Poem | |
I can clearly sense your utter despair of Der Matratzengruft*
As you valiantly carried on your poetic works to the very end.
This did not change your literary accomplishments well-known,
And your courage through the misery and morphine* is undeniable.
Your lyrical poetry speaks volumes among all of German literature,
And it was most marvelously set to music by the likes of Schumann,
Schubert, Silcher, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Strauss—to name a few.
Their melodic tones as applied to your verses then, now live on forever!
Your role in and principal contributions to Romanticism fall in line
With the highest quality of your poetic language and its intention.
Your role in battling early nineteenth-century censorship in Prussia set
You out front of many of your contemporaries who resisted much less.
It’s so tragic Herr Heine that your literary resistance so prominent in
Challenging Prussian censorship would make you ever so more noted,
And besmirched as the Nazis in 1933 burned your books and those of
Other German scholars as a reflection of their insane and twisted beliefs!
It’s with great irony indeed that the banning and burning of your works by
The Nazis was parodied further by them as they ignobly quoted and used
Your famous line from “Almansor,”* when you likened that “where books
Are burned, in the end people will be burned too.” We know what they did!
And so, with both honor and sadness I do understand the very cry of lament
From the confines of your mattress-grave about your final exquisite poetry,
Written through writhing pain and tears as you faced the end of your life.
It took great courage to face your end like this while staying true to your Muse!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 15, 2014)
(Narrative Quatrain poetic format)
*Der Matratzengruft from the German means “The Mattress-Grave.”
(Heinrich Heine was confined to his bed, his “mattress-grave,” in 1848
with various illnesses until his eventual death eight years later in 1856.)
*Heine poetically referred to his pain predicament in the poem “Morphine,”
written near the end of his life, when he noted in two famous verses:
“Gut is der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich / Das beste waere, nie
Geboren sein.” (In English: “Sleep is good, Death is better—of course, /
Best of all would be never to have been born.”)
*Almansor was a play written by Heine in 1821 that had a most famous
line in German: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Buecher verbrennt,
verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (Rendered in English: “That was
but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as
well.”) The significance here is that as the Nazis burned the books of Heine
and other German artists on the Opernplatz in Berlin in 1933, they actually
celebrated this event by “engraving” Heine’s famous words from “Almansor”
in the ground at the Opernplatz site. The obvious depravity of this terrible
event reflects the innate cruelty, stupidity and evil of the Nazis as they
burned the books and defiled the names and reputations of Heine and other
famous German writers. Their actions were monstrous and shameful, and
were indicative of mankind’s base instincts at their very worst. Moreover,
despite converting to Protestantism from Judaism in 1825, Heine’s Jewish
origins played a continuing presence in his life and were one of the major
factors for his being scapegoated by the Nazis later in 1933. And besides,
the Nazis were always more interested in burning books, rather than
Poem | |
Die Scherben des Lebens lassen sich nicht kitten. (German)
The shards of the life cannot be cemented. (English)
Los fragmentos de la vida no se puede enmasillar. (Spanish)
Les éclats de vie ne peu pas être à nouveau ensemble. (French)
I frammenti di vita non può essere di nuovo insieme . (Italian)
Die skerwe van die lewe kan nie weer saam wees. (Afrikaans)
Ang mga tipak ng buhay ay hindi maaaring simentuhin. (Tagalog)
Cioburile vietii nu pot fi cimentat. (Romanian)
Poem | |
When Hell Froze Over
Trees shed their leaves,
the worms dig in deeper
Mothers cry and grieve
woman is the best weeper
Cold blasting each night,
birds froze on the ground
Sad hell was the fight
no hope was ever found
Winter ate their souls,
the keepers of evil hearts
Soldiers fought epic goals
the dead filled the carts
War or cold killed more,
dead is dead, hope gone
Wasted prayers to implore
heroes frozen all alone
Trail, path frozen dead,
winter sent home too soon
asleep but not in a bed
never to sing another tune
Retreat frenchmen knew well,
as their army frozen there
Now germans found this hell
in the frozen land of the bear!
Robert J.Lindley, 09-20-2014
Hitler's armies were frozen out just as were Napoleon's in the previous century. Russian winter was an enemy that killed mercilessly.The winter of 1941-42 was one of the worst in recorded history. Daily temperatures fell to 40 degrees below zero. German soldiers had not been issued with warm winter clothing as Hitler believed that the invasion would be over by the winter. Soldiers froze to death in their sleep,
diesel froze in fuel tanks and food was in very short supply. Russian soldiers had been issued with winter clothing and did not suffer as badly as their German enemies....
Poem | |
Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s grimy fingerprints on current history
are for him nothing to gloat about—au contraire I say emphatically:
His actions bespeak one who’s not an architect for peace—not at all,
rather a quite deceitful dictator and a harbinger of a Second Cold War.
King Vlad’s old Soviet-style actions are clear for all who care to see,
and make no mistake about it—he’s without remorse and a soul to boot.
