Sunday, February 2, 2014

Stalingrad, 1943

letters aren't written anymore but i opened this make believe envelope and read this make-believe letter of words and blood and roses that wilt in November because they don't have much to do 
despite the chimneys 
and the rundown plastic diorama 
our songs of love
shall become one
and creatures of the night
shall perish by the light
and everything is dusk and everywhere there's this mad daze that aims for the star and dies in cold defeat
home, the last time as i saw it, 
was a place of much dust and sunset
and now i hear of Stalingrad
they have named it something else
i don't remember
i'm bad with names
i don't remember your name
so, they fought and won
and they fought and lost
and the sun rises in pain
and the moon drowns in pain
and monkeys chatter on tenement roofs
and people invent radios and plaster of Paris 
and soldiers stare at sweaty mermaids with boobs of gold
and sailors sway with sunflowers and daffodils in dandy delirium
and cannonballs bring news of hunger to blue and yellow sonnets of doom
for tonight we shall speak of love, dogs, James Dean and antibiotics
tonight we shall not unleash Stalingrad  

speak, if you can
tides rise, like mercy, they worship your name
like mercy, they adore ghostcandles and timeworn jazz
sisters of love and brothers of love locked in one endless kiss
and a little Ferris Wheel whirls past the ears 
on naked hours of night when there's no sound or fury
and a big eye moves our shadows across 
the town of the dead
where rats from gutters send light of life to clouds of death 
beware the monsters who ate your roses
beware my eyebrows fixed on you
beware Orion when he chases the seven sisters
and they won in Stalingrad when all was lost
and they lost in Stalingrad when all was won
empty, like life and death,
i stand at the center and await your wisdom
you stand at the center and await my sword
a ruby shines in its smokey hilt
a princess smiles through the windows
as flies buzz in from unknown shores
and sit on these frames of flesh and stone
like sunlight, in eternal agony
glory be thine, burn this letter
for Stalingrad shall ever be
like Stalingrad that never was. 

1 comment:

Soumi said...

You are becoming such a romantic war poet! This one reminds me of a post-war sunset for some reason.