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Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
A bilingual "Barry Hodges" poem!

Ah, beloved Dachau!
Thou delightful Bavarian city of charm,
History has made thy name immortal
Yet cruel warfare has passed you by.
Thank God thy medieval streets and squares
Remain untouched by high explosives.

I took a lovely young maid there
For a weekend of rampant love,
But, after an immense meal of pork chops,
Sauerkraut, Blutwurst and Bratkartoffeln,
Her stomach exploded like a grenade
And her gorgeous body was ruined.

How cruel is life in our modern world!
As I sat weeping in the Pension Eichmann,
Looking through the contents of her wallet,
I decided to pay her a fitting tribute
By buying a night with the fat chambermaid,
Who swore she was you-know-who's ******* great-granddaughter.

O great joy, she said, since it was the low season in Dachau,
We would be joined by her bony bulimic friend Angelika
(Himmler's great-niece), two mouthfuls for the price of one,
Thanks be to God, it was the just right time of the month
For such a cosy little *******, because although I love raw meat
I am less keen on it being oozing blood, so ******* vampires.

And now for the German version!*

Ach, geliebte Dachau!
Du schöne bayerische Stadt mit Charme,
Die Geschichte hat deinen Namen unsterblich gemacht
Unt grausame Kriegsführung hat umgangen werden Sie.
Gott sei Dank, dein mittelalterlichen Straßen und Plätzen
unberührt von hochexplosiven Sprengstoffen zu bleiben.

Ich lockte ein schönes junges Mädchen dort
Für ein Wochenende der grassierenden Liebe,
Aber nach einer gigantische Mahlzeit von Schweinekoteletts,
Sauerkraut, Blutwurst und Bratkartoffeln,
Ihr Bauch explodierte wie eine Granate
Und ihre wunderschönen Körper ruiniert war!

Wie unfreundlich ist das Leben in unserer modernen Welt!
Wie ich in der Pension Eichmann weinend saß,
Beim Blick durch den Inhalt ihrer Geldbörse,
Ich entschloss mich, ihr ein passender Tribut machen
Mit dem Kauf einer Nacht mit dem großen Zimmermädchen -
Sie hat geschworen, war der illegitime Ur-Enkelin des Eichmann.

O große Freude, sagte sie. In der Nebensaison Dachau,
Wir würden uns von ihrer Freundin Angelika (Himmlers Großnichte),
Verbunden werden, zwei Bissen für den Preis von einem,
Gott sei Dank, war es die richtigen Tage im Monat
Für solch einen gemütlichen kleinen Orgie, denn obwohl ich liebe Fleisch
Ich bin weniger daran interessiert, wenn es Blut sickert. Vampire raus!
Jim Davis  Apr 2017
Touching
Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
Eliot Greene  Dec 2013
Dachau
Eliot Greene Dec 2013
When I went to Dachau
I expected death
I expected ghosts
And barbed wire
And ash
So much ash

I could not have expected
The still lingering stench of burnt hair
And the weight of a silence so heavy
That it sealed up the sky

A realization
That this is where I would have died
Had fate burdened me to be born
In those dark years

Inside Dachau
Something is still screaming so loud
You become deaf
The horror
The horror
It was my soul that tried to silence
The sorrow

Some part of me was buried there
Sylvia Plath  Jun 2009
Daddy
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.
You died before I had time ----
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My ****** friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You ----

Not God but a *******
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two ----
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagersnever liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you *******, I'm through.
It has now gone an epical song
like the fables of Homer and Ramayana,
or else a national anthem like the poem of Tagore,
in India and lesbian song of Brenda Fasie in south Africa,
that six million Jews were killed in the  world war II ,
that they were killed at Dachau,that it was holocaust,
That the Jewish Holocaust  was  protege of ******.

As if  the war was between the Jews and the world,
as if the Jews alone died in the war,but none else,
as if Africans' death  is not death,but ethics of war,
as if more than six million Africans who died are not news,
as if humongous compensation with state of Israeli to the Jews,
means nothing  until what we know not must happen.