The real picture he portrays in world politics is of a “Master of Malarkey,”
and an “International Bamboozler Supreme,” with not one iota of conscience.
King Vlad has risked a Second Cold War with his violation of international
law concerning the blatant, illegal annexation of the Crimean peninsula.
With his brand of new style Soviet adventurism on the march, the Old
Soviet Bear has been resurrected anew—and it’s hot on the prowl again!
King Vlad’s new found spirit of nationalism for Russia is not at all progressive
as evidenced by his ongoing war on certain ethnic minorities—Jews, Tartars,
Armenians, Gypsies—to include anyone who chooses to resist and protest
against his dark new age fanaticism rebranded anew in the twenty-first century.
King Vlad’s lineage to and proclivity for the old Soviet Union and its dubious
cast of some past gangster luminaries: Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev
and Andropov—to name a few, is quite telling since it gives us a deeper view
of the real nature of his psyche and the tragedy he brings now to the world stage.
And lest we forget—the ghosts and innocent souls of the murdered passengers from
flight MH17 in eastern Ukraine cry out, as do their families, for justice against this
vile international thuggery and hooliganism perpetrated by King Vlad in support
of certain proxy groups that do his evil biddings soaked in lies, treachery, and deceit.
King Vlad takes distinct pleasure in fulfilling the fanciful role today of the old Soviet
Bolshoi Nachalnik (Big Boss), whose historical antecedents from former Soviet Big
Bosses of past fame, does not augur well for the future of democracy in New Russia,
and certainly does not mesh with the precepts of good governance and human rights.
King Vlad’s treachery and deception are open for all to see, if they choose to do so,
and as he executes his plan of disrupting the balance of the current century world
order, we all should be forewarned of the clouds of tyranny and aggression that
could be unleashed at his behest on the European continent and the world today.
King Vlad, despite all of the polite remonstrations and economic sanctions imposed
by Western leaders and diplomats, understands really only one word rendered so
demonstratively in the German language: die Macht (or Power), which lurks ever so
behind his public mask as part of his psychological makeup as a former KGB officer.
King Vlad’s actions and deeds reflect his real virtues of lying, denying, accusing,
rejecting, criticizing—all poison arrows in his quiver as a master of prevarication.
His real mask is that of a monster who had the very best Soviet teachers and now
wishes to tilt the axis of his New Russia on a collision course with the Free World.
And so Generalissimo Stalin . . . how do you like your nasty little boy now???
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 30, 2014)
Poem | |
EXERPTS FROM HITLER’S DIARY 1941
"I never travel without my diary, one should always have something sensational to read . .
. " Oscar Wilde, 1891
Tues May 9:
Just when I was busy with plans for Russia, Rudolf Hess dropped by with crazy notion of
flying to UK for peace. Said he bought some new boots yesterday for the trip -
dead shiny . I’d like a pair like that. I told him - forget the trip and tell
me where you got the boots.
Wed June 22:
Invaded Russia. Eggs for lunch - hard boiled again - I hate that. Must speak to Eva
Thurs June 23:
11:00 am - heard Chamberlain on radio again – that dreary voice! that paper-waving
droopy-moustached old gopher! My small black moustache is much neater.
12:30 pm - inspected new bunker in East Prussia with smoother concrete walls . Eva
wants to wallpaper them (nice little red flowers) and why not?
8:00pm - after dinner, practised arm-gestures for big Nuremburg speech on Saturday.
Rehearsed a few ad libs. . . . Eva liked them.
Rained all day. Slow day (almost invaded Egypt) - stayed in and read. Eva dyed her
hair creamy-yellow. ( I’m gonna start calling her Blondy.) That new german
shepherd Bormann gave me - I took her out for walk. . . . she's called Blondi too
(Joke there - the guys will like it) . After dinner we all listened to Franz Lehar’s
“Merry Widow” again. I love it. Eva fell asleep; so did the dog.
Sat June 25:
Nuremburg speech went ok. Got all the ad libs in except one. Rommel was on the phone
talking about Africa and Libya, and some place called Tobruk. Must make a note – where is
Tobruk? P.S. Must find out where Libya is.
Sat Dec 6:
Just read the latest in the newspapers....almost four million Russian prisoners now.
Sun Dec 7:
Those crazy Japanese have gone and done it. . . . oh boy, they’re gonna be in trouble!
Thurs Dec 11:
Oh, what the hell. . . in for a dime in for a dollar : this Russian war is too easy, I
need a bit of a challenge. Think I’ll whiz down to the Reichstag tonight and tell ‘em
we’re declaring war on the USA. Might get a pair of those shiny boots there too.
Written by Sydney Peck
for Constance La France ( A Rambling Poet ) - Contest Name: The Diary
Poem | |
My heart shrivels dry, blackened rose in bitter anguish, ...
Do you feel my pain?
Why must the flame of day dwindle dim?
O' fortune, like the moon, changeable, waxing and waning
Oppressing me, first with power's soothing stroke
To take it all away!
