, and found: the black
Lamb, and the robin, cold.
This poem is an homage to William Blake. It uses language and images from ‘Songs of Innocence’ and ‘Songs of Experience’.
The Wine Bottle
Three men missing from the party –
My brother, one of them.
Tonight is dolled up in dance steps,
Confetti, brass band, bal musette -
We never knew our ladies to be so
Pretty. Talk of coffee. Newsreels
Announce that it will take a year
To have chocolate again, stockings.
Three men missing from the party –
My brother, one of them.
Having liberated ourselves, blown up
Every bridge and railroad, we learn:
All men from here to Petersburg –
Our friends. There are medals, ribbons,
Drum-rolls, fame to collect. A few haircuts
For good measure. The carpenter's sister.
Three men missing from the party –
My brother, one of them.
On with the band. The music loud,
Foreign. Tune of our youth reclaimed,
We tap, we leap our elders into mild
Bewilderment. Boys will be boys,
Girls will be girls. Grinning, waving
Our paper flags makes us heroes.
Three men missing from the party –
My brother, one of them.
On the opposite side of merriments,
Two neighbors have dragged my brother
Away from fireworks, accordions, into
The moonlit quarry where grudges
Dressed as justice are to be solved
With the smash of a bottle on a skull.
The Mulberry Bush
1.
I do not know what it is, the construction
of it. We all live in the shadows of
our fathers’ accomplishments. It is all
stories: who did what, to whom, and
where. Usually, crossroads, a ditch.
2.
We do not talk. Until the third cork is
unscrewed, and then it's all accusations.
Everyone should be made to feel guilty,
about something or other: things done,
things said, not done, not said, things.
3.
If you belong to us, then you must have had
your reasons. We understand. No-one
ever does anything without reasons,
but the others. Over the fence is where
incomprehensible choices are made.
4.
We are taught to live in patience. We wait
for the next turn. That is why I confess:
I do not know what it is, peace. I am
the sum of all things done or not
at crossroads, all things said or not in ditches.
5.
We sing or we do not, but the words are
the same. The words order to stand up
and sharpen grandfather's knife - we do,
because mother says that we must, because
grandmother still wears old hatreds.
I do not know your name, but
I know you would do the same.
About the Author: Lorelei Bacht is a multicultural poet living in Asia. A former political analyst and lobbyist, she has been using poetry to explore the universal, psychological, embodied nature of political violence through history. Her work has appeared / is forthcoming in such publications as The Wondrous Real, Quail Bell, Abridged Magazine, Odd Magazine, Postscript, Strukturriss and Slouching Beast Journal. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer.
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