African deaths in the second world war  lacks statistics,
given the sub-human conditions of the Africans  by then,
before thrones of colonial psychology of white civilization,
they were more than six million black men  and women,
conscripted by white man's force in kings African Rivals,
They were fronted  without training to shoot and take cover,
they were placed as front guard,white soldiers the rear guard,
then they became shield and human barricade to ward-off,
volley of bullets lest the white soldiers get wounded.

Black men  and women rarely came back alive,
once taken into war that was death as a must
those who survived the war in Panama or wherever,
were never taken back home, they were left there,
to walk on foot thousands of miles back home ,
without food ,clothes,arms or  map to guide,
some were even shot by the their own  fellow white soldiers
on the grounds of the race, because the war was over,
Black men as such died of hunger,thirst,exhaustion and Malaria,
they were eaten by wild animals in the bush,their cadaver went to dogs,
Millions of black men  never got home for ceremonial burial
and this was not Black holocaust, only the Jews had a holocaust.

Black men had no stake in the second world war whatsoever,
they had no interest , they were not in any colonial scramble
they were not in any  arms race nor imperialism of any sort,
Jews had what they wanted; land or money whatever it was,
but where can you get land and money without the cost ?
loss of lives or personal heritage can be the cost,Pyrrhic or Byronic,
Jews are obviously truth bound to accept this virtues of history,
to accept their lot as a swallowed misfortune
from the universal holocaust but not Jewish holocaust.

The Japanese in Nagasaki and Hiroshima will say what,
was not the atomic bombing of their land
occasioning mass death of the Shintos
and sons of Japan the owners of the Sun
immense enough to be a Japanese Holocaust ?
Nagasaki and Hiroshima is not an anthem in Japan,
but  blurred number of Jewish death in Dachau
is a universal anthem as the Six Million Jewish Holocaust,
what a selfish motivation to commit collective lies?

Jews who died were not six million,
Germany by  then was not such populated,
Germany had less than ten million people,
Kwani, were the Jews more than the native Germans ?
if then war is the game of numbers ,
couldn't the Jews  defend themselves from less Aryans?
Jews died, yes like any other race and community,
like the French,Britons,Germans,Russians and Indians,
Just like more than six million black  Africans who died,
But Africans have forgotten and forgiven their  conscriptors
they have never made the Black Holocaust  their epical anthem,

Black men were compensated nothing for their wounds in war,
Ask Richard Wright the Native son of America in the realm of ancestors,
he has a story in the black boy , he will tell you ,We black men ,
We swallowed  the most  bitter bill of  global history,
were toyed between the extremities of cruel historicities;
from slavery to  colonial terror to world war back to colonial terror,
The Jews were given Israel as a compensation for their wounds,
The  UNO wanted to Give the  country of Uganda to the Jews,
As  saucer compensation in addition to state of  Israel,
imagine brutality that Black man harvests ,
from his relation with the white  world.

How  many Arabs have the Israelis killed since 1948,
the year when Jews had Palestine's Atlas get shrugged
in the American  efforts to pamper the Zionist  Israelis,
are they not  more than six million Arabs , or they are less,
Arabs are not ****** who told the Jews to take a shower,
A lethal shower of ammonium gas at Dachau chambers,
Arabs are not Joseph Goebbels who ployed death of  the Jews,
But Jews have amassed all type of menacing weapons,
they have killed men,women and children of Arab nation,
in the past six decades, Jews have killed violently and brutally,
more than six million Arabs, is this  not an Arab Holocaust,
or no a Palestine Holocaust or no the Gentiles' Holocaust ?

the events of second world war were universal in dint
they never befall a single race,community or faith,
every community lost its people through death,
But Africa had the worst experience of all the cases,
absence of statics cannot make this sham claim,
Jews must stop lies and make genuine claims,
Jewish Holocaust is a misnomer for war event,
we all suffered and agonized in equal measure
why again formulate lies to justify avarice.
Francie Lynch Aug 2014
After all, we're not savages. We're English.
And the English are the best at everything.
                                                     ­       (Piggy)
The hovelled huts
Near  school house ditches
Hardly sheltered starving children.
Emaciated, pale and ghastly,
Three million lost.
Exports defined them,
Imports denied them,
The world was told their hunger
Was the wrath of God.
For seven hundred years
Untolled Rachels wept;
Twice as long
As Jews were kept
Enslaved in pagan Egypt.
This was Ireland,
Not Auschwitz.