Poverty of my spirit lies in love's immortal wake
Why fate of fortune, cruel regard, forsaken me?
Vain, and shadowed, I waver between the balance
Such agony is mine!
Day and night, everything defies me?
Great is my grief!
One cure, escape me from the throes of my misery !!
I beg, the Gods... hear my wail, hear my plea
Would fate be cured by kiss, one look, one sign, devotion? !
This wretchedness is black, I taste bitter ash!
Keep dark night hidden in the depth of your heart, o' moon !!
I am like a leaf, played with by the wind
I am like a light hovering bird, chains cannot bind me !!
Salvation comes with desire, one touch
Do not turn the eyes away...!
I cannot be shamed!
Torment me not, o' heartless moon!!
Wheel of fortune spins my heart...I beg to win love's prize !!
Without it, I will bemoan the wounds of fortune with weeping eyes
.... and I am cursed as I fall from the peak of glory....
into the depths of the valley of despair !!
protogothic entry: for Amy's Contest:
Inspired by the classical music, "Carmina Burana"
A cantata, written between l935-36 by German composer Carl Orff.
This passionate work was based on ancient poems hand-scribed in Latin...these parchment
manuscripts discovered in a Bavarian monastery in l803. They were believed to have been
written by students of the clergy (monks) sometime during the 11-13th century.
This familiar music has been used in numerous film scores..quite dramatic and powerful
Poem | |
i remember all of it that afternoon
we cut hearts and stars from foil
we placed the silver ones in the sky
we placed the beating ones on our lips
i know because i felt you like my own breath
that is why I thought you were oxygen
that was the times when matches were lit
that was when my thermometer cracked
i remember it all of that afternoon
you were tearing leaves in the kitchen
you with fingers long and slender
you with french vanilla ice cream nails
i know because in my mind i was licking you
before you ejected a river of tributaries
before we bubbled on to the element
before we merged over an empty pot
i remember that afternoon all of it
the priceless german kitchen knife
the bone cutting diamond hard blade
the slashing beef tongue spiced in cayenne
i know because like helium i floated away
through the blood red tomato coloured air
through the dripping wet haze of rejection
through the liquid salt of hand made wounds
i remember of it all that afternoon
served on a yellow plate of grapes sour
served in the fantasy of yesterday
served in the kindlings of one afternoon
Poem | |
Oh, Manchester, you are such a majestic city
bathed in your bright blazing lights in the night.
Everyone has been to your cityscape,
if they work there or go to see such honoured shops
like Vinyl Exchange to get their favourite record.
Such calamities in the past have struck so suddenly
like German bombers of the blitz to the IRA only recently,
you survive all this like a Phoenix rising out of the ashes.
So many different people are there on a Saturday afternoon
all coming and going, it amazes you
just to see them all become one with the city.
Poem | |
A people persecuted beyond imagination;
To help them he felt, was his obligation.
He joined the army in World War II;
Not knowing his hell would be Eyes of Blue.
When he reached Normandy, the beaches were red.
Crawling over his brothers who lay already dead.
To give this tyrant, this devil his due;
Not knowing his own demons, would be Eyes of Blue.
He rounded a building securing a town;
A young German soldier was just coming round.
He plunged his bayonet, the quicker of the two;
Killing the young soldier, with Eyes of Blue.
He knelt down beside him with tears in his eyes;
How long this moment would last, he did not realize.
He closed the eyes as he thought he should do;
Thinking never again to see those Eyes of Blue.
The victor over many in Germany and Japan;
It was always difficult taking life from a man.
None would haunt him, this he now knew;
As long as the soldier, with Eyes of Blue.
He died an old man, to heaven he went;
For this honorable soldier, mercy was sent.
First time since the war, so sad but true;
A peaceful sleep, not seeing Eyes of Blue.
Poem | |
The name Kelly means "bright-headed",
according to the internet.
A fine attribute that doesn't quite describe me yet
because, you see, I could not go to college
and be properly taught.
I came from a poor background
where a good education could not be bought.
So, I have no choice but to write from the heart,
it's not perfect, but it is my form of art.
My first name is Irish, though my ancestry is German.
Just to make sure, I looked it up on Wikipedia.
I am shy, so you're not likely to find me
on any form of social media.
I am very careful when I choose a friend,
they have to be someone who I can trust and depend.
My friends know that I'm loyal, and when I listen, I hear.
I will always be there for them,
through every smile and tear.
When I'm not writing my hobby is photography,
which inspires new words from the beauty I see.
Often you will find me reading alone in my room
with classic rock music turned up on high volume,
or watching an old movie filmed in black and white
whether it be a comedy or a thrilling, silent fright.
I am no one's wife and no child's mother,
and I never had anyone to call a sister or a brother.
I was a lonely, only child, and I am still,
an empty shell that only poetry or love can fill.
I work at a factory job on the graveyard shift,
being a true night owl causes my mind to dream and drift.
My middle name is Robin, which means "bright-fame"
though, I am not here just to play the fortune game.
