Visions of eternity swirl before me
drunken kings, beheaded queens, horses flying
Visions dance, sing, piercing bells ring, insects dying
O, grandfather warned me not to do that…
I lie suspended between worlds, neither parallel
nor parallax – which my geometry teacher could never
explain, anyway – so be it, Amen
Today, it is my sacred duty
to understand and express this Spanish beauty,
but did you happen to know, perchance,
that Dora Maar had hailed from France?
Beautiful, sophisticated, and elegant,
her eyes show she's intelligent.
They shine dark, and her hair does too,
a splash of yellow on ruffles blue.
Her jacket is geometrically composed.
What she observes is undisclosed.
She has a thought, which she reserves,
revealing it - what purpose would it serve?
I love her greenly painted fingertip,
touching an eminently kissable lip.
Somethings missing, an anomalisa,
yet, to me, she shames the Mona Lisa.
Why is it that the way she's drawn,
a good portion of her head is gone?
In Leonardo's picture, a smile was "halfed",
but it's the cerebrum in Pablo's craft.
Guernica, was inspired, by lovely Dora,
the lady with enlightened aura -
a mysterious creature, surrealist,
photographer, painter, anti-fascist.
What I proclaim now, I know whereof,
henceforth, with her, I am in love.
and there out of nothing came hope
for peace harmony and justice
he knows only too well that he cannot control
events situations nor other people
only has the choice of how to respond
wishing wanting demanding procrastinating
had got him into his own distorted shadows
to the brink of an abyss near a canyon of tears
anger resentments and fears threatened all values
yet love tolerance compassion and self-respect
brought him closer to reality and the chance for a future
he does not wish to fight any longer
but is ready to stand up tall for himself
and now what seemed to be crumbling
a once beautiful mosaic turned into tatters and shards
offers building blocks for healing and recovery
in his meditations he saw faint images
of Munch’s Scream and Gaugin’s exotic beauties
surprisingly no Guernica of Picasso
but the peace doves are present
songs are no eulogy any longer
and hope came out faith and surrender
Nine Inch Nails play Handel’s Messiah
Gauguin paints Guernica bare chested
war poets fall in love with what never was
a Gingko tree blossoms at Hiroshima’s swords
into ploughshares condor legions into peace doves
cacophony synaesthesia proverbially composed
if Guernica were a poem ~ if I could write it
“Look carefully and see if there could possibly be pain like my pain, like the one bestowed by You upon me.” – Lamentations 1:12
I walk the width of 2000 pound bomb crater in the densely populated refugee camp, searching centimeter by centimeter for the pieces of inhumanity littering the ground, reminding me of the legionnaires of the fascist air force bombing Guernica brutally, wondering how Picasso would paint this tragedy?
Gaza, now the biggest open graveyard in the world, with the bombs breaking the record in Guinness book of record, guttering hospitals, bakeries, schools, and convoys of war refugees, after decades of oppression.
There are cries of the wounded under the rubble, with no way to reach them,
and the stench of death spreading to the distant shores, to the throne of God.
Into Gaza I go, to find hell and retrieve my conscience.
But, you hear the voices? They don't stop singing, over the abyss of war,
Palestine will be free.
The soul is here for its own joy.
It floats somewhere behind my eyes.
Existing in breath and relationships
It responds to and is created by
A Chopin Etude, Round Midnight, a fralich,
Starry Night, Girl with a Pearl Earring, Guernica,
A pas de deux, a tap dance, Tango,
War, HaShoah, Covid,
The look in a dog's eyes,
Ruby Bridges, Nelson Mendela, grandchildren,
A partner’s embrace,
Love, hate, acceptance,
Old age, infirmity, and the end.
He had taken the last train to Stalingrad. ´Join the Army and see the World´.
The track of events unfolded when the tank chains came off. His brother had
bombed Guernica with the Condor Legion, when the war had been ´civil´, always
the lofty fellow he was, in full of flight. The infantry soldier's military canteen
had become rather frozen but the Russians did not wish to share their Vodka. Let
alone land, homes and women. Blood coagulated in his steel helmet from the
outside and he wiped off his comrades´ brain with a shoe cloth. Uniforms have to
be immaculate. It is quite a fine line between killer and puppet. But not to worry,
the Führer has decreed that with a folding spade one can dig out of any minor
obstacle. But when the frost broke his spirit, he saved the last hand grenade for
himself to go out with a bang. Sour Kraut and frozen legs. Much cleaner than a
bayonet although he would be missing in action forever. Maybe the supply lines
would take home his last letter.
not my fatherland
remember me my sweetheart –
disobeyed my oath
24th August 2020
Haibun Contest ´Let the Pens Flow´
Sponsor Jenish Somadas
See
the crescent horn
cornucopia end
pointing oddly
upward
a moon-cow
bellowing ~
Guernica
under destruction
It is hard to walk in the sand especially with boots and a heavy rifle.
