Today is an international day of poetry against the war -- that's the coming war in Iraq for which we are preparing with weird green calm. It reminds me of preparing for a hurricane ... the hush, the chatter, the boards, the "stick it out" profiles, and on the beach the waves coming up.
I wanted to write a Covering Guernica poem. But though I think there may be a poem there, I'm still waiting for it. I've never been much good at writing poems about things until I've had three to five years to mull.
So instead I offer this -- which reminds me of the current tone of surreal preparation and obendience -- and urge you to donate a bit of money or otherwise offer your support to Poets Against the War.
The Bridge
The Walls of Constantinople
are not too strong for him
but first he must cross the moat
so he tells his men to stand
in bowshot while the arrows
shake them down like apples
and when there are enough
dead, he throws them into the moat
and across that bridge
the living march. His name
is Mehemet, Muhammad
the Second, Emperor
Ottoman, terror
of three continents, and he is not
remembered. Not even for that.
Mine, I guess I should specify. Published in Visions International issue #60. And I will now get back to posting scribblings that are three to five years out of date.
Interesting. I've always been interested in Emperor Constantine Palaeologus, the last Byzantine ruler. He fought alongside the other defenders at the last and his body was never recovered. Some rumour that he will return again in his city's hour of need, rather like an Eastern Arthur.