POETRY

SIX VARIATIONS ON A THEME

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment2 min read480 views

The torturers go home for supper,

and look quietly in on their children sleeping.

The torturers’ boss is still at work

in his well-lit, air conditioned office.

A master of capital letters

and clichés, he is drafting a speech.

He will mention Liberty and Peace,

in addition to Duty, Freedom and God.

 

***

 

There is no price tag on Liberty and Peace.

More than a hundred little girls, in perhaps

less than half a minute, were murdered

by two cruise missiles, each one of which

will have cost many times more to build

than the school in which the children were slaughtered.

 

***

 

To reach the border and the famed lakes beyond

tourists must drive through forests of dense pine

and oak and beech, past red ringed signs warning

of wild boars and bears, and finally

through a ruined village – at one end

a burnt out mosque, the other a church.

 

***

 

A shepherd watching his flock on scrubland

his family have owned for generations

is shot to death by a young man of his own age

whose great grandparents were gassed to death.

‘Vengeance is mine!’ declares the shared god.

 

***

 

A consultant to arms manufacturers –

dutifully inspired undoubtedly

by the man with the rictus grin, gleaming teeth,

dead eyes, and money in many banks,

who always assumes that  someone else’s

relative and loved one will die for him –

the retired general with the port wine face,

speaking to camera in his book-lined study,

tells us that much, much less must be spent

on the poor, the elderly, the disabled,

in short, the vulnerable so that we will have

enough guns for when the Russians come

in five years’ time. In the studio

the presenter and the panel of experts nod

sagely, and ask for no evidence.

Meanwhile, each month on the Ukrainian steppe

and in its forests a small town’s worth

of Russian soldiers die like their ancestors.

 

***

 

And this might be the way the world ends,

not with the Four Horsemen or the Rapture, but

with TV networks fixing cameras

at certain locations to live stream

whatever may occur and whenever –

currently, places like the ruins

of Gaza City, the more or less intact

southern suburbs of Beirut, Tel Aviv’s

presently pristine city centre,

and an oil terminal in the Persian Gulf –

in readiness for Armageddon.

 

 

THE A WORD: THE FEAR THAT DARE NOT SPEAK ITS NAME

Logophobia is, of course, merely one

of many morbid dreads but the fear of words

or, rather, one in particular

seems like an epidemic currently

in the chancelleries and newsrooms

of the Global North, rendering the patients,

at best, silent, about the destruction

of two nations – one from without, one

from within, one becoming a pariah,

and receiver of bushels of stolen wheat,

one an object of universal pity,

where some are starving, plagued by rats and fleas

–  and, at worst, being actively complicit

in self-righteous exceptionalism,

in extravagant conspiracies,

in multiple crimes against humanity.

 

Unlike the H word, for example,

‘Hypocritical’, or the M word,

‘Mendacious’, or even the I word

‘Islamaphobic’, or the U word

‘UnChristian’, it is the modern version

of the public shame of being branded

with a scarlet letter A, the new version

of the career-ending terror of being

labelled a Commie, the fear of being called

‘Antisemitic’.

 

 

POSTCARDS FROM BABYLON  

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read480 views

Here are postcards from captivity, written

in a childlike hand in Arabic,

Albanian, Igbo, Pashtu, Urdu,

Masalit, Yoruba, French, English…

 

Dear Mr People Smuggler, You lured me

across a dangerous sea with the promise

of Mickey Mouse and all my favourites

on the walls of the detention centre

where I am now. They have been painted over.

PS I know they were here. If I squint

I can just see some of Donald Duck’s beak…

 

Dear King Charles, I know you are an artist.

Please come here and repaint Mickey Mouse

when you have a moment in your busy

opening of flower shows and other things.

Thank you, Your Majesty. PS Someone here

has told me that, though you are Head of State,

you have no power. I cannot believe this.

I know you are a very, very rich man…

 

Dear God, On the television that plays

all day with no sound or subtitles high up

in the empty recreation room,

was a map of this country with dots

and photos of children my age with rickets.

How can this be here? PS Please send Angels

to bring Mickey and the others back to life…

 

 

 

PER ARDUA

First a Lancaster trundled its thunder,

then a Spitfire, in Battle of Britain

livery, looped-the-loop and victory-rolled

above the sunlit bay. On the promenade

many were waving Ukrainian flags.

 

An overweight mother of four – each small child

with her eyes – pushed a pallid young man,

the children’s father, in a wheelchair smoking.

They lived in one room in a defunct, backstreet

B&B, and had come for a free outing.

They stopped for an impromptu,

lingering group hug – but parted suddenly

as the Red Arrows exploded over the town,

their relentless roar filling the bay,

transfixing all of us, cynics and cultists,

with their aeronautical bread and circus.

‘Those who are about to die salute thee.’

 

Out, beyond the bay, one February night,

a family, coming for a better life,

their frail craft swamped by the incoming tide,

were all lost.

 

 

 

 

CHANCE INTIMATIONS

Rain is crossing the estuary from the west

in impenetrable shrouds of grey.

Not far from the old quay, against dark reeds,

a Great Egret is poised – its whiteness statuesque,

its yellow beak ominously bright in the gloom.

 

As we leave for home in a stygian downpour,

windscreen wipers keeping time, the bird,

which we first saw on the Nile, and now here

near the Irish Sea, is still luminous.

 

How far we have travelled in thirty years –

some of us on wingbeats across seas;

some of us mostly in our heads and hearts!

 

As I write a Wood Pigeon is fluting

in the chimney – its short, sad roundelay

wistful, hinting at at least one more spring.

 

 

 

A SOUVENIR

On one of Mazzaro’s gritty beaches

a cable car below Taormina,

I found a piece of Etna’s lava

the size of a goujon, a sinker,

a bobbin, smoothed only a little

by modest Mediterranean tides;

fetching five euros in the tourist shops but

unseen by the landlords of expensive

loungers and umbrellas, by Russian tourists,

Thai masseuses, Indian peddlers. No doubt

geologists could date it exactly

but I prefer the inexactitudes

of possibilities. Perhaps it was spewed

when the city walls of Catania

diverted the flow into the harbour

or when the Carthaginians were thwarted

from capturing Syracuse, or when Aeneas,

in his wanderings, approached Sicily.

 

Dark grey pumice, heavy, pockmarked like

moon craters, still smelling distantly

of the sea, it rests on a mantelpiece

next to a bit of driftwood slight as balsam,

shaped like a small fish, found on Deganwy beach

by Afon Conwy – stolen goods, contraband,

freighted with histories.