Letting in the Ghosts, by Firefangled
The house at midnight hums with consonants.
Particularly the air-handler’s lay
soothes me as seasons pass the windows―
summer slowly and winter’s frozen tracks―
I bless the steadiness of ems and ars.
Falls are less unruffled, they tic-toc on
gables, like some anachronistic clock,
a quick knocking in counterpoint, as oaks
forgo acorns in incessant metronomic drops,
and blown leaves brush against the windowpanes.
When in April comes the hour between the days,
a lull with lilacs from the dead ground grows
and through the open windows lets the ghosts in,
a redolence in all the rooms, almost seen
in moonlight―hyacinth, peony and rose.
© Copyright 2010
Firefangled
Ashes To Ashes (Pompeii/Hiroshima) by Hillwalker
Ashes To Ashes (Pompeii/Hiroshima)
ASHES TO ASHES
I [Pompeii]
Raddled with wine I stagger home, each step less sure;
the vibrant sound of Vulcanalia expands
and echoes off the tilting walls and heaving floor.
Outside the House of Fauns the brothel-keeper stands
watching mottled moon flame red across the sea;
the wrath of Jove a haemorrhage upon our lands.
My sight adrift, seeks flight, in panic, for Capri;
that sacred haven on blue Sorrento bay,
while dusk invades in ranks of cloud from Napoli.
The cateyes in the cobbles barely light the way;
oil lamps sputter, wind chimes frenzied in the breeze.
I touch the phallus set in stone and stoop to pray.
The stir of crickets threshing in the olive trees
too strident. I draw the drapes. In looming dark,
a broth of coiling fireglow flares across the frieze.
The rattle of the dog chains stilled; no howl, no bark;
in my corner, bowels voided, crouching low;
outside the world grows calloused, Pluto makes his mark.
My prayers snuffed out, remorse abandoned long ago,
my body lies oblivious, enshrouded;
eyes drowned in blossom, endless flakes of endless snow.
II [Hiroshima]
Monday August 6
1945 a d
8:15 a.m.
A bright new week
white blouse washed and pressed for school
birdsong on the breeze
Roll call and sirens
stifled thunder cracks the walls
we all rush outside
A death rose blooms high
hushed shadows then blaring heat
then hollowed silence
The world fills with white
blizzards of cherry blossom
drifting still drifting
My sandals melting
oleanders reaching out
withered and blooming
My hair band slips off
a white smile fringed with cropped hair
my scalp still attached
Kyoko burnt black
I search for her red barrette
then her eyes open
In class we drew cranes
white birds like folded paper
now wingless and scorched
My frayed handkerchief
holds two embroidered goldfish
red braids coiled in white
"I CANNOT HATE," by Hillwalker
I CANNOT HATE
The spear of dawn serrates the sleeping hillside
smearing lurid spills of light across its darkened pelt;
this haze like steaming perspiration,
undercurrents deep beneath its sleek and heaving flanks
throw ripples through the rock,
a stamp-mark on the coal dust,
horns caged in by twisted towers
framed by ragged beams of daybreak.
My father sprang intact from these cold rocks
and now lies fossilised in those same strata that gave birth to him,
embedded in the darkest tomb a man could choose,
no breathing space in there,
his corpse impressed from toil then crushed by time.
I cannot hate these hills outside my window
any more than I can hate the waxing sun,
although its light brings suffering to each new day.
To hate those hard, black mountains,
curse that glinting devil with its drooling maw,
its sharded teeth and gloating grin,
is to deny my father dignity;
his choice to scrape and claw his living
from those cherished rocks.
I cannot hate these hills outside my window
any more than I can hate his stubborn pride,
his split black nails and gritty tide mark,
blisters blue from blast not friction,
heaps of rusted slag piled high with cold despair,
the waste, the tainted streams,
the gravity of air.
A continent away
another mountain, barren, treeless,
scarred by craters
pestilent with jagged bones and rotting flesh and bright red clay;
an alien landscape scalded white with heat and hatred.
That hot white sun a galaxy away,
a sun that scorches every breath
and burns each shadow into glaring light
and etches tear-stains in the bitter salt;
its touch as sharp as any gutting blade.
I cannot hate the villages;
he wrote and told me all about them, see;
the stench of burning dung and garbage,
peasant farmers smoking flimsy roll-ups,
playing dominoes ‘til sunset,
watching football on their satellite tvs.
They did not choose to lose their fields to battle,
had no wish to watch a war outside their door.
Their hills are just as innocent as ours;
they had no choice but watch him suffer,
writhe with muted fury
as their valleys carried back and forth the echo of explosion,
shredding pity in a screech of helpless desolation.
I cannot even hate this war that made me proud to be a mother;
why demean the boy’s ambition,
fighting for another’s freedom that was never his to sanction?
Torn to dust beneath an alien desert sun:
the tainted scent of war deodorised
then helicoptered here from Helmand.
brought back home inside a flag-decked coffin;
surely better that
than held to ransom in a coal mine,
ever out of reach but never out of sight.
