POETRY

INTO MY HEART

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read2.1K views

In a little less than two hour’s drive from here

I could be motoring through A.E. Housman’s

‘land of lost content’. Softly playing

on the radio is George Butterworth’s

A minor Rhapsody A Shropshire Lad,

its pianissimo opening chords

evoking Housman’s ‘blue remembered hills’.

 

From his boyhood home near Bromsgrove,

the poet could see the summit of Brown Clee Hill –

above the smoke of Kidderminster

that lies in-between. The opening line

of the first poem in A Shropshire Lad

begins ‘From Clee to heaven the beacon burns’.

 

I am not sure whether it is harmonies

like Butterworth’s and Ralph Vaughan Williams’,

and cadences like those of Housman and

Edward Thomas, that conjure for me,

immediately and movingly,

a prelapsarian England in which

my ancestors had no part, a country

that exists as if the Western Front’s

criminality – which murdered both

Butterworth and Thomas – had never been,

or whether what summons such nostalgia

is merely that sense of loss I feel about

my own life’s absences.

 

 

PLANETARY ALIGNMENTS

Against a greyish backdrop of an entire

block of concrete apartments in Gaza –

hapazardly demolished by aerial

and/or artillery and/or tank

bombardments – a photograph in Haaretz

shows a group of ten female soldiers

in olive green posing relaxedly

for a selfie. I do not know their names.

They are somebody’s daughters, who, no doubt,

would consider themselves and probably are

generally decent, and well meaning.

 

In another Haaretz photograph,

about an hour and half away by car – the time

it would take me to drive from here to Blackpool –

is a ten year old West Bank boy called Amro,

a name which means ‘To Live a Long Time’.

He has a serious look on his face

as he poses for the camera.

He is holding up a flannelgraph version

of the Solar System, which he has made.

 

I do not know what has become of the young women

posing like tourists among the ruins.

 

Sitting on the family car’s front seat

with his dad and his seven year old brother,

Amro – for no apparent reason, by design

or accident – was shot in the head,

and died. The bullet was fired by a young man

in a purpose-built concrete watch tower.

 

 

Note: Here are the links to the two photographs described in the poem and published in Haaretz on 20.3.24 & 16.3.24 respectively –

 

https://img.haarets.co.il/bs/0000018e-5d2a-d4b2-afcf-dfbe35cd0001/83/0a/07a1ddba4a94a9bc052eaacac8e1/033102.jpg?height=488&width=840

 

https://img.haarets.co.il/bs/0000018e-4466-d1ed-a7ef-55772e9c0000/ea/b3/bca7876c40a1a4f00e71ffc9afd3/55974219.JPG?height=960&width=960

 

SATURN’S CHILDREN

David Selzer By David Selzer2 Comments1 min read1.6K views

For Elise Oliver

 

A nine year old girl somewhere far to the south

or south east of here, somewhere beneath

an African or an Asian sun,

is making bricks – packing clay into moulds,

all day, day after day. In her teens

she may bear children who luckily may live

long enough to also make bricks in the sun –

and may also officially exist.

She does not. Hers was one of tens of millions

of unregistered births, phantom boys and girls,

marked out for the very worst of wrongs

our ingenious species can commit.

We in the North and the West – with our

insatiate, unappeaseable consumption

of the earth itself – are not only

colonising the planet’s future,

but are devouring it.

 

 

PRINSENGRACHT 263

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.7K views

We ambled beside the Prinsengracht canal,

and, whisperingly, noted the contents

of each houseboat. On the top of one,

part hidden by potted ferns, a heron stood.

The black iris of its yellow eye seemed

focussed on us. As we walked to the next bridge

we heard the rush of its wings , and turned

to see it rise towards the Westerkerk

then beat slowly seawards. The North Sea,

twice each day, flows into the Amstel

and through the canals, like blood and breathing.

 

The church clock chimed the hour – bells Anne Frank heard

beyond counting. We showed our timed ticket.

The waiting area, on the ground floor

next to Otto Frank’s pectin warehouse,

was full, tumultuous, a veritable

Babel. People were sitting on the stairs,

loud with expectation, apprehension.