Beneath the banners of
Labour and Freedom,
Toiled the innocents.
Eyes burning from hot peppers,
Bodies weak and wrecked
From boarding;
Skin separated by flogging
Thousands of Cypriots.

Over soup and sandwiches
A demarcation's drawn,
So Hindus now face Muslims
Seeking their new homes.
Three million displaced
During lunch,
Brain salad served up on a hunch
By a line
Drawn by one man.
This wasn't Treblinka,
But Pakistan.

Millions fenced in labour camps
In what they called  
The Dark Continent.
The torture was horrendous,
With random executions.
Think the worse, you're still not there,
Think ravenous dogs and mutilation,
**** and human degradation.
Eyes gouged out, ears cut off,
This was Kenya,
Not Warsaw.

Sir Winston wore
His crocodile shoes,
Feigning the blues,
While blocking friendly supplies;
Letting three million hungry die.
His callousness was cruelly matched
When delivering Mahatma's epithet:
“Has Gandhi not starved yet?”
This was Bengal,
Not Dachau.

Their ****** count adds up.
Their new policy was errant:
Imprison all the peasants.
It was racist to the Nth degree,
A million desperate detainees
To exile when they're freed.
But half died on their knees
In Malay,
Not Buchenwald.


The Boer War and Apartheid
Were blessed with Royal Assent.
In Amritsar Brits opened fire,
To cut down Innocents.

This isn't just in history,
It's happened all too recently.

Argentina's watery graves
Gurgle from The Belgrano,
Sunk by Royal torpedoes
For a rock of sheep.
Such was the work
Of a band of brothers,
To fly their flag
Over Falkland waters?

There's no denying
The atrocities
Of her maternal
Ferocities.
The Spinners
Wrapped their glories
Furled in Jack's war stories.
The winners
Have detoured their crimes,
Enjoin us denouncing
**** times;
But the sun hasn't set
On Empire fires:
China, India, Kenya, Aden,
Ireland, Africa,
All invaded.
All degraded.
Imperialism is not benign,
The legacy lives on
In Palestine.

Under pretence
Of flag and king,
The English are
Best at everything
.
I removed this earlier in deference to some who found it offensive. I've re-considered.
onlylovepoetry Jul 2016
<>

Hebrew calendar says Summer Sabbath,
the day of rest has, as scheduled...arrived

wryly, ironically, bitterly,
poet rhymingly thinking nowadays...survived

more apropos,
#even survived alive,
for therein is a concomitant, under-the-surface implication,
of the uncertainty of forecast  future,
for no matter how theoretically normalized and organized,
even a trip to a shopping mall...deadly

survive - a far, far bitter...but better fit

not sure of the why-well of my being here,
poem composing scheduled, always on this day of pause,
this week-ending demarcator of the who I am

I am among the many of little understanding,
who having garnered no solace nor rest,
that a seventh day supposedly, is purposed to beget,
for the world is in a ****** awful mess

with neither the rhyme or the reason,
the single breath I expirate, as proof of life,
is this season's perfect, sufficing hallmark,
symbolic of the reign of unceasing confusion that has left our minds
damaged and contused,
secretly selfishly thinking to oneself,
#my life matters


this Sabbath, I speak German,
the language of my father and his father's,
all my ancestors, even unto the years of the Age of Enlightenment,
today, spoken in the ironic dialect of Munich

