POETRY

1913

In an art deco theatre on the Avenue Montaigne

off the Champs Élysées – newly built, its exterior

(for style and mechanics in concrete) the interior

(gilt, lead paint and plush) still smelling fresh – there is a riot

on the evening of May 29th at the premiere

of the ballet, ‘The Rite of Spring’, by Igor Stravinsky,

Vaslav Nijinsky and Nicholas Roerich.

 

This is the year the House of Romanov celebrates

its three hundredth anniversary, the year there are two

Balkan Wars, Ford introduces an assembly line,

Pablo Picasso paints his Cubist ‘Guitar, Glass and Bottle’

and the first volume – ‘Swann’s Way’ – is published

of Marcel Proust’s ‘In Search of Lost Time.’

 

Proust and Picasso were in the first night audience – as were

Claude Debussy, Maurice Ravel, Gertrude Stein: luminaries

of a luminous city. The riot began, it is said,

with derisive laughter as the first notes were played.

Vegetables were thrown. The dancers could not hear the orchestra.

Nijinsky, dancer as well as choreographer,

called out the steps. Forty people were ejected – or maybe

no one was. The impresario, Sergei Diaghilev,

was a master of PR, hence, perhaps, the greengrocery.

Modernism in music was so successfully launched

on an eventually calm sea that Walt Disney used

the opening bars in ‘Fantasia’, conveyor belt art

in the year of the Blitzkreig. Yet art’s truth transcends as always.

How such fierce music and brutal dance overtured, by accident,

the sacrificial Eurasian violence of the rest of the century!

 

 

 

AT THE YEAR’S TURNING

I pause at the long window where the stairs turn.

The first hard frost of the season has rimed

the moss on the terrace. A neighbour has thrown,

as she does daily, stale bread on the flat roof

of her garage. Two Jackdaws arrive

then a small flock of Black-headed gulls

in winter plumage. The first comers

are aggressive. The gulls hover, swoop, feint,

feed swiftly, rise, return – like dancers.

(How truly ancient is these animal’s

ancestry! How arriviste we primates are!).

All, even the crows, are utterly silent.

 

I think of last summer: a beach in heat haze

and our three and a half year old grand daughter,

chuckling, chasing, gently, a Black-headed gull –

that had been intent on scavenging

crusts and crisps among the profligate –

then watching it take wing into the mist.

 

By the year’s end, to my unceasing surprise,

we will be seventy one. We have been

together many more years than apart,

so best to assume we will always be here –

and be deaf to the certainty of silence.

 

 

ROBBEN ISLAND


His cell, of course; breaking stones in the yard;

his endurance; his spirit; and his comrades’;

some warders and prisoners living there still,

in harmony, in freedom…

 

and these images:

 

the birds, teeming – African Penguins,

Crowned Cormorants, Cattle Egrets, Sacred Ibis;

 

part of the concrete wall of a cell block

made into a door on rails – ingenious, pointless;

 

Cape Town  and Table Mountain gilded in the soft,

southern sun – a mere seven miles away…

 

 

 

Note: ‘Robben Island’ will be one of the next two stories to be posted in early January on:

SYLVIA SELZER PHOTOGRAPHER/STORYTELLER.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CAMELOT

I started this poem fifty years ago

yesterday – the day JFK was

assassinated. Untypically,

I cannot remember where I was

when I first heard the news. Wherever,

subsequently I tried out lines in my head

as I walked Liverpool’s windy streets.

Not a word of that first attempt survives.

Maybe I have become more skilled or, perhaps,

time has informed both content and style –

or, simply, made the past tractable.

 

On reflection, his murder was a very

modern, democratic even Tinsel Town

affair – dysfunctional shelf stacker

slays serially adulterous,

medicinal dependent president,

whose brains are captured on camera

leaving his shattered skull;

the assassin is shot – also on

camera – by a night club owner, dying

of cancer, in hock to the Cosa Nostra,

and who did it for ‘Jackie’, who returns

to Washington in her splattered pink suit

to ‘show them what they have done.’ Her pronouns

were significant, enigmatic,

accidental. Would he have been great?

Think Cuba, Nam, the Moon…

 

 

 

POW CAMP 57…

…was built on downland beside the golf course

and below detached houses in their own grounds

to house Italians from North Africa

and then, post war, Germans for ‘re-education’,

and, finally, before demolition in

the late ‘50s, homeless British families.

 

A kestrel hovers above the cow parsley.

It stoops, as always unexpectedly,

then rises with a field mouse in its talons

and flies to an oak tree to feed and rest.

In the distance are the towers of Woking

and beyond, in haze, the metropolis.

 

Our granddaughter is oblivious,

scooting on the small, empty car park –

too young and innocent for epiphanies.

 

 

 

THE TROUBLES

The dying corporal was spread eagled

in his underpants, his executioners

and judges – a mob of fathers and sons –

dressed, as he had been, undercover,

in trainers, denims and a sweater.

 

Civil war, for almost a generation,

had burgeoned. Solutions receded. Rights

gained were matched by rights removed: all our freedoms

lessened so neighbours might vote, have jobs,

houses. Things did not make sense, only words.

‘Derry’ was a political statement.

 

Instant demagoguery occupied

newsprint and tv screen with the candour

of hatred and the clichés of righteousness –

“…these people…” Not to understand, only

to condemn, betrayed our humanity.

 

Technologies enhanced, determined

response: the Smith & Wesson, neglected

in the shoebox under the bed, replaced

by coded warnings to tv stations…

The night, which could be anywhere, was on fire.

Unseeing, the parade of errors

swaggered into the dark.