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"belgrano" poems
Dear Grandma, Yesterday on Broadway I thought I saw your face front and center on the Times --- it was Margaret Thatcher, she's passed away! They say she was hatred; ruined the British manufacturers, the miners, and the arts; forgot the Irish freedom fighters, watched them die from a distance; they say she failed the English poor, even fulfilled the Belgrano's fate... Grandma, I thought of you in your garden, picking ripened Early Girls --- you so resemble Mrs. Thatcher; what will they say of you when you've gone? No more than brief obituaries printed in the weekend papers? Murmurs at the memorial during your eulogy? Although you've wronged me once or twice I can sympathize with your point of view; I hope someday they'll forgive Mrs. Thatcher, as I've forgiven you.
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Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
christopher-howard-gorrie
After Reading a Letter on the Daily Beast
Dear Grandma, Yesterday on Broadway I thought I saw your face front and center on the Times --- it was Margaret Thatcher, she's passed away! They say she was hatred; ruined the British manufacturers, the miners, and the arts; forgot the Irish freedom fighters, watched them die from a distance; they say she failed the English poor, even fulfilled the Belgrano's fate... Grandma, I thought of you in your garden, picking ripened Early Girls --- you so resemble Mrs. Thatcher; what will they say of you when you've gone? No more than brief obituaries printed in the weekend papers? Murmurs at the memorial during your eulogy? Although you've wronged me once or twice I can sympathize with your point of view; I hope someday they'll forgive Mrs. Thatcher, as I've forgiven you.
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Belgrano Can you hear the curses? I hear them still dead in the air rolling on the grey high seas, fluttering, stuttering, up in the cold stony clouds, frozen like kites in the middle of nowhere. I hear the silence too, of the boys, the young young boy's pressed against the bulwarks and the dead eyed iron, sense their gun metal faces hidden inside the masks of home spun green wool - skittering eyes peeping through knitted balaclavas worn as cold comforters dripping in Atlantic spume. I can hear the whispers, the trembling pampas whispers of near men, close men, light shaven, cropped near-to skull men, some with dark, bull herding eyes , hearts full of Spanish guitar and pampas whistles and beside them the rich city blond men, quiet and bookish, alone with their poets and pebble black rosaries running like the southern tides through their cold chapped fingers. All hugger-mugger equaled by forced conscription, circling in silence within their sea shrouded fears - crammed like live fish quivering in their ancient tin of old victories. Yes I hear them still, calling out for a distant mother's arms, ripping loose their little boy screams that are clear as over head seagulls yet eight thousand miles away. I can hear their raw primitive panic, ancient as the whelps of beaten camp fire dogs echoing back from the steely grey clouds; I see them tearing at the sea born mist, slicing the strings of their pampas kite curses with broken bones and shattered skulls, loosing curses that rise to run above the waves to our shores carrying the lost, little boy simpers of clamour and death that found roost in our forgetful hearts. Yes I still hear the screams, the sea drowned, salt soaked screams, a cold southern ocean full of drowning young Argentine boy dreams (pronounced men before their time), those fire soaked screams and I remember how we the civilized danced on their sad lonely deaths in our distant dry victory soaked streets of triumphant,disregard and screamed ; "Gotcha".
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Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
teddy-prend
Belgrano
Belgrano Can you hear the curses? I hear them still dead in the air rolling on the grey high seas, fluttering, stuttering, up in the cold stony clouds, frozen like kites in the middle of nowhere. I hear the silence too, of the boys, the young young boy's pressed against the bulwarks and the dead eyed iron, sense their gun metal faces hidden inside the masks of home spun green wool - skittering eyes peeping through knitted balaclavas worn as cold comforters dripping in Atlantic spume. I can hear the whispers, the trembling pampas whispers of near men, close men, light shaven, cropped near-to skull men, some with dark, bull herding eyes , hearts full of Spanish guitar and pampas whistles and beside them the rich city blond men, quiet and bookish, alone with their poets and pebble black rosaries running like the southern tides through their cold chapped fingers. All hugger-mugger equaled by forced conscription, circling in silence within their sea shrouded fears - crammed like live fish quivering in their ancient tin of old victories. Yes I hear them still, calling out for a distant mother's arms, ripping loose their little boy screams that are clear as over head seagulls yet eight thousand miles away. I can hear their raw primitive panic, ancient as the whelps of beaten camp fire dogs echoing back from the steely grey clouds; I see them tearing at the sea born mist, slicing the strings of their pampas kite curses with broken bones and shattered skulls, loosing curses that rise to run above the waves to our shores carrying the lost, little boy simpers of clamour and death that found roost in our forgetful hearts. Yes I still hear the screams, the sea drowned, salt soaked screams, a cold southern ocean full of drowning young Argentine boy dreams (pronounced men before their time), those fire soaked screams and I remember how we the civilized danced on their sad lonely deaths in our distant dry victory soaked streets of triumphant,disregard and screamed ; "Gotcha".
Continue reading...
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