The bookcase was opened – the silence

immediate, profound.

 

 

GUBBIO

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.6K views

These ancient hill towns were built for defence.

Old houses in this one have two entrances

side by side: one wide for friends, one narrow

for foes – la porta dei morti.

 

A platoon of the retreating Wehrmacht

stopped here to murder forty partisans

at the bottom of the town by the high road,

in the square where the tourist buses turn –

Piazza dei Martiri Quaranti.

 

Though this is Umbria and February

is mild, wood smoke seasoning the windless air,

the cold in the Duomo is wintry still,

its paving chilling the bones of our feet.

Hanging above the ornate stone altar

is a wood carving of Christ crucified.

We emerge into brightness, and imagine,

in the eastern haze, the Adriatic.

 

 

 

MEDITATIONS

David Selzer By David Selzer3 Comments3 min read2.4K views

The Third Man…a revelation…’

Martin Scorsese, THE INDEPENDENT, 2015

 

There is no mention in Graham Greene’s novella

The Third Man, or in his screenplay, or even

the shooting script, of Café Marc Aurel –

to which, in the movie, Joseph Cotten

aka Holly Martins, writer of Westerns,

has lured his friend Orson Welles aka

Harry Lime, racketeer, only to be

thwarted by Allida Valli aka

Anna Schimdt, actress at the Josefstadt

Theater, and Harry Lime’s faithful lover.

 

***

 

On a rainy day trip to old Vienna,

knowing the Café did not exist

and never did, we were determined

to see the extant Weiner Riesenrad,

from whose brief circular zenith Orson Welles

meditated on the human condition,

democracy, and Swiss-made cuckoo clocks.

 

So who better to ask for directions

among the shopping crowds on Kaernterstrasse

than two young men in smart-casual attire

manning a stall promoting the Marcus

Aurelius Foundation, whose mission is

‘to support young people to live a life of

clarity and purpose’ through Stoicism.

Where else than the city of Freud and Mahler

to learn how to live with the fear of death!

 

***

 

Marcus Aurelius – sixteenth Emperor

of Rome and last of the Pax Romana –

is most famous now for his Meditations,

a collection of his stoical

aphorisms, two of which are as follows:

‘We love ourselves more than other people,

yet care more about their opinion

than our own…’ – and ‘If it is not right do not

do it; if it is not true do not say it…’

 

The Emperor while campaigning against

the Germanic Tribes died, allegedly,

in Vindobona, present day Vienna.

Some say he had just inscribed

the following: ‘Act as if every

action is the last action of your life’.

 

***

 

The Café’s name is secure in black and white

celluloid above a shop front

in a partially bombed square

just round the corner from Marc-Aurel-Strasse:

the interior lit from a distance

to look like a café – though the action

was filmed at Elstree Studios, Borehamwood,

London. The film unit on the spot

must have decided the place needed a name

so perhaps Greene, the ever ironic

Balliol history graduate, suggested

Marcus Aurelius – and Carol Reed,

the director, chose the shortened version

to fit. Did Greene mention that the emperor

most probably died somewhere else,

namely Sirmium, one of the oldest

cities in Europe, and birthplace of ten

Roman emperors, now present day

Sremska Mitrovica in Serbia?

Both Harry and Marcus elusive in death?

 

***

 

The Emperor was cremated and deified.

In Rome’s Piazza Colonna – off

the Via Del Corso, where the Jews

were paraded and mocked each Mardi Gras –

is a column commemorating

the Emperor’s victories in battle

(though not, of course, his Meditations),

probably begun in his lifetime.

When Christianity prevailed his statue

topping it was replaced by one of St Paul

aka Saul of Tarsus, Anatolia –

now present day Turkey – the city

where Mark Antony first met Cleopatra.

 

***

 

In the movie, whose constant backdrop

are the literal ruins of bombed Vienna,

with the four Occupying Powers – Britain,

France, Russia, and the USA – playing

a key role in the story as both

dei and diaboli ex machina,

nobody ever asks where the Jews have gone.