Am Morgen borning glorreiche
the morning borning glorious

poet seeks an answer, mission to permission,
to rightly explain
how he visions in unsightly confusion
how he divines loving in Munich's tribulations

sitting in the poet's nook, upon the ancient Adirondack chair,
nature listens to the poet discordant chords
of musical tears upon musical chairs,
wet-staining flesh

all around, the other noise makers gone quiet as well
for they are pityingly, eavesdrop listening for what happens next

The Chair speaks:

"this day,
I am happily,
made of wood,
my living cells
long dispatched,
so that I can no longer
weep in time
with my poet-occupant's
struggling lines,
verses upon the decomposing
of the worst of times,
though in compathy,
my silence, by and to him,
is gratefully unnoticed"

the poet  has no visitors this fine day,
none human or divine anyway,
but not alone

for a gaggle of old ones have early come,
from Rebecca's and his mother's Canada dispatched,
my regular geese guests southbound have returned for their
summer stopover,
but so early,
for the calendar must be telling lies,
it says these are the days of July,
so named  for all  to recall
another murdering assignation~assassination,
that of a fallen Caesar,
another-man-who-would-be-god

my summertime flying audience comes yearly to share the bounty
of this, my sheltering isle,
good guests who in payment for their use of our facilities,
honk Facebook  "likes" in appreciation
for every writ completed in the nookery

this year of fear, the geese are newly self-tasked,
seeking solace to share and understand the world weariness,
so strongly encountered in the roughened atmospheric conditions
newly facing all of us

everybody's needy for respite from the next

where next?

a plump audience of eleven
on this grayed sunny day,
greet me, honking, feverishly, excitable honking, but!

auf Deutsch,
in German


full of questions about predatory man
which I fluently comprehend but of answers,
have none completed, none sealed as of yet,  
any writ by my hand to give away or
even keep

so when the temperature cooingly cools,
on their way further south, them,  it sends,
they will not be burdened with the empty baggage
of inexcusably and poorly manmade
naturalized, pasteurized, synthesized,
crap excuses

the poet's own reflection in the fast moving bay waters,
is not reflected,
these, no calm pond waters, but his own internal reflections,
beg him, explain this poem's entitlement,
this designation of confusion and its inflection,

confusion as something lovely?

no good answers do the witnessing waters or the winds sidebar provision,
the geese, the chair, all unfair,
only have similar quarreling questions for him to dare

foremost and direst first,
where is there loveliness in confusion the poems sees?

poet stands on the dock, as if in the dock,
noticed, the waters pause, the winds into silence, swept,
the gulls grounded, the geese aligned in rapt attention,
all to the poet, as jury, they steadfastly attend
to his creation, this poem's titled curse,
an answer even barely adequate, some solution?

In Munich,  ****** born and welcomed,
Dachau, the very first death camp,
sited a mere ten miles away

one could conceivably could demand that

this poet, this Jew, this could-be-Shylock,

having seen a pound of flesh extracted,
might accept this balancing as a compensation
of history's scales weighted by the concentrated demise
of millions of his very own flesh and faith

but he does not...

a nation takes in a million strangers and refugees,
not without peril costly,
visible now, these side servings of risk,
that noble gestures so oft bring

what he feels, why he cries is for the

loveliness of forgiveness,

he unashamedly honest borrows the words he confesses,

any innocent man's death diminishes him

now the winds kicks up, the waters refrosted frothy,
the gulls go airborne, the geese fly away,
searching for another poet to respirate, infatuate and inspire,
clearly, neither satisfied or enchanted with the one
presently available

only the aged Adirondack fair, his aged long time companion chair,
remains moved - but unmoving,
in the domaine of their unity, in the vineyard of
their conjoined, place of quiet contemplation

a woman observes tear stains upon his cheeks,
noticing them upon the chair's open arms now all-fallen,
tho a surface wood hardened,
the tears are softly welcomed and storingly embraced,
absorbed

the three,
the woman, the chair, the poet-me,
all as one, tearfully, no longer cry in vain,
having  found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings

<>

Saturday,
July 23, 2016
10:29am
Shelter Island
Lark Train  May 2016
In Dachau
Lark Train May 2016
Imaginary man, go. Here is your passport.
The imaginary city will not miss you.
The paper woman will not kiss you.
The snake oil train will too soon depart.