I am known to be sweet in the comments that I write,
yet, my poems can be sad and as dark as the night.
I guess this makes me a mystery to many of you
but, really read me and you will discover the clue.
Written by: Kelly Deschler
SKAT's Keep It Real Contest
Poem | |
Helga Deen (1925-1943) (Sentanka)
Mit achtzehn ermordet
Helga Deen im KZ Sobibór
Nur Tagebuch und Briefe
War alles was von ihr blieb
Ihr Andenken aber bleibt
Murdered at eighteen
Helga Deen at Sobibór
Only letters and diary
Was all that remained of her
But her memory remains
Helga Deen en Sobibor
Asesinado a dieciocho años
Sólo cartas y un diario
Fue todo lo que quedaba
Pero su memoria sigue siendo
Note: Helga Deen, born in 1925 in Stettin moved with her parents in 1933 to Tilburg in the
Netherlands. She was a talented young woman not only in writing but also in drawing. Her
mother was a German Jewish doctor and her father-Willy Deen- a Dutch chemist. Helga Denn
had a brother -Klaus- and both visited school in Tilburg. The family had to move from
their house and Helga an her brother had to leave school together with other ten Jewish
pupils. In July 1943 all were deported to the Vugh concentration camp. From there they
were transpoted to Westerbork concentration camp and from there on July 13th to Sobibór
(Poland) concentration camp. She died from gas there on July 16th 1943.
Poem | |
I had an IPod problem!
I fixed it, this is how!
I named the thing "Titanic",
by God, it's "syncing" now!
I was wondering where the sun goes?
I stayed up all night to see!
Sure enough, next morning,
it finally "dawned" on me!
I'm an avid reader.
I read anything around.
I read an "anti-gravity" book,
and I couldn't put it "down"!
I know some real bad food jokes,
but let me tell you first!
The one about German sausage,
brother, that's the "wurst"!
There are several types of illness,
that leave you sore and weak!
But, when your bladder is infected,
"urine" trouble, so to speak!
I was sorta down and out!
Times were hard, you know?
So, I got a job in a bakery,
because I "kneaded" dough!
NOTE; I apologize if you wasted your
time reading this! I need to get
a life! Sorry folks.
Poem | |
Telepathic messages dancing in front of me
Energies left by thousands of freed souls
Their train stopped at Birkenau,Auschwitz
Sickening stench of burnt human flesh..
..lays heavy over the consentration camp
recognized even when the wind blew away from it
Like some new mountain range
They rise themself up from the ashes
Shaking the dust off..
The once deadly gaz has gone out
Cremation ashes has turned to cold leftovers
Nevertheless their spirits lives on
They`ll find their own way out
Out of the relentless Nazi camp
Into a world with pure freedom
No greed,hunger or merciless regimes
Nor any blasphemous,persecuting religions
All humans raised above hate and inequality
2 million humans met their fates in Birkenau,Auschwitz
6 000 per day..some days twice as many
From the ashes of Auschwitz..
..comes a cry for us to learn from history
November 30th 2012
In memory of those arrested and sent to the Nazi consentration camps 70 years ago.
November 26th 1942, 530 Men,Women and Children were chased onboard the German
ship "Donau",to meet their fate in Auschwitz,Birkenau.By the end of WWII a total of 759
Jews had been deported from Norway to Nazi concentration camps.Only 25 survived...
Poem | |
Singing praise of past lives
with the dreams of swastikas and rose-tinted spectacles
floating through my head.
One moment, a Polish Jew,
the next, an Aryan German -
dual reflections held in the iron gaze
of a predatory raptor and the sharp-angled, six-pointed star
perpetually spinning, reopening wounds
which the weeping Roses of Sharon cannot heal.
I held you in my youthful arms,
serpents rising from the secret codes of my loins,
and I worshipped you as an old, universal lover
as I penetrated your dark womb;
a sanctified temple of Angels and Daemons.
Initially we prayed to the inverted graves
sliding through oil-slicked skies,
so young of heart and mind we were.
Our love was purified in the hellish Axis-kiln
paralleling the flames flickering against our skin.
The vessel of our love shone like glass,
cooling off to less dangerous levels
in the forgiving breeze of empathy
(aside from the fact that when I watched you move,
the world stood still for me).
And then we wiped away the green grins from the glass.
We became one pulse,
the Jew and a Nazi
teaching each other how one should not pray to 'him' alone,
for both phallic powers are needed
to light the spark of creation:
"Our Father AND Mother who art in Heaven(after),
hallowed be both thy names."
Male and female energies
breathing life into each other,
like slightly distorted transvestite, Siamese twins.
We wanted to stay in our fleshly pleasures,
but our minds spread wings.
ascending smoothly within turbulence,
we transformed into golden light,
moving invisible objects with our thoughts,
removing shackles, opening secret locks,
figuring out who was who --
who were the real Jews, and who were the true Nazis,
who were the Angels and who were the Daemons....
