When the incendiaries lit the sky
A face smiled its divine calligraphy:
It was Helen crowned with Troy's debris.

Her unmatchable mouth in the roof
Of blood moved in speech like the home of love,
Hanging its moon of reproof:

'My kiss blots history out.
My landslide legend has forgotten
A thousand thousand bones rotting;

'Under the guilty sea
The ships lie; but accuracy
Has been seduced by me.'

Her smile sailed indiscriminately
Among the squadrons of death majestically
And was reflected on the sea.

'The armless Venus carried Pompei's tears
Better than the raided years
Or the cold dances of chameleon stars.'

Then faded. But the rain
Like lovers' seeds that fall in vain,
Warned me of my sin.

calling IV

calling all truck drivers
calling all car dealers
            all scuba divers
            all potato peelers
            all mothers
            all sons
            all brothers
calling all who’ve won
            all losers, users, and just
            all perusers of rusty lust
calling all criminals
            all those who’ve tussled and cussed

calling all mechanics
and all whom, in them, trust
calling all politicians
for i must

beg of ye to see this infinity in we

calling all ministers of high finance
            all fragile tendencies toward your dance
            with your blossoming children
            and their salty breezes
            their blown into kerchiefs
            and their seizing sneezes
            seeing you as you carry them toward
            our unifying dust
            i hold no ill will toward that soil you till
            i’ve passed around your notes, your bonds,
            and your bills
            i’d thought i’d be one of you ‘til i met a few untils
            love your children, and love yourself,
            for they shall carry your ashes
            into a box upon a shelf
            that dust behind all wealth

calling all foxes, dogs, cats, chickens, and beetles
            all sages, rosemary, spikes, and needles
            all wages, incendiaries, wallops, and weebles
            all pages, all poets
            all police, all panthers
            all those battling fires
            without and within
            all those atop towers
            all whom are twins
calling all wheels
                  upon all surfaces
                  all of those mired
                  in a sense of worthlessness
calling all kings
calling all nations
calling all jordan’s, americas, and native stations
                  we’re writing too much blood
                  into not enough ground
                  we’ve survived our flood
                  and are forever bound

calling brother abel and brother cain
            father abraham and mother pain
            you’ve traumatized me
            from all this blood you’ve lain
            i see peace in all your eyes
            blown to pieces in terrorizing replies

calling all consumers, producers, unionizers, and managers
                  corporations, and not for profit planners
                  all doctors, nurses, clients, and programmers
                  advertisers, marketers, bloggers, and spammers
                  all engineers of damns, bridges, and destructions
                  those who fell they’re ****** due to their suctions
                  i’ve sensed a fragile beauty in your moistened orbs
                  you all carry
                  i beg of you all to come from love
                  lay down your swords
                  i beg you not tarry
                  come women laying into asphalt
                  come scientists predicting san andreas’ fault
                  come widows, charlatans, and poets of trite
                                                                 all ye poets weeping into ye hands
                                                                 all ye poets of darkness and light
                                                                 perfect light and darkness are myths upon this earth
                                                                 just as perfect black and white
                                                                 are myths spun from history’s dearth

First we heard the distant drone
of their oncoming planes.
We raced towards the shelters
but could not out run the flames.
A package of incendiaries
Freed from a Bomb bay door
Melted Martin Luther’s
bronze statue in the mall.
The city center is ablaze;
thousands maimed or dead.
This was our first night of fear
But they would come again.




Zuerst das ferne Dröhnen hören wir
ihrer entgegenkommenden Flugzeuge.
Wir rasten in Richtung der Unterstände
konnte aber nicht aufgebraucht, die Flammen.
Ein Paket von Brandstifter
Von einer Bombe Bucht Tür befreit
Geschmolzene Martin Luthers
Bronzestatue in der Mall.
Das Stadtzentrum ist in Brand;
Tausende verstümmelt oder tot.
Dies war unsere erste Nacht der Angst
Aber sie wiederkommen würden.

Night raids on Salt End
were legendary… It were a
giant chemical works with ship docks,
silos, storage tanks, fuel dumps,
an ideal 'drop off point' for Gerry…

But Salt End plant’s night raids
on Hedon Road
weren’t gonna daunt our lot,
they lived a mile or so down the lane to Preston
and seemed unafraid of gerri’n shot.

But they built a shelter across’t main road
in a field… On the outside It were a haystack
within the walls, six foot thick… proper beds
on hay bails to the front and back... cosy.

Down the middle was a ‘lounge’ with chairs,
lights, a radio - electric run from’t big ‘ouse
It’s better than being at’ome our Charlie used to say
For the eldest (and the architect) he’d not much nowse.

Me mam (then 19) told me she bussed it into Hull
“****** the Doodlebugs” She needed Jitterbugs…
and they still danced at City Hall.
******* to Gerry and his mates.
Margie & her pal René,
dauntless, they had a right ball!

Last Bus to ‘Withernsea’ from town
dropped her off at the junction
by the Speedway on Hedon Road.
Just as her way was lit by fire bombs - all about
when Gerry dropped his final unaimed load
Maybe ack-ack’d sort him out.

She was 2 miles from home… every few seconds another blast.
Scuttling …dodging whistling incendiaries,
running fast, whippet like…
any second could’ve been her last
anything too close she’d have to jump in't ****.

She couldn’t mek it t’t shelter or house so picked
the coal shed - instead… threw herself down
on coals…noise lifted - silence dawned… all clear
heavy breathing - not hers -  she wan’t alone
What if it’s one of them - a downed ***** airman.

Nervous, terrified more like she let out a little shudder
a gentle cough… to test her nerve
“Is that you Margie?… You daft ******!”
It were brother Tom… He’d been t’t Nags Head
and he’d run the opposite way from the village instead.

Setting Spring Alight**

Dog and man, leashed by habit,
retrace all the old routes against
a backdrop of calendar pages
ripped clean, carried off by thieving
wind graduated from soft breezes  
once played across fresh baked faces,
recalled when thoughts wander off lead.  
They pause here and there to rub
trace memory from galley proofs of grass,
take in sooty crews of robins, incendiaries
touching down, setting town alight.
One warms to waning desire
to give chase, the other burns
through days as if spring still hung
lightly on his shoulders.

As the pond swirls
we see in bland whimsical
the elaborations of the in-elaborates
firing fires with wet incendiaries
incinerating powerlessness in twisted embers

as if we do not stand afar
and thanklessly give them lighters
for puffed up in broken unity for bargains
tis better to let them dance on water
we will talk for them to speak in bitten reverse

who takes busyness from bees
the bush telegrams incites blinds galore
possum plays a blinder in dummy runs for fun
giving dogs bone to gnaw and share
the divested devil you see sees you not but himself