POETRY

ONE WEEK IN JUNE: FOUR PHOTOGRAPHS

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read6.1K views

 

News agency photographs are frequently,

by chance, unacknowledged legislators.

 

In the first – singly or in family groups,

some on foot, others in donkey carts –

displaced people are travelling north

along the shoreline. To their right, our left,

is a bombed-out multi-storey apartment block.

Beyond, seawards, are what might be tents.

In the far distance are the tall white chimneys

of the coal-fired power station in Ashkelon.

 

In the second photograph five children

are playing on the beach building sand castles –

two young boys, two young girls, and an older girl.

Behind them, perhaps fifty yards away,

is the Al-Baqa Internet Café.

 

The third is taken from the Israeli side

of the border fence – two rows of razor wire.

Beyond them are hectares of building rubble.

 

In the foreground of the fourth, two young men

are carrying humanitarian aid –

one in a wheelbarrow, the other

in his arms – from a UN centre

in Bureij refugee camp, which was

established in 1949.

 

Since the photographs were taken – not quite

two months ago – a 500 lb bomb

has been dropped on the cybercafé,

and ninety two children have been starved to death.

 

 

IF I FORGET THEE

Some time between March 1942

and June 1943 a farmer –

working a field beside the railway

from Kracow to the extermination camp

at Belzec – finds a manuscript. He guesses

that it has been thrown from one of the trains,

and, knowing who would be travelling

in the cattle trucks, guesses that the language

the manuscript is written in is Hebrew.

 

There is a covering note in Polish:

‘Pious soul, this is a man’s life’s work.

Give into good hands’. He keeps it hidden

until the war is over. In June

1945 he travels to Warsaw, through the chaos,

thinking that if there were any Jews left

in Poland they would be there – and he might

find the good hands the stranger asked for.

 

One of the few buildings still intact

in the city is Hotel Polonia,

where the British Embassy is based.

The farmer waits in the busy foyer.

Eventually he sees two young men

who look Jewish, and approaches them.

 

One of the men – Rafael Scharf – is a sergeant

in the British Army’s Intelligence Corps.

He was in Norway interviewing

German POWs when he learned

that his mother is still alive in Krakow.

He is blagging his way across Northern Europe

in a jeep to rescue her and has stopped

at the Embassy for more petrol coupons.

The other young man is an old school friend,

returned from Palestine to search for

any surviving family members.

 

‘You are Jews?’ the farmer asks in Polish.

‘Indeed we are!’ reply the two young men.

He gives them the manuscript, pages

in fading ink from an exercise book.

They instantly recognise the writing.

It is their Hebrew teacher’s, Ben-zion

Rappaport: much respected, admired, loved.

 

The book – its English title ‘Nature

and Spirit’- is a collection of

essays: Rappaport’s views on Hegel, Kant,

Schopenhauer, scientific method, ethics,

and religion. His two ex-students

in time find a publisher in Israel.

 

Scharf told the story: ‘The pity, horror

and the irony of it all’. Though he was,

like so many exiles, a remembrancer,

he did not mention the farmer’s name.

 

 

 

THE CUP AND SAUCER

For Christopher and Jane Ireland

 

When my cousin and I actually meet

after fifty years and eighteen thousand miles

apart, we exchange gifts – objects that had once

belonged to our respective fathers, objects

that somehow, as things sometimes do,

had strayed across continents and oceans:

his father’s – five Oxford Pocket Classics;

mine – a first birthday gift, a small, engraved

silver cup and saucer made in Birmingham.

 

Our fathers – brothers-in-law – never met.

They were more or less the same age. His died

in old age; mine, in his twenties, from sepsis.

I never met my father. One Boxing Day

his father took me to a rugby match.

 

Life per se has no purpose, much less meaning –

only love, memories, trivia:

like holding this untarnished cup and saucer

in the palm of my hand.

 

 

ON THE BEACH

David Selzer By David Selzer3 Comments1 min read6.4K views

The top of the hour, and the front-page next day

of the regional news, featured the traffic

jammed from the car park near the beach, along

the forest road, past the site of the royal court

exiled by the English invaders,

past the public toilets, then into

the village of Newborough itself

(named and founded by the invaders);

and many miles either side of the village

on the only main road in that part

of the island of Ynys Môn (‘Anglesey’

in the language of the occupiers).

 

Influencers on TikTok and Instagram

had videoed themselves extolling

the solitary beauty of Traeth Llandwyn

(Newborough Beach), and so, that August day,

legions had come seeking something special – but saw

only somebody else’s exhaust fumes.

I felt a brief spasm of schadenfreude

remembering another August day.

 

Then there was no sign on the main road

or in Newborough village for the beach,

and the road through the forest was a track

among sand hills planted with pine saplings.

Except for us the beach was deserted,

a secret only lovers had discovered.

Its sands – edged landward by high dunes sprouting

marram grass – extended for miles, were littered

with sea wrack and oyster shells, with razor clams

and bleached driftwood. Seaward a flock of gulls

was slowly, silently crossing the still bay.

On the distant shore a range of mountains

stretched to the horizon.

 

 

 

 

FLYPAST

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read4.2K views

Though mostly obscured by the rocky headland

at the mouth of the inlet, the piping

whistles of a small flock of oyster catchers

could be heard throughout the day, and most

of each evening too. One late afternoon

a trio of these stocky birds with their

slightly fussy call flew in formation past

our balcony piping away – on show

red beaks, pink feet, white rumps. And I thought

how seldom things rhyme in our dissonant

world, and that – to roughly paraphrase

Aristotle – coincidences merely

are accidents that rhyme.

 

 

 

 

AURORA BOREALIS: METAPHOR AND ORDER

In the night sky, beyond the promontory

to the north, there is a faint glow that is not

moonlight, and is rare at this latitude.

The iPhone shows the shifting colours the eye

cannot see tonight – red, green, violet;

bits of the sun borne on the solar wind,

caught in the earth’s electro-magnetic

net, that keeps us, chance inhabitants

of a chance planet, safe from the hot hale.

Long, long before the rules of chemistry

and physics, there was order through metaphor:

the Goddess of the Dawn and the God

of the North cavorting…