....who were Daemons and who were Angels.
Poem | |
Rosalia - The Evil Black Witch of the Harz
This is a rather grim epic poetic tale of Rosalia, a 16th century German witch who terrorized villages, destroyed the lives and corrupted the souls of many people throughout the countryside in the Harz Mountains in Germany.
Rosalia focused her evil and malicious activities at the outset in a land area directly below the Brocken summit in the Harz. Over the time and extent of her macabre reign as a Black Witch and a Master of the Black Arts, Rosalia began to expand her campaign of evil among other provincial areas of the Harz beyond the Brocken. Her periodic nightly raids on villages in the Harz are part of the continuing legends of witchcraft and sorcery that still pervade the local culture there to this very day.
Rosalia in modern day parlance was the “real deal” when it came to wreaking havoc and pandemonium among mankind. That is, she was truly a redoubtable force of evil and unmitigated malevolence, not to be toyed with nor underestimated by anyone seeking to confront her. Rosalia was bent on fulfilling Lucifer’s principal goals: destroying the peace and harmony of mankind; disrupting the holy balance of the relationship between Man and God; corrupting the eternal souls of men, women, and children; extinguishing the light in the world; and bringing mankind into darkness and despair.
Rosalia’s Entrée to the 16th Century
Rosalia was born and later raised as a child in a Witches’ coven.
Although Rosalia was born in the 16th century again in human form,
she was, in reality, a reincarnated evil soul many centuries old.
Her Hell-spawned soul was seared in Hell’s very own oven,
and like the Gorgon Medusa herself—she was a creature gone wild.
Rosalia indeed was also an intense and a very precocious child:
who was imbued with uncanny and unearthly powers,
who was “left-handed” and obviously “sinister,”
who possessed a keen and piercing intellect,
and had scaurous, strong ankles and a schnauzkrampf-like mouth,
and was fisslingual like the Devil—with a “forked tongue,”
who had a horrifying and monstrous Medusa-like appearance
at a glance—stark and menacing, frightening and rapacious,
with jet black stringy, snake-like hair and black teeth,
with dark probing eyes and exceptional sensory perception,
and a bulbous, bile-ridden black wart . . .
protruding on the lower left side of her nose close to the tip.
Rosalia and Black Magic were one in the same, and
her craggy appearance and coarse demeanor—black wart and all,
her deceptive powers, and her utter malevolence toward man—
all constituting a terrifying reflection of pure evil and foreboding,
and all the while illuminating mankind’s quizzical wonderment
at the power of die Hexerei.
Rosalia was aptly known and greatly feared as the “Queen of Walpurgis Nacht,” “The Devil’s Concubine,” and “The Queen of Darkness.”
Rosalia delighted in being “The Devil’s Concubine” by name,
for her liaisons with Lucifer made her omnipotent and devoutly unholy.
Her unbridled sense of power and invincibility was this Black Witch’s aim,
for this fed her conviction to do vicious and evil things—to be unholy.
Rosalia’s Power and Relationship to the Devil
It is said that Rosalia’s power of Witchcraft and the Black Arts
derived from her worship to and direct relationship with the Devil himself,
thus making her virtually omnipotent, all-powerful.
As the most favored disciple and mistress of the Dark One
Rosalia acutely honed her pagan skills in the Black Arts
to the highest rapture while using her Gorgon-grimaced face
to strike fear in all who resisted her using a withering and wicked
mesmerizing gaze with which she paralyzed her victims with unending
torment, agony, and fear.
On occasion she would extract the putrid bile liquid from her Black Wart
and used it to poison and corrupt the life essence of her victims—if they resisted.
The utter revulsion and palpable fear felt by Rosalia’s victims
was practically indescribable given its horrible nature.
Both her power and her conviction to do vicious evil things
appeared to be wrapped in a cloak of seeming invincibility.
Lucifer did exceedingly well in his choice of Rosalia as his most favored disciple and mistress—for she savored his ferocious favor and unleashed without a conscience a torrent of evil doings and unholy machinations on those unlucky enough to cross her path.
To know Rosalia was to realize a gorgonesque damnation forever
while she pursued the unholy glorification of her master—Lucifer.
In time Rosalia was granted the power over all hell-spawned demons forever to support and consummate her unholy activities in the name of Lucifer.
End of Part One
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (September 20, 2014)
Poem | |
Necessarily to Samora
On the stream, a cork was thrown
She sank in
She tripped on
She was picked up
A beach, a wave and a sailing ship don’t matter.
You will arrive at the time of coming back.