Manuel and I would sit on a rock and watch the moon give birth to
a distant blue Africa.
Franco's Guardia Civil were not all thugs. A few were poets.
Manuel's father had worshiped the general and had blessed
the day Guernica 'that Marxist nest' had been flattened.
That was decades before he was born, yet Manuel still patrolled
the beach, weaving between sunbathing tourist seeking nonexistent saboteurs.
On his rounds the young conscript fell in love - often, but in winter
(when his sneering corporal was away), he would sit in the bar,
tongue curled like a snail shell, dedicating lurid hyperbole
to every female foreigner that had smiled at him, and to all
the Catalan girls that never did.
That night the moon seemed to translate for us.
He asked me earnestly:
if I thought Franco would ever lift the ban on bikini's?
"Never!" I replied, "The Pope and the Rightists are against it."
Manuel rose and shuffled sadly away, his rifle dragging on the sand.
That night the moon came close, to bask on Manuel’s beach,
and she without a stitch of cloud-cover over her matronly form.
Grenfell tower
ruptures the horizon,
London's skyline is scarred
like a blackened diplodocus
or a charred monument
for a laconic London bridge
still burning
But look,
linen wraps its iron-bones
mumifying the city's underclass-
an icon for future generations
oppressively,
grief hauls a heavy granite cross
as sharp rocks splinter shins
then whips wheeze
winnowing breath
ascending a modern Golgotha,
who unleashed this hydra 's fury
whose black breath incinerates
the once laughter of our kindred?
As family once sung at Christmas,
they now hear
the endless screech of sirens,
the contagious roar of conflagration.
Is London another Guernica?
trodden by apocalyptic steads
with mothers cradling dead infants,
rocking their limp limbs
in a deep dirge to red-fired skies,
furnaced by council fascists
as politically the city is fractured.
An emerging phoenix will sprout,
magenta winged against black,
from this burning pyre, a reincarnation.
a rebranded London is reborn
perused by the London Eye
ever vigilant but now blindfolded
observing justice for the unheard
and voiceless minority
as a terrible beauty is spawned
war in black and white
canvassed stretched pigmentation
a thing of beauty
***
Rough Landscape
In my mind the landscape of Guernica features high on the many
crowbars to unmask that inner prison of conscience and humanity
So many scenes of destruction with no predominant hierarchy of evil
no glass ceiling of guilt so many tapestries of loving lives abandoned
A museum piece in Madrid with no doubt yet an exhibition of madness
displayed on the altar of what we as people have become and behold
Life would not have me nor would I have my life if my father had not
escaped what now is Kaliningrad on one of the last boats ‘cross the sea
As a German court has decreed soldiers are murderers and my Dad
has therefore been one of those martial slayers in history’s temple
There is not much left of the City of Prussian ambition and blasts
from the past just mainly a naval harbour and renegade socialist pride
A rebuilt cathedral and memories of amber and marzipan shared but
I hear Hitler Youths shouting their ‘Heils’ in absurd pubertal screams
For my own sanity and resolution of trans-generational disgrace I need
to visit my beginnings to start telling the story how to scape inner Peace
01st May 2017
The Bucket List
Things considering before the pail is fully on empty
He ponders through travel brochures in his mind
Engages embraces envelopes the mantle of peace
Bungee jump Taj Mahal and Guernica safe in the bag
Umbilical chord from toxic relations dismembered
Cairo Grand Canyon Provence Blue Mosque rearranged
Kai is happy with memories battles poetry to be told
Enlightened he may not become darkness holds beauty
To halt pause and live in the moment requires no list
Leaving the strife for perfection behind one step at
Invaluable steps just for now and forever in cautious
Search for impermanence he wishes for soul to prevail
To make love on Kilimanjaro but the mountain is here
12th February 2017
exploding in the dark
flames in the peaceful
souls.. terror
spreads like cholera
war is crime
no justifications
we are brain washed
methodically
wailing lady fleeing
aborted foetus of peace
solitary child flaccid neck
contorted body dead or alive
we dont know anything
we just pretend
cubistic head of a peaceful
bull calm and contrasting
killed matador out stretched
maybe a soldier for peace
hand broken sword clutched
rigor mortis
fingers in deathly grip
bulls walk past
ferocious horses writhing
in the agony of death
half eaten sun merging into
power of the cruel men
lamp of past lighting
the legs claws and limbs
we are weeping howling
screaming at the growing teeth
of the disastrous war
war is a crime
we dont need stupid wars
let us join together
now here
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