Imaginary man, weep. The furnaces tore you 'part.
Reality here is fain to **** you.
When no one else can cry, will you?
The tears in past you'd always dry, now refuse to start.

Imaginary man, flee. Your soul is free of this evil fort.
Their guns shall never train on you.
Their gases cannot ****** you.
But here you stay, a ship which burned in fallen port.

Imaginary man, die.
Liberty and Innocence cry.
Reality shall pay no mind.
The child's slain on concrete floor.

Did you bring your passport?
Innocence weeps for want of morality. The innocence of a generation wept for want of an imaginary friend.
My bed is a mass grave
My toilet is a mass grave
My kitchen sink is a mass grave
Stretched out in lines of chrysalis coke, choking the evanescent life that could have been. Straight into the empty Coca Cola can you go. A litany of atrocity in every bed, futon, desks, truck stop bathroom, camera lens, attempting to capture the genocide on film.
Alas, the lens is Covered with white, bioluminescent death.
Choking the unborn in the ****** drain.
Coffee mug refill, for but a single dime,
sweaty palms connected to strained veins on wrists,
connected to thrusting elbows.
Firing wrist rocket, V2, V1, buzz bomb.
Unsuspecting future citizens, blocks of thousands at a time.
Tadpoles, rotting in murky basement suits the world over.
The war is on.
Auschwitz, Dachau, Sachsenhausen.
Arbeit Macht Frei.
Swim for dear life
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2013
Hail to Caesar now, Zeig Heil
Noble Eagle Standard flies,
Schutzstaffel in midnight legion
Disciplined long stabbing knives.
Heil to goose stepped march precision
Noble Eagle Standard soars,
Centurian’s in closed division
Screaming stukas strafe azores.
Fist to leather armour snapping
Stiff arms high in thronged salute,
Hail to Caesar sing the Legions
Zeig Heil Waffen SS brute.
Discipline of Shield defences
Stabbing lances follow swords
Clouds of arrows fill the heaven
Dachau’s ovens roast the hoards.
Winged Aquila flies the column
Wielded high as Roman’s would,
Black and white with red blood running
Swastikas where Jews once stood.
Europe caste in corpses rotting
Women screaming in the land,
Deutsch and Roman locked forever
Destroyers both, in history’s hand.*


Marshalg
In response to Anselm’s “Two Translations”
25 March 2013
On a cool and dry Autumn afternoon.
Jana Chehab Dec 2014
You do not do, you do not do  
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot  
For thirty years, poor and white,  
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.  
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,  
Ghastly statue with one gray toe  
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic  
Where it pours bean green over blue  
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.  
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town  
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.  
My ****** friend

Says there are a dozen or two.  
So I never could tell where you  
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.  
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.  
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.  
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna  
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck  
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.  
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a *******
So black no sky could squeak through.  
Every woman adores a Fascist,  
The boot in the face, the brute  
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,  
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot  
But no less a devil for that, no not  
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.  
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,  
And they stuck me together with glue.  
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.  
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,  
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you  
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart  
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.  
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you *******, I’m through.
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2009
Cry not for what you do not have
Bleed less for what is given,
For the cruelty in your fellow man
Will paint how greed is driven.
The silent fields of Sobibor
And Dachau's dull grey light,
Pay testament to past largess
In what is wrong and right.
Conception's teeming contest
Has dispensed your primal luck,
Your greater expectations
Have run, gratuitously, amok.
For what you are is what you get
This mirror's image barks,
And delusional ostentatiousness
Reinforces those remarks.
Seek not the golden rainbow
Nor pursue the greener field,
For disaffected affectations
Promise you a simple yield.
Learn to love the skin you live in
Irrespective of the warts,
Live within your  limitations
Despite disparaging retorts.
Count the blessings of the moment
Take each small step at a time,
Come to terms with who you are
And you will find it all...sublime!.



Marshalg
@theBach
14 November 2009

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