-Faceless towards passion-
When the dawn was agonized, morning came
I’d be dreaming my dream
The delusion of paddling the sea of love without safety
That passing by valley slits the front of my house
Brings and takes water -don’t you mind giving me a cup!-
Domesticated with pain
Your loyalty is vital and you are well-worn
Laying nearby in others snaky arms
The arms that shot my heart
---it shaded lights on more beats
Instead of the distance
Gone astray is not at ease. With the wind and with the wind
Time struggle against time
As you smoulder my mind's eye into a fantasy
Days are nights and the same line of attack, sub- stories
Why reddish rose in my hand as you are all roses
I obey the truth; I’m only irritating other’s plant
I gain the fragrant of my tiredness –walking on by-
Up above where air outdoes
The reverie is stubbornly standing
I still jump onto the floor preparing a glider for love
Uncut ropes and a silky seat for two birds
Poetess is my bird on shoulder, in veins and between bones
Underneath the last sparkling star thinking and gazing
Into things that have been my own
That will never be my own.
Getting back to the memories
Swimming in an endless pool of images and words
Quenching the desire of missing, just somehow
My senses flounce your absence
Your silent acquires me the language battles
---God! A German flight pierced the atmosphere
Shelled many wild birds there as I was only watching the scenes
The valley’s slit leaves a border line
Face on the pane; I steal glimpses
Wiping away tears by sunny bar entity
Hanging on someone to bring me gathered drops
“No more than one” I say to heaven-
Poem | |
Rosalia - The Evil Witch of the Harz, Part Four
Rosalia’s Date with Destiny and the Power of Light and Goodness
It is said that the Almighty Lord God works in very mysterious ways . . .
meaning that even an all-powerful witch like Rosalia had her Achilles’ heel, and could lose her sheen of invincibility in certain instances which date back to the earliest clashes between Good and Evil at the outset of mankind.
With her perfect cover working in a local village Inn near the Brocken, Rosalia could plan, plot and scheme her witchcraft activities at will
when meeting unsuspecting villagers and outside visitors alike—
giving her near-unlimited control in shaping the very course of events.
Fate would have it, however, that one event would challenge and alter Rosalia’s perfect cover forever . . .
One day a young girl—named Aurelia, who was barely 15 years old,
visited local village relatives while traveling near the Brocken.
Aurelia, who was quite intelligent and mature for her age was also a
close relative of the regional church Monseigneur, Wolfgang Augustus Hardenberg, and she was part of a traditional German catholic family.
Aurelia was a rare child indeed, endowed with “Heavenly Eyes”
from her eternal soul at birth which gave her a unique, unusual gift
of sensing and seeing the true nature of the men, women, and children
as they came into contact with her . . . without them realizing it.
Aurelia, with this fantastic gift, was truly one of God’s children,
and the antithesis of Rosalia and the incarnate evil she represented.
Aurelia’s family was fully aware of God’s favor on their daughter
and all of the goodness and light she shared with them in the family.
Aurelia was also quick study; she was endowed with an unusual ability to absorb, understand and remember vast amounts of information and detail.
And while attending religious schools, she demonstrated an exceptional proclivity early on for learning and mastering classical foreign languages.
Aurelia too was a centuries’ old soul like Rosalia, but whereas Rosalia embraced the Dark Side, and was the very manifestation of evil and debauchery;
Aurelia embraced the Light and Goodness of the Almighty,
and was one of God’s angelic souls destined to do his bidding in the continuous titanic struggle against Lucifer and his Dark World minions;
she was truly a “Princess of the Light” and a “Precious Child of God.”
With this in mind . . .
On visiting the local village Inn with relatives one afternoon for lunch,
Aurelia immediately felt the presence of a specter of evil and foreboding.
And this specter was, of course, none other than . . . Rosalia.
Beyond her perceptible sensing and feeling of pure evil,
Aurelia was able to make momentary visual contact with Rosalia,
and with her God-given heavenly vision glanced the true image of Rosalia,
which filled her at once with undeniable dread, fright and revulsion
at the terrible visage cast by Rosalia among her unsuspecting relatives.
Aurelia was in luck since Rosalia felt no reason to suspect her, thus paying no attention to the young girl with her relatives.
Aurelia’s God-given power shielded her from Rosalia’s attention,
at least for now . . .
From the encounter at the village Inn, Aurelia knew that some of her relatives were already marked by the witch.
After the visit to the Inn, Aurelia immediately informed her unsuspecting parents of the evil incarnate she sensed and discovered at the Inn.
Time was fleeting and quick action would be required to corroborate this event. It was already Monday, and on the upcoming Saturday, which was All Hallows’ Eve on October 31st, Rosalia’s Coven was set to conduct The Black Witches’ Sabbath in celebration of the Devil himself. This evil Sabbath event was done twice a year with the one preceding All Hallows’ Eve occurring on April 30th on the Great Sabbath of Walpurgis Nacht.
The preparation of the Black Witches’ Sabbath would include black rituals and both human and animal sacrifices with the invocation of the Vespers’ Prayer Preparation for Black Mass, followed by a 24-hour period of preparation by the Coven for its next attack on the local villagers.
Riding horseback to the Cloister Marten in the Harz some 20 kilometers away, Aurelia’s father traveled there with two close trusted friends to inform Monseigneur Hardenberg of Aurelia’s unexpected discovery of the infamous and evil Black Witch of the Harz known as Rosalia.
