POETRY

POETRY

THE FALLACY OF WARNINGS

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read1.8K views

For Ashen Venema

 

Walking back to the house from the composter

one late afternoon in early autumn

I looked up, and stopped. There was a roseate,

mackerel sky moving from North East Wales

over the Cheshire Plain towards the Pennines,

and drifting above me. Whatever weather

it presaged, it was ordinarily

lovely, a mundane epiphany.

 

At the kitchen door I turned and there

was a raven on the paving where I had been,

that frequenter of uplands, and slaughter.

I thought of Lawrence and the snake and waited.

The bird was in profile twenty feet away –

immense, and sleek, and dark as anthracite.

 

I saw, beyond the bird, our neighbour’s’ cat

approaching in stalking mode. The raven,

opening its wings unhurriedly,

rose into the sky with its mocking

call like a witch’s laugh.

 

 

 

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POETRY

THE BLACK CARAVAN

David Selzer By David Selzer2 Comments1 min read1.8K views

The front page of Brexit Day’s Forgers’ Gazette

was a photo of the White Cliffs of Dover

with ‘A NEW DAWN FOR BRITAIN’ superimposed

on the blue sky above  – and the sun, by chance,

highlighting the erosion of the chalk,

ephemeral and flaky as metaphor.

 

***

 

After the war, when things were in short supply,

and we had drawing, occasionally,

I drew a layered landscape with wax crayons:

blue sky with bird and cloud, bright green grass,

and high, white cliffs, and a black caravan,

where the stony beach and the chalk bluff met.

I imagined myself inside. My father

was lost in the war, my mother bereft.

I stroked the sugar paper into dreams.

 

***

 

Today, out of a bright sky, a northerly

is rushing, thundering through this copse

of larch and spruce. Among the trees camellias,

with their lustrous leaves, are beginning to bloom,

the colours rich amid the conifers.

The wind, through this stand of evergreens,

is almost louder than the roar of aircraft

overhead, coming into land nearby

with cargoes from France, stockpiling as for war.

 

 

 

 

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POETRY

NEW YEAR, BUDAPEST

David Selzer By David Selzer6 Comments1 min read2.9K views

On one of the corners of St Stephen’s square

is a café, the California

Coffee Company, with cheery slogans,

in English, extolling the benefits

of the bean. A window seat gives a view,

across the square, of the west entrance

to the basilica of Szent Istvan,

its portico embossed in gold with

‘Ego Sum Veritas et Vita’.

 

Our backs to the basilica we walk

down Zyrini Street towards the Danube,

Buda rising high on its western slopes.

As we pass the Cognitive Department

of the Soros-funded University

of Central Europe – which the government

has shut down – three students emerge carrying

a mattress in plastic wrapping, one wearing

a sweatshirt marked ‘#istandwithceu’.

 

On the embankment near the Chain Bridge –

designed and built by British engineers

after the ’48 revolution –

are empty sparkler packets, New Year’s discards.

The gun metal water is fast, turbulent.

Upstream is a row of cast iron boots and shoes.

There, while the Red Army shelled the city,

the Christmas and New Year of ’44/

’45, the Arrow Cross (whose informal

motto was ‘Perseverance’) shot thousands – Jews,

communists, Roma – forcing them to remove

their footwear first, and stand on the embankment’s edge

their backs to the river.

 

 

 

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POETRY

INTERSECTIONS

David Selzer By David Selzer4 Comments1 min read2K views

There is a young woman with a wooden hoop

almost as big as herself – and a small dog

not much bigger than her head – who performs

circus tricks, where Terez Boulevard meets

Andrassy Avenue – named for an Empress

and a Count before old Europe fell apart.

As the three lanes idle at red and the dog

waits on the kerb the girl and the hoop

become an astrolabe, a gyroscope

within the interstices of traffic lights.

When she stills and bows to the varied windscreens

the dog leaps to her shoulder and together –

dancer, dog and hoop – they approach their rewards,

ignoring the anonymous tourists

crossing behind her, as if the corrida

with steel and engines were all. Yesterday,

though a slicing wind from the Danube

kept most windows shut, she gyrated

regardless. Today in snowflakes like

falling stars she spins still.

 

 

 

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David Selzer By David Selzer
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POETRY

THE VIEW FROM THE BASTION

David Selzer By David Selzer3 Comments1 min read1.8K views

With her new camera, a  Christmas present,

and with the intuitive surety,

at not quite nine, of how to make a picture,

she makes a sunlit panorama of Pest

from the Fisherman’s Bastion in Buda –

a Magyar edifice of walls and towers

built in the nineteen hundreds to celebrate

the permanence of the Habsburg Empire.

In a wall’s shadow she shows me the screen,

and what she has angled by chance. I note

the parliament building, the Great Synagogue,

the space where Imry Nagy’s statue was.

 

Beside a bronze equestrian statue

of Stephen the First, between the Bastion

and St Matthias Church, a white tailed eagle

and its handler (dressed for Ruritania)

wait for selfies with passing tourists.

She catches one such from the rear – a man

diminished by the bird perched on his shoulder.

 

 

 

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POETRY

BÖLCS VAR: THE HOUSE OF WISDOM

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

Formerly Buda’s town hall, courthouse, prison

and school, newly refurbished throughout

and re-named The House of Wisdom, it is now

bookshop, café, bistro, conference centre

and an esoteric museum –

in an eclectic city of museums

ranging from Marzipan through to Murder.

The refurbishment finally repaired

all the damage done by stray Red Army

artillery shells, and uncovered stonework –

exhibited behind glass now – not seen

since the Ottoman Empire ruled Hungary.

 

Eschewing the conundrum of hailing a cab –

by law all Budapest taxis are yellow

but not all yellow taxis are legal –

we waited for the bus on Castle Hill

to take us to our Pest apartment hotel,

near where the Nazis walled the Ghetto.

I thought how, unlike the rest of Europe,

the British have no living memories –

vestiges of checkpoints or watchtowers,

grandparents’ anecdotes, camps – of invasion,

occupation, totalitarian rule.

 

That night I dreamt I was five, and in Pest

not in the flat near Golders Green.

There were muffled shouts from the courtyard.

‘They are coming for the Jews.’ When I woke

I saw snow had fallen. On the balcony

a blackbird was hopping, its feet marks

criss-crossed like trellis. The bird looked at the glass,

its yellow beak shining.

 

 

 

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