Streets of Berlin

Streets of Berlin

No matter how hard you scrub
Some stains cannot be removed.

The pavements are immaculately clean.
Litter is not tolerated. The parks are
Carefully manicured. The public buildings
Rebuilt, modelled in the modern style.

A memorial marks the place where books
Were burnt. The Gestapo headquarters
Are now a museum. The flags of Europe
Hang where Swastikas once flew.

Cars throng the wide open boulevards
Where endless ranks of soldiers marched
And row after row after row of
Tanks rolled past the silent and awestruck.

But the dead still twitch the curtains
At their apartment windows and peer
Nervously into the street. They wait
For the knock on the door.

They stand, unseen, in long shuffling
Lines at railway stations to board
Trains clutching their suitcases and
Their children's hands and one-way tickets.

The Wall is down and fragments sold
To eager tourists. But a scar runs across
The city's memory and white crosses
Mark where hope died in search of freedom.

Berlin. A living memorial to men's inhumanity
To Man. The cross still glistens on the radio tower.

But some stains cannot be removed
No matter how hard you scrub.

The London Tourist Guide

Picture by Caroline

I have been fascinated by Postman’s Park which is a memorial tucked away in the heart of the City of London.  There is an excellent blog describing it here. There are also interesting pieces on it here and here.  This is my attempt to describe it, written (with apologies) in the style of one of my favourite poems.

 

The London Tourist Guide

 

“And here, ladies and gentleman, only a stone’s throw from St. Paul’s

Is Postman’s Park.  On two sides of this grassy strip the towering walls

Of City offices eclipse the sun.  The winding path, the ferns and trees,

Stray tombstones like scattered rocks, echo a silent valley floor.  Please      

Shall we sit and rest a moment?  Over to your right you’ll see

The memorial for which this place is known. Fifty three

Victorian ceramic tablets, crafted by Royal Doulton, plain in design,

Immortalising forgotten acts of self-sacrifice.  They combine

To tell stories of selfless courage, a registry of heroic acts,

Each plaque detailing with brutal simplicity the facts

Of how one person gave their life to save another.

 

“Harry Sisley of Kilburn, aged 10, drowned in attempting to save his brother

After he himself had just been rescued.” In those few words one cannot tell

The full story of the tragedy, the living hell

Of parents who on the same day lost two small boys

Drowned in each other’s arms.  But Harry Sisley’s name lives on

Fired in clay for all to see, and still will be, when you and I are gone

And forgotten.  Where are our modern heroes?  The ice still cracks. 

The fires still burn.  Deep water still claims young lives. But would we act?

Or in our indecision simply call for help if faced with tragedy?

 

Enough. We must move on.  Next on our tour we’ll discover the Old Bailey ….”

Fromage to John Hegley

John Hegley is one of my favourite poets. I had the pleasure of seeing him live at the Edinburgh Festival this year.

If you have never read any of his poems, then click here and see what you are missing.

In the meantime, here is my inadequate cheesy homage to Luton's finest poet, from Preston's least acclaimed.


Fromage to John Hegley

I often think of Preston
As I pull my old string vest on

But I rarely think of Luton
When I'm lounging on my futon

How Do We Measure Time?

Picture by Bobesh

How do we measure time?

By the revolution
Of a rock shooting
Through a black eternity
Pulled by a burning ball of gas.
And one more candle on a cake.

By the ebb and flow
Of white water on a beach
Hauling the oceans
Dragged by an ever changing moon.
And a new picture on the calendar.

By the mass migration from home
To work and school, and back again
Until the sound of football crowds and
Church bells place a full stop.
And another roast lunch on the table.

By a long shadow moving
Round the house and garden
Sun-blinding the windows
From dark to bright to dark.
And the shipping forecast to "Sailing By".

By the lazy sweep of a large hand
Edging too slow to notice
Round a giant Roman face
Until the chimes ring out.
And the radio updates the news.

And finally
By the swing of a pendulum
The click of a tiny cog driven by a tiny spring
A hangman's drop

A lover's final breath

Oxford, December 1980

Picture by Rose Davies

Oxford, December 1980

They say everyone knows

Where they were

When they heard JFK had been shot.



I don't remember

Where I was on 22 November

1963

Because I was only 6 months old.



But I know where I was

When Elvis Presley died

On 16 August 1977.

At my Auntie Clarice's

in Lydney.



And on 8 December 1980

In Oxford

Waiting to be interviewed

When John Lennon

Was assassinated.

So Wrong

pictures by Leo Reynolds

So Wrong

There's a florist's shop near us

That caters for all occasions

Weddings, anniversaries, funerals

 

It rejoices in the name "BUTTON HOLES"

The sign sits large above the shop front

Proud.  For all to see.

 

Sadly, there is kleptomanic wit in our town

Some arsehole keeps stealing

The "O" and the "N" from the sign.

 

Wrong.  So wr..g.

J.S. - Of Death and Friendship

picture by Nick Stenning

I never knew him.

But, strangely, I was moved to tears by his story.

A story of untimely death and of enduring friendship.

Unspeakable. I still cannot speak it.

And so I write it here.

He was eighteen. Just left school.

Winchester College.

His life before him.  A book unwritten.

That Summer, after exams

Travelling with his friend in Greece

A virus laid him low. So strong

Within hours he died.

His school friend by his side.

His body was flown home

To a family

Silenced by grief.                                                   

September came.

Life resumed at his historic public school.

Amongst the old stone and autumnal gold

Men and boys stood shocked into silence.

A memorial service in Winchester Cathedral.

No empty seats.

No dry eyes.

And dominating the nave

A huge, enormous, photograph of him

Smiling, tousled and muddy after a game of football.

A hand resting on his shoulder.

Silence fell.  His friend spoke.

He told of his regret

That he would walk no more with his friend.

That they would not be there for each other

To share life and all it had for them.

He said there had been talk

Of airbrushing out the hand

That rested on the shoulder in the photograph.

But he was glad they had not done so

As it was his hand

And he felt that in some way

If his hand stayed there

They would remain connected.

In the War Cloister at the College

Carved in immortal stone

Too many to count

The names of other young men who left the school

Their lives before them

Who died too young

In foreign lands

Their friends beside them.

Unspeakable loss.

Their hands on our shoulders.