On hearing of the discovery of Rosalia and her masquerade in human form,
the Monseigneur instinctively knew that immediate action was required,
and that the very lives of the villagers and their eternal souls were in the greatest of peril.
An immediate meeting with his council of priests at Cloister Marten was in order; there was now a chance that Rosalia and her Coven could be finally
destroyed forever. This chance event had been a long time coming and the Monseigneur knew that they must not fail.
The Monseigneur also knew that God’s avengers must act smartly . . .
Rosalia was a virulent evil force not to be taken lightly nor underestimated.
Many priests and their parishioners had already succumbed to the Devil
and his Dark World of eternal damnation, courtesy of Rosalia.
The Monseigneur would need Aurelia’s help in finding Rosalia’s Coven,
and he realized that he and his priests must prepare for the greatest test of their faith, as they contemplated their plan to destroy Rosalia and her spawn of evil.
The Monseigneur understood all too well that to face down Rosalia was almost the same as facing the very Devil himself.
The Monseigneur and his priests must be swift in their vengeance against Rosalia in the name of the Lord, and that a second chance may not be in the offing.
End of Part Four
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (September 20, 2014)
Poem | |
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
I find it boring all the time.
It wasn't good in Shakespeare's hands,
No rhyming poet understands,
No Keats or Shelly, Byron, Pope,
Could find the poetry to cope
With wonders of the universe,
For that they should have tried Free Verse!
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
It seems so foolish all the time.
From Petrach through to here and now,
All rhyming works I'll disavow.
I want to drown inside the sound
of ee cummings, Ezra Pound,
Please keep me from those dreadful swines
Who choose to worship Gilbert's lines.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
It's bell like ring should be a crime.
It's bad in English, German, French,
It leaves a horrid musty stench
And as for meter I'll just say,
That all blank verse is SO passé.
Unless your work's unrhymed and free
Your soul contains no poetry.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
I will not hear it any time.
No Limericks shall pass my ears,
I've kept them out for years and years.
I've never heard a single word
Of Mother Goose, it's all absurd.
I only read free verse and prose
For all the rest, I hold my nose.
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
A sort of ancient worthless slime.
You cannot write constrained by rules,
The last resort of worthless fools.
Please stand by me on hallowed soil,
Where all the greatest writers toil --
Freeversing poets to a man,
Let's issue form a formal ban!
I do not like your perfect rhyme,
I can't believe it is sublime.
Now damnit! What is that you say?
Your words and meanings start to play -
I feel the meter in my bones,
Like music by the Rolling Stones!
It's not free verse it's so much more,
Your verse is like a Mozart score!
Ah YES, I LOVE your perfect rhyme!
I want to hear it all the time,
Bring Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron, Keats
With all their forms and special treats;
And after them I think I'll cope,
With Hilaire Belloc, Nash and Pope.
I've been so blind I did not see
That rhyme and flow are poetry!
Poem | |
The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last candle
Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead will hear
New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians to write.
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast
I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory
Now a hideous spectre to man’s intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
Lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to keep?
For His words were far too much,
for the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals
Only now, through peace can we learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all.
On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
Poem | |
It’s cold here in Central Texas
Winter has laid its hand upon us
The night is clean and pure
With just a whisper of oak and mesquite fires
Burning on the hilltops
And villages of old German hopes
The coyotes are calling
Packs move in the night
Instinctive without knowing the reason
They find their way into town
Old men with rifles sit on porches waiting
But nearly always miss
For winter is the friend of the coyote
And the bones of men
Are appendages meant for warmer climates
Civilized cravings or hunger drives them here
Or maybe it’s just an Comanche tear
That fell in this place
And stained the ground forever
What ever it is I welcome them here
For they are clean and pure
Of what burdens men
Poem | |
Rommel of the Blitzkrieg
had Europe overcome
With the Stukas and dive bombing
And the Tanks that overrun
North Africka would see his tanks
il Duce’s troops were beat
Aussies took 20,000 Italians
At Tobruk in stinking heat
In Europe when his tanks arrived
The captured did surrender
The Poms escaped at Dunkirk
The English well remember
Morsehead an Aussie General
He baited the trap
Strategic mines, artillery, cooks
manned Italian guns , and ack ack.
Tobruk the Panzer tanks came in
The rats went down their holes (Desert Rats Aussie Diggers said Lord Haw Haw)
They rose behind the tanks
Wehrmact soldiers bullet holed
25 pounders fired at just point blank
with cooks and Pommy Armour
Were thinning German ranks
true blue these little charmers
So they blew the turrets off
16 of the best
Unbeaten until this point
A trace of fallen crest
8 long months they dished it out
Though Rommel tried again ……….(lost just as many tanks again)
He had to wait till the Aussies left
To take Tobruk from them
70 years ago, the Afrika Korp would attack the 14,000 Aussies and Tommy Tank men, Also known as Rats.
The Tanks rolled into the perimeter, Aussies sprang from their holes and fought the German Soldiers behind the tanks, “We shut the gate behind them” the Aussies said.
This thorn in the side in Rommel ‘s mind allowed time for the massive replacement of
armour destroyed by Rommel, with American tanks. The siege held for 240 days in
what is now today’s , Gaddafi’s Lybria. These Aussies were used to living rough
sleeping on the ground
walking from town to town in the great depression, they were brought up on roo or pig shooting and the occasional rabbit.
Poem | |
Sweet heart of the dead
Adored by generations not yet born
Marlene we love you.
Your beauty burned the wings of JFK
And brought big John to his knees.
For your love, was meant for more.
You shocked the World with a velvet kiss
An elegant truth in a sea of Fools.
It took one voice to start a War,
One bullet to unite false prophets
One woman to speak out.
You ostracized the Nazis for what they were.
Stood tall, through treason
Did not follow, Hitler’s Spell
Chose to Love America s freedom instead.
When Reapers scythe came
Song and Compassion was your shield.
It Gave comfort to the damned as shell and mortar pound
Your words a respite, from the fear
And your beauty, a reminder.
That love awaits the Soldiers return.
Back to the German farms and the English meadows
For love knows nothing of war.
You witnessed holy sacrilege,
Saw blind disciples fuel the reapers fire
Both sides, in the name of god,
Oh how heaven must have wept
Marlene you dared to question religion,
For Your soul could see through the flames,
While others perished in mortals Pride.
You Asked god to review his plan.
Only you, Marlene could do that
Where have all the flowers gone
Your message to Humanity,
But the Heinkel and the Spitfire
Flew too high to hear
And the flowers of youth
All Eaten by silent sheep, and taken to yet another slaughter.
Yet be proud Marlene
For Your echo awakened a new generation to peace,
Although lasting peace is like true love, so hard to find,
But never the less, a goal we devote our lives to.
Some countries have found their Peace
While other search.
Humanity is still a child in these matters,
And war still goes on
When will they ever, learn, when will they, ever learn.
Try to forgive us,
Perhaps the man upstairs,
Really does have another plan, Marlene Dietrich,
At least I’m sure that Eternity
Will be a far more beautiful and interesting place
With you in it,
and I look forward to meeting you.
Footnote to this poem
JFK relates to her affair with President Kennedy
Big john relates to her affair with John Wayne
The Velvet kiss was the first lesbian kiss on main stream cinema 1930
Marlene was bisexual.
The line where have all the flowers gone and when will they ever learn comes from the song forever associated with Marlene Dietrich.
Born 1901 in Germany
First film in 1920
Became American Citizen 1937
Awarded Medal of Freedom USA 1947
Awarded Legion of Honor by France
Died 1992 in Paris.
Poem | |
CEZANNE STUDY – The House of the Hanged Man
Buried in a hill,
Steep as descent from humanity,
A country house stands.
It’s late autumn,
Deep, sick autumn –
Deep as the plunging cellar door,
And fronting, its branches stripped, begging skyward,
This raped tree
Which no longer hides the window –
The window, like a large, trumpeting mouth.
*No E flat clarinet here,
*No Eulenspiegel, opaque humor.
No – The whole, a ground interment,
Is color of rotting flesh,
This God-awful house!
*Til Eulenspiegel was a German buffoon who delighted in playing
nasty tricks on the nobility. He was hanged.
*The E flat clarinet is high pitched, capable of sounding the pitiful
cries of Til as he mounts the scaffold
Poem | |
The tribesman described his mysterious God;
a pious fear oozing from his veins,
eyes burning with intense, religious fervor.
His God came down from the unknown skies;
red, lustrous body glittering in the brilliant sun,
enormous nostrils breathing out waves of hot air,
dazzling verses written on his majestic forehead,
gleaming weapons engulfed in a halo of luminescence,
an aura of supreme power inclosing his bloated body.
A sudden curiosity gripped my mind;
thirst for adventure tickled my senses,
I accompanied the tribesman to see his God.
A big thatched hut came before my eyes;
Its doorway guarded by grotesque sculptures,
fear struck people standing in respectful silence,
wizened priests muttering mysterious chants;
I entered the temple and saw the God;
It was a red German weather balloon.
Poem | |
Meeting Van Gogh…sonnet
the wheat-field, blond as a Volga German milk maid, heat
intense and in the shade of a demanding olive tree I saw
grumpy Van Gogh, glaring at me intruding on his painting.
“Sorry for the scooter it is electric blue and doesn’t fit in,
pretend it is a donkey free of its leather harness.”
The vines, deep green leaves and fertile soil, soon there
would be grapes, mostly dark cerulean, an army of wine
to come tempting souls into surrender… liquid pleasures;
and the narrow road snakes amongst fields like a black
mamba hunting grey rabbits in the meadow.
I have the afternoon sun in my eyes, a cooling breeze
on my back; and then I drive off the road fall amongst
thistle and thorns and the spell is broken, look around
but only Van Gogh witnessed my disgrace.